CHAPTER IV.

Bright and unclouded was the morning which witnessed the departure of

the family coach from the door of the Hon. Mr. S. Henry accompanied by

his sister and the beautiful Martha, whose champion he had been at the

birth-night party of George K. Arrived at P., they found that they were

not only welcome, but expected visitors; for Esq. S. had previously

written to his sister-in-law, apprising her of Henry's return, and his

intention of visiting her in company with his sister Susan, and a young

lady whom he could recommend as being just the companion of which she

was in need. In a postscript to his letter he added, "I do not hesitate

to commend this lovely orphan to your kindness, for I know you will

appreciate her worth."

When Henry S. took leave of his aunt and her family, and was about to

start upon his homeward journey, he found that a two days' ride, and a

week spent in the society of Martha, had been at work with his heart. He

requested a private interview, and what was said, or what was concluded

on, I shall leave the reader to imagine, as best suits his fancy. I

shall also leave him to imagine what the many billets-doux contained

which Henry sent to P., and what were the answers he received, and read

with so much pleasure.--As it is no part of my business to enter into

any explanation of that subject, I will leave it and call the reader's

attention to the sequel of my story, hoping to be pardoned if I make it

as short as possible. * * * *

It was a lovely moonlight evening. The Hon. Mr. S. and lady, Mr. and

Mrs. K., and Caroline Lindsay, were seated in the parlor of Mr.

K.--Caroline had called to inquire for Martha, supposing her to be in

Lowell. Caroline's father had been deeply engaged in the eastern land

speculation, the result of which was a total loss of property. This made

it absolutely necessary that his family should labor for their bread;

and Caroline had come to the noble resolution of going to Lowell to work

in a factory, not only to support herself, but to assist her parents in

supporting her little brother and sisters. It was a hard struggle for

Caroline to bring her mind to this; but she had done it, and was now

ready to leave home. Dreading to go where all were strangers, she

requested Mr. K. to give her directions where to find Martha, and to

honor her as the bearer of a letter to his niece. "I know," said she,

"that Martha's goodness of heart will induce her to secure me a place of

work, notwithstanding my former rudeness to her--a rudeness which has

caused me to suffer severely, and of which I heartily repent." Mr. K.

informed Caroline that he expected to see his niece that evening; and he

doubted not she would recommend Miss Lindsay to the overseer with whom

she had worked while in Lowell; and also introduce her to good society,

which she would find could be enjoyed, even in the "city of spindles,"

popular prejudice to the contrary notwithstanding. Esquire and Mrs. S.

approved of Caroline's resolution of going to Lowell, and spoke many

words of encouragement, and also prevailed on her to accept of something

to assist in defraying the expenses of her journey, and to provide for

any exigency which might happen. They were yet engaged in conversation,

when a coach stopped at the door, and presently George and Emily entered

the parlor! They were followed by a gentleman and lady in bridal

habiliments. George stepped back, and introduced Mr. Henry S. and lady.

"Yes," said Henry laughingly, "I have brought safely back the Factory

Pearl, which a twelvemonth since I found in this room, and which I have

taken for my own." The lady threw back her veil, and Miss Lindsay beheld

the countenance of Martha Croly.

I shall omit the apologies and congratulations of Caroline and the

assurance of forgiveness and proffers of friendship of Martha. The

reader must also excuse me from delineating the joy with which Martha

was received by her uncle and aunt K.; and the heartfelt satisfaction

which Esquire and Mrs. S. expressed in their son's choice of a wife. It

is enough to state that all parties concerned were satisfied and happy,

and continue so to the present time. To sum up the whole they are happy

themselves, and diffuse happiness all around them.

Caroline Lindsay was the bearer of several letters from Martha, now Mrs.

S., to her friends in Lowell. She spent two years in a factory, and

enjoyed the friendship of all who knew her; and when she left Lowell her

friends could not avoid grieving for the loss of her company, although

they knew that a bright day was soon to dawn upon her. She is now the

wife of George K., and is beloved and respected by all who know her.

Well may she say, "Sweet are the uses of adversity," for adversity awoke

to energy virtues which were dormant, until a reverse of fortune. Her

father's affairs are in a measure retrieved; and he says that he is

doubly compensated for his loss of property in the happiness he now

enjoys.

I will take leave of the reader, hoping that if he has hitherto had any

undue prejudice against labor, or laboring people, he will overcome it,

and excuse my freedom and plainness of speech.

ETHELINDA.

JOAN OF ARC.

When, in the perusal of history, I meet with the names of females whom

circumstances, or their own inclinations, have brought thus openly

before the public eye, I can seldom repress the desire to know more of

them. Was it choice, or necessity, which led them to the battle-field,

or council-hall? Had the woman's heart been crushed within their

breasts? or did it struggle with the sterner feelings which had then

found entrance there? Were they recreant to their own sex? or were the

deed which claim the historian's notice but the necessary results of the

situations in which they had been placed?

These are questions which I often ask, and yet I love not in old and

musty records to meet with names which long ere this should have

perished with the hearts upon which love had written them; for happier,

surely, is woman, when in _one_ manly heart she has been "shrined a

queen," than when upon some powerful throne she sits with an untrembling

form, and an unquailing eye, to receive the homage, and command the

services of loyal thousands. I love not to read of women transformed in

all, save outward form, into one of the sterner sex; and when I see, in

the memorials of the past, that this has apparently been done, I would

fain overleap the barriers of bygone time, and know how it has been

effected. Imagination goes back to the scenes which must have been

witnessed then, and perhaps unaided portrays the minute features of the

sketch, of which history has preserved merely the outlines.

But I sometimes read of woman, when I would not know more of the places

where she has rendered herself conspicuous; when there is something so

noble and so bright in the character I have given her, that I fear a

better knowledge of trivial incidents might break the spell which leads

me to love and admire her; where, perhaps, the picture which my fancy

has painted, glows in colors so brilliant, that a sketch by Truth would

seem beside it but a sombre shadow.

Joan of Arc is one of those heroines of history, who cannot fail to

excite an interest in all who love to contemplate the female character.

From the gloom of that dark age, when woman was but a plaything and a

slave, she stands in bold relief, its most conspicuous personage. Not,

indeed, as a queen, but as more than a queen, even the preserver of her

nation's king; not as a conqueror, but as the savior of her country; not

as a man, urged in his proud career by mad ambition's stirring energies,

but as a woman, guided in her brilliant course by woman's noblest

impulses--so does she appear in that lofty station which for herself she

won.

Though high and dazzling was the eminence to which she rose, yet "'twas

not thus, oh 'twas not thus, her dwelling-place was found." Low in the

vale of humble life was the maiden born and bred; and thick as is the

veil which time and distance have thrown over every passage of her life

yet that which rests upon her early days is most impenetrable. And much

room is there here for the interested inquirer, and Imagination may rest

almost unchecked amid the slight revelations of History.

Joan is a heroine--a woman of mighty power--wearing herself the

habiliments of man, and guiding armies to battle and to victory; yet

never to my eye is "the warrior-maid" aught but _woman_. The ruling

passion, the spirit which nerved her arm, illumed her eye, and buoyed

her heart, was woman's faith. Ay, it was _power_--and call it what ye

may--say it was enthusiasm, fanaticism, madness--or call it, if ye will,

what those _did_ name it who burned Joan at the stake,--still it was

power, the power of woman's firm, undoubting faith.

I should love to go back into Joan's humble home--that home which the

historian has thought so little worthy of his notice; and in imagination

I _must_ go there, even to the very cradle of her infancy, and know of

all those influences which wrought the mind of Joan to that fearful

pitch of wild enthusiasm, when she declared herself the inspired agent

of the Almighty.

Slowly and gradually was the spirit trained to an act like this; for

though, like the volcano's fire, its instantaneous bursting forth was

preceded by no prophet-herald of its coming--yet Joan of Arc was the

same Joan ere she was maid of Orleans; the same high-souled, pure and

imaginative being, the creature of holy impulses, and conscious of

superior energies. It must have been so; _a superior mind may burst upon

the world, but never upon itself_: there must be a feeling of sympathy

with the noble and the gifted, a knowledge of innate though slumbering

powers. The neglected eaglet may lie in its mountain nest, long after

the pinion is fledged; but it will fix its unquailing eye upon the

dazzling sun, and feel a consciousness of strength in the untried wing;

but let the mother-bird once call it forth, and far away it will soar

into the deep blue heavens, or bathe and revel amidst the

tempest-clouds--and henceforth the eyrie is but a resting place.

As the diamond is formed, brilliant and priceless, in the dark bowels of

the earth, even so, in the gloom of poverty, obscurity, and toil, was

formed the mind of Joan of Arc.--Circumstances were but the jeweller's

cutting, which placed it where it might more readily receive the rays

of light, and flash them forth with greater brilliancy.

I have said, that I must in imagination go back to the infancy of Joan,

and note the incidents which shed their silent, hallowed influence upon

her soul, until she stands forth an inspired being, albeit inspired by

naught but her own imagination.

The basis of Joan's character is religious enthusiasm: this is the

substratum, the foundation of all that wild and mighty power which made

_her_, the peasant girl, the savior of her country. But the flame must

have been early fed; it was not merely an elementary portion of her

nature, but it was one which was cherished in infancy, in childhood and

in youth, until it became the master-passion of her being.

Joan, the child of the humble and the lowly, was also the daughter of

the fervently religious. The light of faith and hope illumes their

little cot; and reverence for all that is good and true, and a trust

which admits no shade of fear or doubt, is early taught the gentle

child. Though "faith in God's own promises" was mingled with

superstitious awe of those to whom all were then indebted for a

knowledge of the truth; though priestly craft had united the wild and

false with the pure light of the gospel: and though Joan's religion was

mingled with delusion and error,--still it comprised all that is

fervent, and pure, and truthful, in the female heart. The first words

her infant lips are taught to utter, are those of prayer--prayer,

mayhap, to saints or virgin; but still to her _then_ and in all

after-time, the aspirations of a spirit which delights in communion with

the Invisible.

She grows older, and still, amid ignorance, and poverty, and toil, the

spirit gains new light and fervor. With a mind alive to everything that

is high and holy, she goes forth into a dark and sinful world, dependent

upon her daily toil for daily bread; she lives among the thoughtless and

the vile; but like that plant which opens to nought but light and air,

and shrinks from all other contact--so her mind, amid the corruptions of

the world, is shut to all that is base and sinful, though open and

sensitive to that which is pure and noble.

"Joan," says the historian, "was a tender of stables in a village inn."

Such was her outward life; but there was for her _another_ life, a life

within that life. While the hands perform low, menial service, the soul

untrammelled is away, and revelling amidst its own creations of beauty

and of bliss. She is silent and abstracted; always alone among her

fellows--for among them all she sees no kindred spirit; she finds none

who can touch the chords within her heart, or respond to their melody,

when she would herself sweep its harp-strings.

Joan has no friends; far less does she ever think of earthly lovers; and

who would love _her_, the wild and strange Joan! though perhaps, the

gloomy, dull, and silent one; but that soul, whose very essence is

fervent zeal and glowing passion, sends forth in secrecy and silence its

burning love upon the unconscious things of earth. She talks to the

flowers, and the stars, and the changing clouds; and their voiceless

answers come back to her soul at morn, and noon, and stilly night. Yes,

Joan loves to go forth in the darkness of eve, and sit,

"Beneath the radiant stars, still burning as they roll,

And sending down their prophecies into her fervent soul;"

but, better even than this, does she love to go into some high

cathedral, where the "dim religious light" comes faintly through the

painted windows; and when the priests chant vesper hymns, and burning

incense goes upward from the sacred altar--and when the solemn strains

and the fragrant vapor dissolve and die away in the distant aisles and

lofty dome, she kneels upon the marble floor, and in ecstatic worship

sends forth the tribute of a glowing heart.

And when at night she lies down upon her rude pallet, she dreams that

she is with those bright and happy beings with whom her fancy has

peopled heaven. She is there, among saints and angels, and even

permitted high converse with the Mother of Jesus.

Yes, Joan is a dreamer; and she dreams not only in the night, but in the

day; whether at work or at rest, alone or among her fellow-men, there

are angel voices near, and spirit-wings are hovering around her, and

visions of all that is pure, and bright, and beautiful, come to the mind

of the lowly girl. She finds that she is a favored one; she feels that

those about her are not gifted as she has been; she knows that their

thoughts are not as her thoughts; and then the spirit questions, Why is

it thus that she should be permitted communings with unearthly ones? Why

was this ardent, aspiring mind bestowed upon _her_, one of earth's

meanest ones, shackled by bonds of penury, toil, and ignorance of all

that the world calls high and gifted? Day after day goes by, night after

night wears on, and still these queries will arise, and still they are

unanswered.

At length the affairs of busy life, those which to Joan have heretofore

been of but little moment, begin to awaken even _her_ interest.

Hitherto, absorbed in her own bright fancies, she has mingled in the

scenes around her, like one who walketh in his sleep. They have been too

tame and insipid to arouse her energies, or excite her interest; but now

there is a thrilling power in the tidings which daily meet her ears. All

hearts are stirred, but none now throb like hers: her country is

invaded, her king an exile from his throne; and at length the

conquerors, unopposed, are quietly boasting of their triumphs on the

very soil they have polluted. And shall it be thus? Shall the victor

revel and triumph in her own loved France? Shall her country thus tamely

submit to wear the foreign yoke? And Joan says, No! She feels the power

to arouse, to quicken, and to guide.

None now may tell whether it was first in fancies of the day or visions

of the night, that the thought came, like some lightning flash, upon her

mind, that it was for this that powers unknown to others had been

vouchsafed to _her_; and that for this, even new energies should now be

given.--But the idea once received is not abandoned; she cherishes it,

and broods upon it, till it has mingled with every thought of day and

night. If doubts at first arise, they are not harbored, and at length

they vanish away.

"Her spirit shadowed forth a dream, till it became a creed."

All that she sees and all that she hears--the words to which she eagerly

listens by day, and the spirit-whispers which come to her at

night,--they all assure her of this, that she is the appointed one. All

other thoughts and feelings now crystallize in this grand scheme; and as

the cloud grows darker upon her country's sky, her faith grows surer and

more bright. Her countrymen have ceased to resist, have almost ceased to

hope; but she alone, in her fervent joy, has "looked beyond the present

clouds and seen the light beyond." The spoiler shall yet be vanquished,

and _she_ will do it; her country shall be saved, and _she_ will save

it; her unanointed king shall yet sit on the throne, and "Charles shall

be crowned at Rheims." Such is her mission, and she goes forth in her

own ardent faith to its accomplishment.

And did those who first admitted the claims of Joan as an inspired

leader, themselves believe that she was an agent of the Almighty? None

can now tell how much the superstition of their faith, mingled with the

commanding influence of a mind firm in its own conviction of

supernatural guidance, influenced those haughty ones, as they listened

to the counsels, and obeyed the mandates, of the peasant girl.--Perhaps

they saw that she was their last hope, a frail reed upon which they

might lean, yet one that might not break. Her zeal and faith might be an

instrument to effect the end which she had declared herself destined to

accomplish. Worldly policy and religious credulity might mingle in their

admission of her claims; but however this might be, the peasant girl of

Arc soon rides at her monarch's side, with helmet on her head, and armor

on her frame, the time-hallowed sword girt to her side, and the

consecrated banner in her hand; and with the lightning of inspiration in

her eye, and words of dauntless courage on her lips, she guides them on

to battle and to victory.

Ay, there she is, the low-born maid of Arc! there, with the noble and

the brave, amid the clangor of trumpets, the waving of banners, the

tramp of the war horse, and the shouts of warriors; and there she is

more at home than in those humble scenes in which she has been wont to

bear a part. Now for once she is herself; now may she put forth all her

hidden energy, and with a mind which rises at each new demand upon its

powers, she is gaining for herself a name even greater than that of

queen. And now does the light beam brightly from her eye, and the blood

course quickly through her veins--for her task is ended, her mission

accomplished, and "Charles is crowned at Rheims."

This is the moment of Joan's glory,--and what is before her now? To

stand in courts, a favored and flattered one? to revel in the soft

luxuries and enervating pleasures of a princely life? Oh this was not

for one like her. To return to obscurity and loneliness, and there to

let the over-wrought mind sink back with nought to occupy and support

it, till it feeds and drivels on the remembrance of the past--this is

what she would do; but there is for her what is better far, even the

glorious death of a martyr.

Little does Joan deem, in her moment of triumph, that this is before

her; but when she has seen her mission ended, and her king the anointed

ruler of a liberated people, the sacred sword and standard are cast

aside; and throwing herself at her monarch's feet, and watering them

with tears of joy, she begs permission to return to her humble

home.--She has now done all for which that power was bestowed; her work

has been accomplished, and she claims no longer the special commission

of an inspired leader. But Dunois says, No! The English are not yet

entirely expelled the kingdom, and the French general would avail

himself of that name, and that presence, which have infused new courage

into his armies, and struck terror to their enemies. He knows that Joan

will no longer be sustained by the belief that she is an agent of

heaven; but she will be with them, and that alone must benefit their

cause. He would have her again assume the standard, sword, and armor; he

would have her still retain the title of "Messenger of God," though she

believe that her mission goes no farther.

It probably was not the first time, and it certainly was not the last,

when woman's holiest feelings have been made the instruments of man's

ambition, or agents for the completion of his designs. Joan is now but a

woman, poor, weak, and yielding woman; and overpowered by their

entreaties, she consents to try again her influence. But the power of

that faith is gone, the light of inspiration is no more given, and she

is attacked, conquered, and delivered to her enemies. They place her in

low dungeons, then bring her before tribunals; they wring and torture

that noble spirit, and endeavor to obtain from it a confession of

imposture, or connivance with the "evil one;" but she still persists in

the declaration that her claims to a heavenly guidance were true.

Once only was she false to herself. Weary and dispirited; deserted by

her friends, and tormented by her foes,--she yields to their assertions,

and admits that she did deceive her countrymen. Perhaps in that hour of

trial and darkness, when all hope of deliverance from without, or from

above, had died away,--when she saw herself powerless in the merciless

hands of her enemies, the conviction might steal upon her own mind, that

she had been self-deceived; that phantasies of the brain had been

received as visions from on high,--but though her confession was true in

the abstract, yet Joan was surely untrue to herself.

Still it avails her little; she is again remanded to the dungeon, and

there awaits her doom.

At length they bring her the panoply of war, the armored suit in which

she went forth at the king's right hand to fight their battle hosts. Her

heart thrills, and her eye flashes, as she looks upon it--for it tells

of glorious days. Once more she dons those fatal garments, and they find

her arrayed in the habiliments of war. It is enough for those who wished

but an excuse to take her life, and the Maid of Orleans is condemned to

die.

They led Joan to the martyr-stake. Proudly and nobly went she forth, for

it was a fitting death for one like _her_. Once more the spirit may

rouse its noblest energies; and with brightened eye, and firm, undaunted

step, she goes where banners wave and trumpets sound, and martial hosts

appear in proud array. And the sons of England weep as they see her, the

calm and tearless one, come forth to meet her fate. They bind her to the

stake; they light the fire; and upward borne on wreaths of soaring

flame, the soul of the martyred Joan ascends to heaven.

ELLA.

SUSAN MILLER.

CHAPTER I.

"Mother, it is all over now," said Susan Miller, as she descended from

the chamber where her father had just died of _delirium tremens_.

Mrs. Miller had for several hours walked the house, with that ceaseless

step which tells of fearful mental agony: and when she had heard from

her husband's room some louder shriek or groan, she had knelt by the

chair or bed which was nearest, and prayed that the troubled spirit

might pass away. But a faintness came over her, when a long interval of

stillness told that her prayer was answered; and she leaned upon the

railing of the stairway for support, as she looked up to see the first

one who should come to her from the bed of death.

Susan was the first to think of her mother: and when she saw her sink,

pale, breathless, and stupified upon a stair, she sat down in silence,

and supported her head upon her own bosom. Then for the first time was

she aroused to the consciousness that she was to be looked upon as a

stay and support; and she resolved to bring from the hidden recesses of

her heart, a strength, courage, and firmness, which should make her to

her heart-broken mother, and younger brothers and sisters, what _he_ had

not been for many years, who was now a stiffening corpse.

At length she ventured to whisper words of solace and sympathy, and

succeeded in infusing into her mother's mind a feeling of resignation to

the stroke they had received.--She persuaded her to retire to her bed,

and seek the slumber which had been for several days denied them; and

then she endeavored to calm the terror-stricken little ones, who were

screaming because their father was no more. The neighbors came in and

proffered every assistance; but when Susan retired that night to her own

chamber, she felt that she must look to HIM for aid, who alone could

sustain through the tasks that awaited her.

Preparations were made for the funeral; and though every one knew that

Mr. Miller had left his farm deeply mortgaged, yet the store-keeper

cheerfully trusted them for articles of mourning, and the dress-maker

worked day and night, while she expected never to receive a

remuneration. The minister came to comfort the widow and her children.

He spoke of the former virtues of him who had been wont to seek the

house of God on each returning Sabbath, and who had brought his eldest

children to the font of baptism, and been then regarded as an example of

honesty and sterling worth; and when he adverted to the one failing

which had brought him to his grave in the very prime of manhood, he also

remarked, that he was now in the hands of a merciful God.

The remains of the husband and father were at length removed from the

home which he had once rendered happy, but upon which he had afterwards

brought poverty and distress, and laid in that narrow house which he

never more might leave, till the last trumpet should call him forth;

and when the family were left to that deep silence and gloom which

always succeed a death and burial, they began to think of the trials

which were yet to come.

Mrs. Miller had been for several years aware that ruin was coming upon

them. She had at first warned, reasoned, and expostulated; but she was

naturally of a gentle and almost timid disposition; and when she found

that she awakened passions which were daily growing more violent and

ungovernable, she resolved to await in silence a crisis which sooner or

later would change their destiny. Whether she was to follow her

degenerate husband to his grave, or accompany him to some low hovel, she

knew not; she shrunk from the future, but faithfully discharged all

present duties, and endeavored, by a strict economy, to retain at least

an appearance of comfort in her household.

To Susan, her eldest child, she had confided all her fears and sorrows;

and they had watched, toiled, and sympathized together. But when the

blow came at last, when he who had caused all their sorrow and anxiety

was taken away by a dreadful and disgraceful death, the long-enduring

wife and mother was almost paralyzed by the shock.

But Susan was young; she had health, strength, and spirits to bear her

up, and upon her devolved the care of the family, and the plan for its

future support. Her resolution was soon formed; and without saying a

word to any individual, she went to Deacon Rand, who was her father's

principal creditor.

It was a beautiful afternoon in the month of May, when Susan left the

house in which her life had hitherto been spent, determined to know,

before she returned to it, whether she might ever again look upon it as

her home. It was nearly a mile to the deacon's house, and not a single

house upon the way. The two lines of turf in the road, upon which the

bright green grass was springing, showed that it was but seldom

travelled; and the birds warbled in the trees, as though they feared no

disturbance. The fragrance of the lowly flowers, the budding shrubs, and

the blooming fruit-trees, filled the air; and she stood for a moment to

listen to the streamlet which she crossed upon a rude bridge of stones.

She remembered how she had loved to look at it in summer, as it murmured

along among the low willows and alder bushes; and how she had watched it

in the early spring, when its swollen waters forced their way through

the drifts of snow which had frozen over it, and wrought for itself an

arched roof, from which the little icicles depended in diamond points

and rows of beaded pearls. She looked also at the meadow, where the

grass was already so long and green; and she sighed to think that she

must leave all that was so dear to her, and go where a ramble among

fields, meadows, and orchards, would be henceforth a pleasure denied to

her.

CHAPTER II.

When she arrived at the spacious farm-house, which was the residence of

the deacon, she was rejoiced to find him at home and alone. He laid

aside his newspaper as she entered, and, kindly taking her hand,

inquired after her own health and that of her friends. "And now,

deacon," said she, when she had answered all his questions, "I wish to

know whether you intend to turn us all out of doors, as you have a

perfect right to do--or suffer us still to remain, with a slight hope

that we may sometime pay you the debt for which our farm is mortgaged."

"You have asked me a very plain question," was the deacon's reply, "and

one which I can easily answer. You see that I have here a house, large

enough and good enough for the president himself, and plenty of every

thing in it and around it; and how in the name of common sense and

charity, and religion, could I turn a widow and fatherless children out

of their house and home! Folks have called me mean, and stingy, and

close-fisted; and though in my dealings with a rich man I take good care

that he shall not overreach me, yet I never stood for a cent with a poor

man in my life. But you spake about some time paying me; pray, how do

you hope to do it?"

"I am going to Lowell," said Susan quietly, "to work in the factory, the

girls have high wages there now, and in a year or two Lydia and Eliza

can come too; and if we all have our health, and mother and James get

along well with the farm and the little ones, I hope, I do think, that

we can pay it all up in the course of seven or eight years."

"That is a long time for you to go and work so hard, and shut yourself

up so close at your time of life," said the deacon, "and on many other

accounts I do not approve of it."

"I know how prejudiced the people here are against factory girls," said

Susan, "but I should like to know what real good _reason_ you have for

disapproving of my resolution. You cannot think there is anything really

wrong in my determination to labor, as steadily and as profitably as I

can, for myself and the family."

"Why, the way that I look at things is this," replied the deacon:

"whatever is not right, is certainly wrong; and I do not think it right

for a young girl like you, to put herself in the way of all sorts of

temptation. You have no idea of the wickedness and corruption which

exist in that town of Lowell. Why, they say that more than half of the

girls have been in the house of correction, or the county gaol, or some

other vile place; and that the other half are not much better; and I

should not think you would wish to go and work, and eat, and sleep, with

such a low, mean, ignorant, wicked set of creatures."

"I know such things are said of them, deacon, but I do not think they

are true. I have never seen but one factory girl, and that was my cousin

Esther, who visited us last summer. I do not believe there is a better

girl in the world than she is; and I cannot think she would be so

contented and cheerful among such a set of wretches as some folks think

factory girls must be. There may be wicked girls there; but among so

many, there must be some who are good; and when I go there, I shall try

to keep out of the way of bad company, and I do not doubt that cousin

Esther can introduce me to girls who are as good as any with whom I have

associated. If she cannot I will have no companion but her, and spend

the little leisure I shall have in solitude, for I am determined to go."

"But supposing, Susan, that all the girls there were as good, and

sensible, and pleasant as yourself--yet there are many other things to

be considered. You have not thought how hard it will seem to be boxed up

fourteen hours in a day, among a parcel of clattering looms, or whirling

spindles, whose constant din is of itself enough to drive a girl out of

her wits; and then you will have no fresh air to breathe, and as likely

as not come home in a year or two with a consumption, and wishing you

had staid where you would have had less money and better health. I have

also heard that the boarding women do not give the girls food which is

fit to eat, nor half enough of the mean stuff they do allow them, and it

is contrary to all reason to suppose that folks can work, and have their

health, without victuals to eat."

"I have thought of all these things, deacon, but they do not move me. I

know the noise of the mills must be unpleasant at first, but I shall get

used to that; and as to my health, I know that I have as good a

constitution to begin with as any girl could wish, and no predisposition

to consumption, nor any of those diseases which a factory life might

otherwise bring upon me. I do not expect all the comforts which are

common to country farmers; but I am not afraid of starving, for cousin

Esther said, that she had an excellent boarding place, and plenty to

eat, and drink, and that which was good enough for anybody. But if they

do not give us good meat, I will eat vegetables alone, and when we have

bad butter, I will eat my bread without it."

"Well," said the deacon, "if your health is preserved, you may lose some

of your limbs. I have heard a great many stories about girls who had

their hands torn off by the machinery, or mangled so that they could

never use them again; and a hand is not a thing to be despised, nor

easily dispensed with. And then, how should you like to be ordered

about, and scolded at, by a cross overseer?"

"I know there is danger," replied Susan, "among so much machinery, but

those who meet with accidents are but a small number, in proportion to

the whole, and if I am careful I need not fear any injury. I do not

believe the stories we hear about bad overseers, for such men would not

be placed over so many girls; and if I have a cross one, I will give no

reason to find fault; and if he finds fault without reason, I will leave

him, and work for some one else.--You know that I must do something, and

I have made up my mind what it shall be."

"You are a good child, Susan," and the deacon looked very kind when he

told her so, "and you are a courageous, noble-minded girl. I am not

afraid that _you_ will learn to steal, and lie, and swear, and neglect

your Bible and the meeting-house; but lest anything unpleasant should

happen, I will make you this offer: I will let your mother live upon the

farm, and pay me what little she can, till your brother James is old

enough to take it at the halves; and if you will come here, and help my

wife about the house and dairy, I will give you 4_s._ 6_d._ a-week, and

you shall be treated as a daughter--perhaps you may one day be one."

The deacon looked rather sly at her, and Susan blushed; for Henry Rand,

the deacon's youngest son, had been her playmate in childhood, her

friend at school, and her constant attendant at all the parties and

evening meetings. Her young friends all spoke of him as her lover, and

even the old people had talked of it as a very fitting match, as Susan,

besides good sense, good humor, and some beauty, had the health,

strength and activity which are always reckoned among the qualifications

for a farmer's wife.

Susan knew of this; but of late, domestic trouble had kept her at home,

and she knew not what his present feelings were. Still she felt that

they must not influence her plans and resolutions. Delicacy forbade that

she should come and be an inmate of his father's house, and her very

affection for him had prompted the desire that she should be as

independent as possible of all favors from him, or his father; and also

the earnest desire that they might one day clear themselves of debt. So

she thanked the deacon for his offer, but declined accepting it, and

arose to take leave.

"I shall think a great deal about you, when you are gone," said the

deacon, "and will pray for you, too. I never used to think about the

sailors, till my wife's brother visited us, who had led for many years a

sea-faring life; and now I always pray for those who are exposed to the

dangers of the great deep. And I will also pray for the poor factory

girls who work so hard and suffer so much."

"Pray for me, deacon," replied Susan in a faltering voice, "that I may

have strength to keep a good resolution."

She left the house with a sad heart; for the very success of her hopes

and wishes had brought more vividly to mind the feeling that she was

really to go and leave for many years her friends and home.

She was almost glad that she had not seen Henry; and while she was

wondering what he would say and think, when told that she was going to

Lowell, she heard approaching footsteps, and looking up, saw him coming

towards her. The thought--no, the idea, for it had not time to form into

a definite thought--flashed across her mind, that she must now arouse

all her firmness, and not let Henry's persuasion shake her resolution to

leave them all, and go to the factory.

But the very indifference with which he heard of her intention was of

itself sufficient to arouse her energy. He appeared surprised, but

otherwise wholly unconcerned, though he expressed a hope that she would

be happy and prosperous, and that her health would not suffer from the

change of occupation.

If he had told her that he loved her--if he had entreated her not to

leave them, or to go with the promise of returning to be his future

companion through life--she could have resisted it; for this she had

resolved to do; and the happiness attending an act of self-sacrifice

would have been her reward.

She had before known sorrow, and she had borne it patiently and

cheerfully; and she knew that the life which was before her would have

been rendered happier by the thought, that there was one who was deeply

interested for her happiness, and who sympathized in all her trials.

When she parted from Henry it was with a sense of loneliness, of utter

desolation, such as she had never before experienced. She had never

before thought that he was dear to her, and that she had wished to carry

in her far-off place of abode the reflection that she was dear to him.

She felt disappointed and mortified, but she blamed not him, neither did

she blame herself; she did not know that any one had been to blame. Her

young affections had gone forth as naturally and as involuntarily as the

vapors rise to meet the sun. But the sun which had called them forth,

had now gone down, and they were returning in cold drops to the

heart-springs from which they had arisen; and Susan resolved that they

should henceforth form a secret fount, whence every other feeling should

derive new strength and vigor. She was now more firmly resolved that her

future life should be wholly devoted to her kindred, and thought not of

herself but as connected with them.

CHAPTER III.

It was with pain that Mrs. Miller heard of Susan's plan; but she did not

oppose her. She felt that it must be so, that she must part with her

for her own good and the benefit of the family; and Susan hastily made

preparations for her departure.

She arranged everything in and about the house for her mother's

convenience; and the evening before she left she spent in instructing

Lydia how to take her place, as far as possible, and told her to be

always cheerful with mother, and patient with the younger ones, and to

write a long letter every two months (for she could not afford to hear

oftener), and to be sure and not forget her for a single day.

Then she went to her own room; and when she had re-examined her trunk,

bandbox, and basket, to see that all was right, and laid her

riding-dress over the great armchair, she sat down by the window to

meditate upon her change of life.

She thought, as she looked upon the spacious, convenient chamber in

which she was sitting, how hard it would be to have no place to which

she could retire and be alone, and how difficult it would be to keep her

things in order in the fourth part of a small apartment, and how

possible it was that she might have unpleasant room-mates, and how

probable that every day would call into exercise all her kindness and

forbearance. And then she wondered if it would be possible for her to

work so long, and save so much, as to render it possible that she might

one day return to that chamber and call it her own. Sometimes she wished

she had not undertaken it, that she had not let the deacon know that she

hoped to be able to pay him; she feared that she had taken a burden upon

herself which she could not bear, and sighed to think that her lot

should be so different from that of most young girls.

She thought of the days when she was a little child; when she played

with Henry at the brook, or picked berries with him on the hill; when

her mother was always happy, and her father always kind; and she wished

that the time could roll back, and she could again be a careless little

girl.

She felt, as we sometimes do, when we shut our eyes and try to sleep,

and get back into some pleasant dream, from which we have been too

suddenly awakened. But the dream of youth was over, and before her was

the sad waking reality of a life of toil, separation, and sorrow.

When she left home the next morning, it was the first time she had ever

parted from her friends. The day was delightful, and the scenery

beautiful; a stage-ride was of itself a novelty to her, and her

companions pleasant and sociable; but she felt very sad, and when she

retired at night to sleep in a hotel, she burst into tears.

Those who see the factory girls in Lowell, little think of the sighs and

heart-aches which must attend a young girl's entrance upon a life of

toil and privation, among strangers.

To Susan, the first entrance into a factory boarding-house seemed

something dreadful. The rooms looked strange and comfortless, and the

women cold and heartless; and when she sat down to the supper-table,

where, among more than twenty girls, all but one were strangers, she

could not eat a mouthful. She went with Esther to their sleeping

apartment, and, after arranging her clothes and baggage, she went to

bed, but not to sleep.

The next morning she went into the mill; and at first, the sight of so

many bands, and wheels, and springs, in constant motion was very

frightful. She felt afraid to touch the loom, and she was almost sure

that she could never learn to weave; the harness puzzled and the reed

perplexed her; the shuttle flew out, and made a new bump upon her head;

and the first time she tried to spring the lathe, she broke out a

quarter of the treads. It seemed as if the girls all stared at her, and

the overseers watched every motion, and the day appeared as long as a

month had been at home. But at last it was night; and O, how glad was

Susan to be released! She felt weary and wretched, and retired to rest

without taking a mouthful of refreshment. There was a dull pain in her

head, and a sharp pain in her ankles; every bone was aching, and there

was in her ears a strange noise, as of crickets, frogs, and jews-harps,

all mingling together, and she felt gloomy and sick at heart. "But it

won't seem so always," said she to herself; and with this truly

philosophical reflection, she turned her head upon a hard pillow, and

went to sleep.

Susan was right, it did not seem so always. Every succeeding day seemed

shorter and pleasanter than the last; and when she was accustomed to the

work, and had become interested in it, the hours seemed shorter, and the

days, weeks, and months flew more swiftly by than they had ever done

before. She was healthy, active, and ambitious, and was soon able to

earn even as much as her cousin, who had been a weaver several years.

Wages were then much higher than they are now; and Susan had the

pleasure of devoting the avails of her labor to a noble and cherished

purpose. There was a definite aim before her, and she never lost sight

of the object for which she left her home, and was happy in the prospect

of fulfilling that design. And it needed all this hope of success, and

all her strength of resolution, to enable her to bear up against the

wearing influences of a life of unvarying toil. Though the days seemed

shorter than at first, yet there was a tiresome monotony about them.

Every morning the bells pealed forth the same clangor, and every night

brought the same feeling of fatigue. But Susan felt, as all factory

girls feel, that she could bear it for a while. There are few who look

upon factory labor as a pursuit for life. It is but a temporary

vocation; and most of the girls resolve to quit the mill when some

favorite design is accomplished. Money is their object--not for itself,

but for what it can perform; and pay-days are the landmarks which cheer

all hearts, by assuring them of their progress to the wished-for goal.

Susan was always very happy when she enclosed the quarterly sum to

Deacon Rand, although it was hardly won, and earned by the deprivation

of many little comforts, and pretty articles of dress, which her

companions could procure. But the thought of home, and the future happy

days which she might enjoy in it, was the talisman which ever cheered

and strengthened her.

She also formed strong friendships among her factory companions, and

became attached to her pastor, and their place of worship. After the

first two years she had also the pleasure of her sister's society, and

in a year or two more, another came. She did not wish them to come while

very young. She thought it better that their bodies should be

strengthened, and their minds educated in their country home; and she

also wished, that in their early girlhood they should enjoy the same

pleasures which had once made her own life a very happy one.

And she was happy now; happy in the success of her noble exertions, the

affection and gratitude of her relatives, the esteem of her

acquaintances, and the approbation of conscience. Only once was she

really disquieted. It was when her sister wrote that Henry Rand was

married to one of their old school-mates. For a moment the color fled

from her cheek, and a quick pang went through her heart. It was but for

a moment; and then she sat down and wrote to the newly-married couple a

letter, which touched their hearts by its simple fervent wishes for

their happiness, and assurances of sincere friendship.

Susan had occasionally visited home, and she longed to go, never to

leave it; but she conquered the desire, and remained in Lowell more than

a year after the last dollar had been forwarded to Deacon Rand. And

then, O, how happy was she when she entered her chamber the first

evening after her arrival, and viewed its newly-painted wainscoting, and

brightly-colored paper-hangings, and the new furniture with which she

had decorated it; and she smiled as she thought of the sadness which had

filled her heart the evening before she first went to Lowell.

She now always thinks of Lowell with pleasure, for Lydia is married

here, and she intends to visit her occasionally, and even sometimes

thinks of returning for a little while to the mills. Her brother James

has married, and resides in one half of the house, which he has recently

repaired; and Eliza, though still in the factory, is engaged to a

wealthy young farmer.

Susan is with her mother, and younger brothers and sisters. People begin

to think she will be an old maid, and she thinks herself that it will be

so. The old deacon still calls her a good child, and prays every night

and morning for the factory girls.

F. G. A.

SCENES ON THE MERRIMAC.

I have been but a slight traveller, and the beautiful rivers of our

country have, with but one or two exceptions, rolled their bright waves

before "the orbs of fancy" alone, and not to my visual senses. But the

few specimens which have been favored me of river scenery, have been

very happy in the influence they have exerted upon my mind, in favor of

this feature of natural loveliness.

I do not wonder that the "stream of _his_ fathers" should be ever so

favorite a theme with the poet, and that wherever he has sung its

praise, the spot should henceforth be as classic ground. Wherever some

"gently rolling river" has whispered its soft murmurs to the recording

muse, its name has been linked with his; and far as that name may

extend, is the beauty of that inspiring streamlet appreciated.

Helicon and Castalia are more frequently referred to than

Parnassus,--and even the small streams of hilly Scotland, are renowned

wherever the songs of her poet "are said or sung." "The banks and braes

o' bonny Doon," are duly applauded in the drawing-rooms of America; and

the Tweed, the "clear winding Devon," the "braes of Ayr," the "braes o'

Ballochmyle," and the "sweet Afton," so often the theme of his lays, for

his "Mary's asleep by its murmuring stream," are names even here quite

as familiar, perhaps more so, than our own broad and beauteous rivers.

Such is the hallowing power of Genius; and upon whatever spot she may

cast her bright unfading mantle, there is forever stamped the impress of

beauty.

"The Bard of Avon" is an honorary title wherever our language is read;

and though we may have few streams which have as yet been sacred to the

muse, yet time will doubtless bring forth those whose genius shall make

the Indian cognomens of our noble rivers' names associated with all that

is lofty in intellect and beautiful in poetry.

The Merrimac has already received the grateful tribute of praise from

the muse of the New England poet; and well does it merit the encomiums

which he has bestowed upon it. It is a beautiful river, from the time

when its blue waters start on their joyous course, leaving "the smile of

the Great Spirit," to wind through many a vale, and round many a hill,

till they mingle

"With ocean's dark eternal tide."

I have said that I have seen but few rivers. No! never have I stood

"Where Hudson rolls his lordly flood;

Seen sunrise rest, and sunset fade

Along his frowning palisade;

Looked down the Appalachian peak

On Juniata's silver streak;

Or seen along his valley gleam

The Mohawk's softly winding stream;

The setting sun, his axle red

Quench darkly in Potomac's bed;

And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner

Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;"--

but I still imagine that all their beauties are concentrated in the blue

waters of the Merrimac--not as it appears here, where, almost beneath my

factory window, its broad tide moves peacefully along; but where by

"Salisbury's beach of shining sand," it rolls amidst far lovelier

scenes, and with more rapid flow. Perhaps it is because it is _my_ river

that I think it so beautiful--no matter if it is; there is a great

source of gratification in the feeling of whatever is in any way

connected with our _humble_ selves is on that account invested with some

distinctive charm, and in some mysterious way rendered peculiarly

lovely.

But even to the stranger's eye, if he have any taste for the beautiful

in nature, the charms of the banks of the Merrimac would not be

disregarded. Can there be a more beautiful bend in a river, than that

which it makes at Salisbury Point? It is one of the most picturesque

scenes, at all events, which I have ever witnessed. Stand for a moment

upon the drawbridge which spans with its single arch the spot where "the

winding Powow" joins his sparkling waters with the broad tide of the

receiving river. We will suppose it is a summer morning. The thin white

mist from the Atlantic, which the night-spirit has thrown, like a bridal

veil, over the vale and river, is gently lifted by Aurora, and the

unshrouded waters blush "celestial rosy red" at the exposure of their

own loveliness. But the bright flush is soon gone, and as the sun rides

higher in the heavens, the millions of little wavelets don their diamond

crowns, and rise, and sink, and leap, and dance rejoicingly together;

and while their sparkling brilliancy arrests the eye, their murmurs of

delight are no less grateful to the ear. The grove upon the Newbury side

is already vocal with the morning anthems of the feathered choir, and

from the maple, oak, and pine is rising one glad peal of melody. The

slight fragrance of the kalmia, or American laurel, which flourishes

here in much profusion, is borne upon the morning breeze; and when their

roseate umbels are opened to the sun, they "sing to the eye," as their

less stationary companions have done to the ear.

The road which accompanies the river in its beauteous curve, is soon

alive with the active laborers of "Salisbury shore;" and soon the loud

"Heave-ho!" of the ship-builders is mingled with the more mellifluous

tones which have preceded them. The other busy inhabitants are soon

threading the winding street, and as they glance upon their bright and

beauteous river, their breasts swell with emotions of pleasure, though

in their constant and active bustle, they may seldom pause to analyze

the cause. The single sail of the sloop which has lain so listless at

the little wharf, and the double one of the schooner which is about to

traverse its way to the ocean, are unfurled to the morning wind, and the

loud orders of the bustling skipper, and the noisy echoes of his

bustling men, are borne upon the dewy breeze, and echoed from the

Newbury slopes. Soon they are riding upon the bright waters, and the

little skiff or wherry is also seen darting about, amidst the rolling

diamonds, while here and there a heavy laden "gundelow" moves slowly

along, "with sure and steady aim," as though it disdained the pastime of

its livelier neighbors.

Such is many a morning scene on the banks of the Merrimac; and not less

delightful are those of the evening. Perhaps the sunset has passed. The

last golden tint has faded from the river, and its waveless surface

reflects the deep blue of heaven, and sends back undimmed the first

faint ray of the evening star. The rising tide creeps rippling up the

narrow beach, sending along its foremost swell, which, in a sort of

drowsy play, leaps forward, and then sinks gently back upon its

successors. Now the tide is up--the trees upon the wooded banks of

Newbury, and the sandy hills upon the Amesbury side, are pencilled with

minutest accuracy in the clear waters. Farther down, the dwellings at

the Ferry, and those of the Point, which stand upon the banks, are also

mirrored in the deep stream. You might also fancy that beneath its lucid

tide there was a duplicate village, so distinct is every shadow. As, one

by one, the lights appear in the cottage windows, their reflected fires

shoot up from the depths of the Merrimac.

But the waters shine with brighter radiance as evening lengthens; for

Luna grows more lavish of her silvery beams as the crimson tints of her

brighter rival die in the western sky. The shore is still and

motionless, save where a pair of happy lovers steal slowly along the

shadowed walk which leads to Pleasant Valley. The old weather-worn ship

at the Point, which has all day long resounded with the clatter of

mischievous boys, is now wrapped in silence. The new one in the

ship-yard, which has also been dinning with the maul and hammer, is

equally quiet. But from the broad surface of the stream there comes the

song, the shout, and the ringing laugh of the light-hearted. They come

from the boats which dot the water, and are filled with the young and

gay. Some have just shot from the little wharf, and others have been for

hours upon the river. What they have been doing, and where they have

been, I do not precisely know; but, from the boughs which have been

broken from _somebody's_ trees, and the large clusters of laurel which

the ladies bear, I think I can "guess-o."

But it grows late. The lights which have glowed in the reflected

buildings have one by one been quenched, and still those light barks

remain upon the river. And that large "gundelow," which came down the

Powow, from the mills, with its freight of "factory girls," sends forth

"the sound of music and dancing." We will leave them--for it is possible

that they will linger till after midnight, and we have staid quite long

enough to obtain an evening's glimpse at the Merrimac.

Such are some of the scenes on the river, and many are also the pleasant

spots upon its banks. Beautiful walks and snug little nooks are not

unfrequent; and there are bright green sheltered coves, like Pleasant

Valley, where "all save the spirit of man is divine."

I remember the first steamboat which ever came hissing and puffing and

groaning and sputtering up the calm surface of the Merrimac. I remember

also the lovely moonlight evening when I watched her return from

Haverhill, and when every wave and rock and tree were lying bathed in a

flood of silver radiance. I shall not soon forget her noisy approach, so

strongly contrasted with the stillness around, nor the long loud ringing

cheers which hailed her arrival and accompanied her departure. I noted

every movement, as she hissed and splashed among the bright waters,

until she reached the curve in the river, and then was lost to view,

excepting the thick sparks which rose above the glistening foilage of

the wooded banks.

I remember also the first time I ever saw the aborigines of our country.

They were Penobscots, and then, I believe, upon their way to this city.

They encamped among the woods of the Newbury shore, and crossed the

river (there about a mile in width) in their little canoes, whenever

they wished to beg or trade.--They sadly refuted the romantic ideas

which I had formed from the descriptions of Cooper and others;

nevertheless, they were to me an interesting people. They appeared so

strange, with their birch-bark canoes and wooden paddles, their women

with men's hats and such _outré_ dresses, their little boys with their

unfailing bows and arrows, and the little feet which they all had. Their

curious, bright-stained baskets, too, which they sold or gave away. I

have one of them now, but it has lost its bright tints. It was given me

in return for a slight favor.--I remember also one dreadful stormy night

while they were amongst us. The rain poured in torrents. The thick

darkness was unrelieved by a single lightning-flash, and the hoarse

murmur of the seething river was the only noise which could be

distinguished from the pitiless storm. I thought of my new acquaintance,

and looked out in the direction of their camp. I could see at one time

the lights flickering among the thick trees, and darting rapidly to and

fro behind them, and then all would be unbroken gloom. Sometimes I

fancied I could distinguish a whoop or yell, and then I heard nought but

the pelting of the rain. As I gazed on the wild scene, I was strongly

reminded of scenes which are described in old border tales, of wild

banditti, and night revels of lawless hordes of barbarians.

These are summer scenes; and in winter there is nothing particularly

beautiful in the icy robe with which the Merrimac often enrobes its

chilled waters. But the breaking up of the ice is an event of much

interest.

As spring approaches, and the weather becomes milder, the river, which

has been a thoroughfare for loaded teams and lighter sleighs, is

gradually shunned, even by the daring skater. Little pools of bluish

water, which the sun has melted, stand in slight hollows, distinctly

contrasted with the clear dark ice in the middle of the stream, or the

flaky snow-crust near the shore. At length a loud crack is heard, like

the report of a cannon--then another, and another--and finally the

loosened mass begins to move towards the ocean. The motion at first is

almost imperceptible, but it gradually increases in velocity, as the

impetus of the descending ice above propels it along; and soon the dark

blue waters are seen between the huge chasms of the parting ice. By and

bye, the avalanches come drifting down, tumbling, crashing, and whirling

along, with the foaming waves boiling up wherever they can find a

crevice; and trunks of trees, fragments of buildings, and ruins of

bridges, are driven along with the tumultuous mass.--A single night will

sometimes clear the river of the main portion of the ice, and then the

darkly-tinted waters will roll rapidly on, as though wildly rejoicing at

their deliverance from bondage. But for some time the white cakes, or

rather ice-islands, will be seen floating along, though hourly

diminishing in size, and becoming more "like angel's visits."

But there is another glad scene occasionally upon the Merrimac--and that

is, when there is a launching. I have already alluded to the

ship-builders, and they form quite a proportion of the inhabitants of

the shore. And now, by the way, I cannot omit a passing compliment to

the inhabitants of this same shore. It is seldom that so correct,

intelligent, contented, and truly comfortable a class of people is to be

found, as in this pretty hamlet. Pretty it most certainly is--for nearly

all the houses are neatly painted, and some of them indicate much taste

in the owners. And then the people are so kind, good, and industrious. A

Newburyport editor once said of them, "They are nice folks there on

Salisbury shore; they always pay for their newspapers"--a trait of

excellence which printers can usually appreciate.

But now to the ships, whose building I have often watched with interest,

from the day when the long keel was laid till it was launched into the

river. This is a scene which is likewise calculated to inspire salutary

reflections, from the comparison which is often instituted between

ourselves and a wave-tossed bark. How often is the commencement of

active life compared to the launching of a ship; and even the

unimaginative Puritans could sing,

"Life's like a ship in constant motion,

Sometimes high and sometimes low,

Where every man must plough the ocean,

Whatsoever winds may blow."

The striking analogy has been more beautifully expressed by better

poets, though hardly with more force. And if we are like wind-tossed

vessels on a stormy sea, then the gradual formation of our minds may be

compared to the building of a ship. And it was this thought which often

attracted my notice to the labors of the shipwright.

First, the long keel is laid--then the huge ribs go up the sides; then

the rail-way runs around the top. Then commences the boarding or

timbering of the sides; and for weeks, or months, the builder's maul is

heard, as he pounds in the huge _trunnels_ which fasten all together.

Then there is the finishing inside, and the painting outside, and, after

all, the launching.

The first that I ever saw was a large and noble ship. It had been long

in building, and I had watched its progress with much interest. The

morning it was to be launched I played truant to witness the scene. It

was a fine sunshiny day, Sept. 21, 1832; and I almost wished I was a

boy, that I might join the throng upon the deck, who were determined

upon a ride. The blocks which supported the ship were severally knocked

out, until it rested upon but one. When that was gone, the ship would

rest upon greased planks, which descended to the water. It must have

been a thrilling moment to the man who lay upon his back, beneath the

huge vessel, when he knocked away the last prop. But it was done, and

swiftly it glided along the planks, then plunged into the river, with an

impetus which sunk her almost to her deck, and carried her nearly to the

middle of the river. Then she slowly rose, rocked back and forth, and

finally righted herself, and stood motionless. But while the dashing

foaming waters were still clamorously welcoming her to a new element,

and the loud cheers from the deck were ringing up into the blue sky, the

bottle was thrown, and she was named the WALTER SCOTT. It will be

remembered that this was the very day on which the Great Magician

died--a fact noticed in the Saturday Courier about that time.

Several years after this, I was attending school in a neighboring town.

I happened one evening to take up a newspaper. I think it was a

Portsmouth paper; and I saw the statement that a fine new ship had been

burnt at sea, called the WALTER SCOTT. The particulars were so minutely

given, as to leave no room for doubt that it was the beautiful vessel

which I had seen launched, upon the banks of the Merrimac.

ANNETTE.

THE FIRST BELLS.

CHAPTER I.

There are times when I am melancholy, when the sun seems to shine with a

shadowy light, and the woods are filled with notes of sadness; when the

up-springing flowers seem blossoms strewed upon a bier, and every

streamlet chants a requiem. Have we not all our trials? And though we

may bury the sad thoughts to which they give birth in the dark recesses

of our own hearts, yet Memory and Sensibility must both be dead, if we

can always be light and mirthful.

Once it was not so. There was a time when I gaily viewed the dull clouds

of a rainy day, and could hear the voice of rejoicing in the roarings of

the wintry storm, when sorrow was an unmeaning word, and in things which

now appear sacred my thoughtless mind could see the ludicrous.

These thoughts have been suggested by the recollection of a poor old

couple, to whom in my careless girlhood I gave the name of "the first

bells." And now, I doubt not, you are wondering what strange association

of ideas could have led me to fasten this appellation upon a poor old

man and woman. My answer must be the narration of a few facts.

When I was young, we all worshipped in the great meeting-house, which

now stands so vacant and forlorn upon the brow of Church Hill. It is

never used but upon town-meeting days--for those who once went up to the

house of God in company, now worship in three separate buildings. There

is discord between them--that worst of all hatred, the animosity which

arises from difference of religious opinions. I am sorry for it; not

that I regret that they cannot all think alike, but that they cannot

"agree to differ." Because the heads are not in unison, it needeth not

that the hearts should be estranged; and a difference of faith may be

expressed in kindly words. I have my friends among them all, and they

are not the less dear to me, because upon some doctrinal points our

opinions cannot be the same. A creed which I do not now believe is

hallowed by recollections of the Sabbath worship, the evening meetings,

the religious feelings--in short, of the faith, hope, and trust of my

earlier days.

I remember now how still and beautiful our Sunday mornings used to seem,

after the toil and play of the busy week. I would take my catechism in

my hand, and go and sit upon a large flat stone, under the shade of the

chestnut tree; and, looking abroad, would wonder if there was a thing

which did not feel that it was the Sabbath. The sun was as bright and

warm as upon other days, but its light seemed to fall more softly upon

the fields, woods and hills; and though the birds sung as loudly and

joyfully as ever, I thought their sweet voices united in a more sacred

strain. I heard a Sabbath tone in the waving of the boughs above me, and

the hum of the bees around me, and even the bleating of the lambs and

the lowing of the kine seemed pitched upon some softer key. Thus it is

that the heart fashions the mantle with which it is wont to enrobe all

nature, and gives to its never silent voices a tone of joy, or sorrow,

or holy peace.

We had then no bell; and when the hour approached for the commencement

of religious services, each nook and dale sent forth its worshippers in

silence. But precisely half an hour before the rest of our neighbors

started, the old man and woman, who lived upon Pine Hill, could be seen

wending their way to the meeting-house. They walked side by side, with a

slow even step, such as was befitting the errand which had brought them

forth. Their appearance was always the signal for me to lay aside my

book, and prepare to follow them to the house of God. And it was because

they were so unvarying in their early attendance, because I was never

disappointed in the forms which first emerged from the pine trees upon

the hill, that I gave them the name of "the first bells."

Why they went thus regularly early I know not, but think it probable

they wished for time to rest after their long walk, and then to prepare

their hearts to join in exercises which were evidently more valued by

them than by most of those around them. Yet it must have been a deep

interest which brought so large a congregation from the scattered

houses, and many far-off dwellings of our thinly peopled country town.

And every face was then familiar to me. I knew each white-headed

patriarch who took his seat by the door of his pew, and every aged woman

who seated herself in the low chair in the middle of it; and the

countenances of the middle-aged and the young were rendered familiar by

the exchange of Sabbath glances, as we met year after year in that

humble temple.

But upon none did I look with more interest than upon "the first bells."

There they always were when I took my accustomed seat at the right hand

of the pulpit. Their heads were always bowed in meditation till they

arose to join in the morning prayer; and when the choir sent forth their

strain of praise they drew nearer to each other, and looked upon the

same book, as they silently sent forth the spirit's song to their Father

in heaven. There was an expression of meekness, of calm and perfect

faith, and of subdued sorrow upon the countenances of both, which won my

reverence, and excited my curiosity to know more of them.

They were poor. I knew it by the coarse and much-worn garments which

they always wore; but I could not conjecture why they avoided the

society and sympathy of all around them. They always waited for our

pastor's greeting when he descended from the pulpit, and meekly bowed to

all around, but farther than this, their intercourse with others

extended not. It appeared to me that some heavy trial, which had knit

their own hearts more closely together, and endeared to them their faith

and its religious observances, had also rendered them unusually

sensitive to the careless remarks and curious inquiries of a country

neighborhood.

One Sabbath our pastor preached upon parental love. His text was that

affecting ejaculation of David, "O Absalom, my son, my son!" He spoke of

the depth and fervor of that affection which in a parental heart will

remain unchanged and unabated, through years of sin, estrangement, and

rebellion. He spoke of that reckless insubordination which often sends

pang after pang through the parent's breast; and of wicked deeds which

sometimes bring their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. I heard stifled

sobs; and looking up, saw that the old man and woman at the right hand

of the pulpit had buried their faces in their hands. They were trembling

with agitation, and I saw that a fount of deep and painful remembrances

had now been opened. They soon regained their usual calmness, but I

thought their steps more slow, and their countenances more sorrowful

that day, when after our morning service had closed, they went to the

grave in the corner of the churchyard. There was no stone to mark it,

but their feet had been wearing, for many a Sabbath noon, the little

path which led to it.

I went that night to my mother, and asked her if she could not tell me

something about "the first bells." She chid me for the phrase by which I

was wont to designate them, but said that her knowledge of their former

life was very limited. Several years before, she added, a man was

murdered in hot blood in a distant town, by a person named John L. The

murderer was tried and hung; and not long after, this old man and woman

came and hired the little cottage upon Pine Hill. Their names were the

same that the murderer had borne, and their looks of sadness and

retiring manners had led to the conclusion that they were his parents.

No one knew, certainly, that it was so--for they shrunk from all

inquiries, and never adverted to the past; but a gentle and sad looking

girl, who had accompanied them to their new place of abode, had pined

away, and died within the first year of their arrival. She was their

daughter, and was supposed to have died of a broken heart for her

brother who had been hung. She was buried in the corner of the

churchyard, and every pleasant Sabbath noon her aged parents had mourned

together over her lowly grave.

"And now, my daughter," said my mother, in conclusion "respect their

years, their sorrows, and, above all, the deep fervent piety which

cheers and sustains them, and which has been nurtured by agonies, and

watered by tears, such as I hope my child will never know."

My mother drew me to her side, and kissed me tenderly; and I resolved

that never again would I in a spirit of levity call Mr. and Mrs. L. "the

first bells."

CHAPTER II.

Years passed on; and through summer's sunshine and its showers, and

through winter's cold and frost, and storms, that old couple still went

upon their never-failing Sabbath pilgrimage. I can see them even now, as

they looked in days long gone by. The old man, with his loose, black,

Quaker-like coat, and low-crowned, much-worn hat, his heavy cowhide

boots, and coarse blue mittens; and his partner walking slowly by his

side, wearing a scanty brown cloak with four little capes, and a close,

black, rusty-looking bonnet. In summer the cloak was exchanged for a

cotton shawl, and the woollen gown for one of mourning print. The

Sabbath expression was as unchangeable as its dress. Their features were

very different, but they had the same mild, mournful look, the same

touching glance, whenever their eyes rested upon each other; and it was

one which spoke of sympathy, hallowed by heartfelt piety.

At length a coffin was borne upon a bier from the little house upon the

hill; and after that the widow went alone each Sabbath noon to the two

graves in the corner of the churchyard. I felt sad when I thought how

lonely and sorrowful she must be now; and one pleasant day I ventured an

unbidden guest into her lowly cot. As I approached her door, I heard her

singing in a low, tremulous tone,

"How are thy servants blessed, O Lord."

I was touched to the heart; for I could see that her blessings were

those of a faith, hope, and joy, which the world could neither give nor

take away.

She was evidently destitute of what the world calls comforts, and I

feared she might also want its necessaries. But her look was almost

cheerful as she assured me that her knitting (at which I perceived she

was quite expeditious) supplied her with all which she now wanted.

I looked upon her sunburnt, wrinkled countenance, and thought it radiant

with moral beauty. She wore no cap, and her thin grey hair was combed

back from her furrowed brow. Her dress was a blue woollen skirt, and a

short loose gown; and her hard shrivelled hands bore witness to much

unfeminine labor. Yet she was contented, and even happy, and singing

praise to God for his blessings.

The next winter I thought I could perceive a faltering in her gait

whenever she ascended Church Hill; and one Sabbath she was not in her

accustomed seat. The next, she was also absent; and when I looked upon

Pine Hill, I could perceive no smoke issuing from her chimney. I felt

anxious, and requested liberty to make, what was then in our

neighborhood an unusual occurrence, a Sabbath visit. My mother granted

me permission to go, and remain as long as my services might be

necessary; and at the close of the afternoon worship, I went to the

little house upon the hill. I listened eagerly for some sound as I

entered the cold apartment; but hearing none, I tremblingly approached

the low hard bed. She was lying there with the same calm look of

resignation, and whispered a few words of welcome as I took her hand.

"You are sick and alone," said I to her; "tell me what I can do for

you."

"I am sick," was her reply, "but not _alone_. He who is every where, and

at all times present, has been with me, in the day and in the night. I

have prayed to him, and received answers of mercy, love, and peace. He

has sent His angel to call me home, and there is nought for you to do

but to watch the spirit's departure."

I felt that it was so; yet I must do something. I kindled a fire, and

prepared some refreshment; and after she drank a bowl of warm tea, I

thought she looked better. She asked me for her Bible, and I brought her

the worn volume which had been lying upon the little stand. She took

from it a soiled and much worn letter, and after pressing it to her

lips, endeavored to open it--but her hands were too weak, and it dropped

upon the bed. "No matter," said she, as I offered to open it for her; "I

know all that is in it, and in that book also. But I thought I should

like to look once more upon them both. I have read them daily for many

years till now; but I do not mind it--I shall go soon."

She followed me with her eyes as I laid them aside, and then closing

them, her lips moved as if in prayer. She soon after fell into a

slumber, and I watched her every breath, fearing it might be the last.

What lessons of wisdom, truth and fortitude were taught me by that

humble bed-side! I had never before been with the dying, and I had

always imagined a death-bed to be fraught with terror. I expected that

there were always fearful shrieks and appalling groans, as the soul left

its clay tenement; but my fears were now dispelled. A sweet calmness

stole into my inmost soul, as I watched by the low couch of the

sufferer; and I said, "If this be death, may my last end be like hers."

But at length I saw that some dark dream had brought a frown upon the

pallid brow, and an expression of woe around the parched lips. She was

endeavoring to speak or to weep, and I was about to awaken her, when a

sweet smile came like a flash of sunlight over her sunken face, and I

saw that the dream of woe was exchanged for one of pleasure. Then she

slept calmly, and I wondered if the spirit would go home in that

peaceful slumber. But at length she awoke, and after looking upon me and

her little room with a bewildered air, she heaved a sigh, and said

mournfully, "I thought that I was not to come back again, but it is only

for a little while. I have had a pleasant dream, but not at first. I

thought once that I stood in the midst of a vast multitude, and we were

all looking up at one who was struggling on a gallows. O, I have seen

that sight in many a dream before, but still I could not bear it, and I

said, 'Father, have mercy;' and then I thought that the sky rolled away

from behind the gallows, and there was a flood of glory in the depth

beyond; and I heard a voice saying to him who was hanging there, 'This

day shalt thou be with me in Paradise!' And then the gallows dropped,

and the multitude around me vanished, and the sky rolled together again;

but before it had quite closed over that scene of beauty, I looked

again, and _they were all there_. Yes," added she with a placid smile,

"I know that _he_ is there with them; the _three_ are in heaven, and _I_

shall be there soon."

She ceased, and a drowsy feeling came over her. After a while she opened

her eyes with a strange look of anxiety and terror. I went to her, but

she could not speak, and she pressed my hand closely, as though she

feared I would leave her. It was a momentary terror, for she knew that

the last pangs were coming on. There was a painful struggle, and then

came rest and peaceful confidence. "That letter," whispered she

convulsively; and I went to the Bible, and took from it the soiled paper

which claimed her thoughts even in death. I laid it in her trembling

hands, which clasped it nervously, and then pressing it to her heart,

she fell into that slumber from which there is no awakening.

When I saw that she was indeed gone, I took the letter, and laid it in

its accustomed place; and then, after straightening the limbs, and

throwing the bed-clothes over the stiffening form, I left the house.

It was a dazzling scene of winter beauty that met my eye as I went forth

from that lowly bed of death. The rising sun threw a rosy light upon the

crusted snow, and the earth was dressed in a robe of sparkling jewels.

The trees were hung with glittering drops, and the frozen streams were

dressed in lobes of brilliant beauty.

I thought of her upon whose eyes a brighter morn had beamed, and of a

scene of beauty upon which no sun should ever set, and whose

never-fading glories shall yield a happiness which may never pass away.

I went home, and told my mother what had passed; and she went, with some

others, to prepare the body for burial. I went to look upon it once

more, the morning of the funeral. The features had assumed a rigid

aspect, but the placid smile was still there. The hands were crossed

upon the breast; and as the form lay so still and calm in its snowy

robes, I almost wished that the last change might come upon me, so that

it would bring a peace like this, which should last for evermore.

I went to the Bible, and took from it that letter. Curiosity was strong

within me, and I opened it. It was signed "John L.," and dated from his

prison the night before his execution. But I did not read it. O no! it

was too sacred. It contained those words of penitence and affection over

which her stricken heart had brooded for years. It had been the

well-spring from which she had drunk joy and consolation, and derived

her hopes of a reunion where there should be no more shame, nor sorrow,

nor death.

I could not destroy that letter: so I laid it beneath the clasped hands,

over the heart to which it had been pressed when its beatings were

forever stilled; and they buried her, too, in the corner of the

churchyard; and that tattered paper soon mouldered to ashes upon her

breast. * * * *

We have now a bell upon our new meeting-house; and when I hear its

Sabbath morning peal, my thoughts are subdued to a tone fitting for

sacred worship; for my mind goes back to that old couple, whom I was

wont to call "the first bells;" and I think of the power of religion to

hallow and strengthen the affections, to elevate the mind, and sustain

the drooping spirit, even in the saddest and humblest lot of life.

SUSANNA.

[Illustration: Decoration]

EVENING BEFORE PAY-DAY.

CHAPTER I.

"To-morrow is pay-day; are you not glad, Rosina, and Lucy? _Dorcas_ is,

I know; for she always loves to see the money. Don't I speak truth

_now_, Miss Dorcas Tilton?"

"I wish you would stop your clack, Miss Noisy Impudence; for I never

heard you speak anything that was worth an answer. Let me alone, for I

have not yet been able to obtain a moment's time to read my tract."

"'My tract'--how came it 'my tract,' Miss Stingy Oldmaid?--for I can

call names as fast as you," was the reply of Elizabeth Walters. "Not

because you bought it, or paid for it, or gave a thank'ee to those who

did; but because you lay your clutches upon every thing you can get

without downright stealing."

"Well," replied Dorcas, "I do not think I have clutched any thing now

which was much coveted by anyone else."

"You are right, Dorcas," said Rosina Alden, lifting her mild blue eye

for the first time towards the speakers; "the tracts left here by the

monthly distributors are thrown about, and trampled under foot, even by

those who most approve the sentiments which they contain. I have not

seen anyone take them up to read but yourself."

"She likes them," interrupted the vivacious Elizabeth, "because she gets

them for nothing. They come to her as cheap as the light of the sun, or

the dews of heaven; and thus they are rendered quite as valuable in her

eyes."

"And that very cheapness, that freedom from exertion and expense by

which they are obtained, is, I believe, the reason why they are

generally so little valued," added Rosina. "People are apt to think

things worthless which come to them so easily. They believe them cheap,

if they are offered cheap. Now I think, without saying one word against

those tracts, that they would be more valued, more perused, and exert

far more influence, if they were only to be obtained by payment for

them. If they do good now, it is to the publishers only; for I do not

think the community in general is influenced by them in the slightest

degree. If Dorcas feels more interested in them because she procures

them gratuitously, it is because she is an exception to the general

rule."

"I like sometimes," said Dorcas, "to see the voice of instruction, of

warning, of encouragement, and reproof, coming to the thoughtless,

ignorant, poor and sinful, as it did from him who said to those whom he

sent to inculcate its truths, Freely ye have received, _freely give_.

The gospel is an expensive luxury now, and those only who can afford to

pay their four, or six, or more, dollars a year, can hear its truths

from the successors of him who lifted his voice upon the lonely

mountain, and opened his lips for council at the table of the despised

publican, or under the humble roof of the Magdalen."

"Do not speak harshly, Dorcas," was Rosina's reply; "times have indeed

changed since the Savior went about with not a shelter for his head,

dispensing the bread of life to all who would but reach forth their

hands and take it; but circumstances have also changed since then. It is

true, we must lay down our money for almost everything we have; but

money is much more easily obtained than it was then. It is true, we

cannot procure a year's seat in one of our most expensive churches for

less than your present week's wages; and if you really wish for the

benefits of regular gospel instruction, you must make for it as much of

an exertion as was made by the woman who went on her toilsome errand to

the deep well of Samaria, little aware that she was there to receive the

waters of eternal life. Do not say that it was by no effort, no

self-denial, that the gospel was received by those who followed the

great Teacher to the lonely sea-side, or even to the desert, where,

weary and famished, they remained day after day, beneath the heat of a

burning sun, and were relieved from hunger but by a miracle. And who so

poor now, or so utterly helpless, that they cannot easily obtain the

record of those words which fell so freely upon the ears of the

listening multitudes of Judea? If there are such, there are societies

which will cheerfully relieve their wants, if application be made. And

these tracts, which come to us with scarcely the trouble of stretching

forth our hands for their reception, are doubtless meant for good."

"Well, Rosina," exclaimed Elizabeth, "if you hold out a little longer, I

think Dorcas will have no reason to complain but that she gets _her_

preaching cheap enough; but as I, for one, am entirely willing to pay

for mine, you may be excused for the present; and those who wish to

hear a theological discussion, can go and listen to the very able

expounders of the Baptist and Universalist faiths, who are just now

holding forth in the other chamber. As Dorcas hears no preaching but

that which comes _as cheap as the light of the sun_, she will probably

like to go; and do not be offended with me, Rosina, if I tell you

plainly, that you are not the one to rebuke her. What sacrifice have you

made? How much have you spent? When have you ever given anything for the

support of the gospel?"

A tear started to Rosina's eye, and the color deepened upon her cheek.

Her lip quivered, but she remained silent.

"Well," said Lucy to Elizabeth, "all this difficulty is the effect of

the very simple question you asked; and I will answer for one, that I am

glad to-morrow is pay-day. Pray what shall you get that is new,

Elizabeth?"

"Oh, I shall get one of those damask silk shawls which are now so

fashionable. How splendid it will look! Let me see; this is a five

weeks' payment, and I have earned about two dollars per week; and so

have you, and Rosina; and Dorcas has earned a great deal more, for she

has extra work. Pray what new thing shall _you_ get, Dorcas?" added she,

laughing.

"She will get a new bank book, I suppose," replied Lucy. "She has

already deposited in her own name five hundred dollars, and now she has

got a book in the name of her little niece, and I do not know but she

will soon procure another. She almost worships them, and Sundays she

stays here reckoning up her interest while we are at meeting."

"I think it is far better," retorted Dorcas, "to stay at home, than to

go to meeting, as Elizabeth does, to show her fine clothes. I do not

make a mockery of public worship to God."

"There, Lizzy, you must take that, for you deserved it," said Lucy to

her friend. "You know you _do_ spend almost all your money in dress."

"Well," said Elizabeth, "I shall sow all my wild oats now, and when I am

an old maid I will be as steady, but _not quite_ so stingy as Dorcas. I

will get a bank book, and trot down Merrimack street as often as she

does, and everybody will say, 'what a remarkable change in Elizabeth

Walters! She used to spend all her wages as fast as they were paid her,

but now she puts them in the bank. She will be quite a fortune for some

one, and I have no doubt she will get married for what she _has_, if not

for what she is.' But I cannot begin now, and I don't see how _you_ can,

Rosina."

"I have not begun," replied Rosina, in a low sorrowful tone.

"Why yes, you have; you are as miserly now as Dorcas herself; and I

cannot bear to think of what you may become. Now tell me if you will not

get a new gown and bonnet, and go to meeting?"

"I cannot," replied Rosina, decidedly.

"Well, do, if you have any mercy on us, buy a new gown to wear in the

Mill, for your old one is so shabby. When calico is nine-pence a yard, I

do think it is mean to wear such an old thing as that; besides, I should

not wonder if it should soon drop off your back."

"Will it not last me one month more?" and Rosina began to mend the

tattered dress with a very wistful countenance.

"Why, I somewhat doubt it; but at all events, you must have another pair

of shoes."

"These are but just beginning to let in the water," said Rosina; "I

think they must last me till another pay-day."

"Well, if you have a fever or consumption, Dorcas may take care of you,

for _I_ will not; but what," continued the chattering Elizabeth, "shall

you buy that is new, Lucy?"

"Oh, a pretty new, though cheap, bonnet; and I shall also pay my

quarter's pew-rent, and a year's subscription to the 'Lowell Offering;'

and that is all that I shall spend. You have laughed much about old

maids; but it was an old maid who took care of me when I first came to

Lowell, and she taught me to lay aside half of every month's wages. It

is a rule from which I have never deviated, and thus I have quite a

pretty sum at interest, and have never been in want of anything."

"Well," said Elizabeth, "will you go out to-night with me, and we will

look at the bonnets, and also the damask silk shawls? I wish to know the

prices. How I wish to-day had been pay-day, and then I need not have

gone out with an empty purse."

"Well, Lizzy, _you_ know that 'to-morrow is pay-day,' do you not?"

"Oh yes, and the beautiful pay-master will come in, rattling his coppers

so nicely."

"Beautiful!" exclaimed Lucy; "do you call our pay-master _beautiful_?"

"Why, I do not know that he would look beautiful, if he was coming to

cut my head off; but really, that money-box makes him look

delightfully."

"Well, Lizzy, it _does_ make a great difference in his appearance, I

know; but if we are going out to-night, we must be in a hurry."

"If you go by the post-office, do ask if there is a letter for me," said

Rosina.

"Oh, I hate to go near the post-office in the evening; the girls act as

wild as so many Caribbee Indians. Sometimes I have to stand there an

hour on the ends of my toes, stretching my neck, and sticking out my

eyes; and when I think I have been pommeled and jostled long enough, I

begin to 'set up on my own hook,' and I push away the heads that have

been at the list as if they were committing it all to memory, and I send

my elbows right and left in the most approved style, till I find myself

'master of the field.'"

"Oh, Lizzy! you know better; how can you do so?"

"Why, Lucy, pray tell me what _you_ do?"

"I go away, if there is a crowd; or if I feel very anxious to know

whether there is a letter for me, the worst that I do is to try 'sliding

and gliding.' I dodge between folks, or slip through them, till I get

waited upon. But I know that we all act worse there than anywhere else;

and if the post-master speaks a good word for the factory girls, I think

it must come against his conscience, unless he has seen them somewhere

else than in the office."

"Well, well, we must hasten along," said Elizabeth; "and stingy as

Rosina is, I suppose she will be willing to pay for a letter; so I will

buy her one, if I can get it. Good evening, ladies," continued she,

tying her bonnet; and she hurried after Lucy, who was already down the

stairs, leaving Dorcas to read her tract at leisure, and Rosina to patch

her old calico gown, with none to torment her.

CHAPTER II.

"Two letters!" exclaimed Elizabeth, as she burst into the chamber,

holding them up, as little Goody in the storybook held up her "two

shoes;" "two letters! one for _you_, Rosina, and the other is for _me_.

Only look at it! It is from a cousin of mine, who has never lived out of

sight of the Green Mountains. I do believe, notwithstanding all that is

said about the ignorance of the factory girls, that the letters which

_go out_ of Lowell look as well as those which _come into_ it. See here:

up in the left hand corner, the direction commences, 'Miss;' one step

lower is 'Elizabeth;' then down another step, 'Walters.' Another step

brings us down to 'Lowell;' one more is the 'City;' and down in the

right hand corner is 'Massachusetts,' at full length. Quite a regular

stair-case, if the steps had been all of an equal width. Miss Elizabeth

Walters, Lowell City, Massachusetts, anticipates much edification from

the perusal thereof," said she, as she broke the seal.

"Oh, I must tell you an anecdote," said Lucy. "While we were waiting

there, I saw one girl push her face into the little aperture, and ask if

there was a paper for her; and the clerk asked if it was a transient

paper. 'A what?' said she. 'A transient paper,' he repeated. 'Why, I

don't know what paper it is,' was the reply; 'sometimes our folks send

me one, and sometimes another.'"

Dorcas and Elizabeth laughed, and the latter exclaimed, "Girls, I am not

so selfish as to be unwilling that you should share my felicity. Should

you not like to see my letter?" and she held it up before them. "It is

quite a contrast to our Rosina's delicate Italian penmanship, although

she is a factory girl."

"DEAR COUSIN.--I write this to let you know that I am well, and hope

you are enjoying the same great blessing. Father and Mother are well

too. Uncle Joshua is sick of the information of the brain. We think

he will die, but he says that he shall live his days out. We have

not had a letter from you since you went to Lowell. I send this by

Mary Twining, an old friend of mine. She works upon the Appletown

Corporation. She will put this in the post-office, because we do not

know where you work. I hope you will go and see her. We have had a

nice time making maple sugar this spring. I wish you had been with

us. When you are married, you must come with your husband. Write to

me soon, and if you don't have a chance to send it by private

conveyance, drop it into the post-office. I shall get it, for the

mail-stage passes through the village twice a week.

'I want to see you morn, I think,

Than I can write with pen and ink;

But when I shall, I cannot tell--

At present I must wish you well.'

"Your loving cousin,

"JUDITH WALTERS."

"Well," said Elizabeth, drawing a long breath, "I do not think my

_loving cousin_ will ever die of the 'information of the brain;' but if

it should get there, I do not know what might happen.--But, Rosina, from

whom is _your_ letter?"

"My mother," said Rosina; and she seated herself at the little

light-stand, with a sheet of paper, pen, and inkstand.

"Why, you do not intend to answer it to-night?"

"I must commence it to-night," replied Rosina, "and finish it to-morrow

night, and carry it to the post-office. I cannot write a whole letter in

one evening."

"Why, what is the matter?" said Dorcas.

"My twin-sister is very sick," replied Rosina; and the tears she could

no longer restrain gushing freely forth. The girls, who had before been

in high spirits, over cousin Judy's letter, were subdued in an instant.

Oh, how quick is the influence of sympathy for grief! Not another word

was spoken. The letter was put away in silence, and the girls glided

noiselessly around the room, as they prepared to retire to rest.

Shall we take a peep at Rosina's letter? It may remove some false

impressions respecting her character, and many are probably suffering

injustice from erroneous opinions, when, if all could be known, the very

conduct which has exposed them to censure would excite approbation. Her

widowed mother's letter was the following:--

"MY DEAR CHILD.--Many thanks for your last letter, and many more for

the present it contained. It was very acceptable, for it reached me

when I had not a cent in the world. I fear you deprive yourself of

necessaries to send me so much. But all you can easily spare will be

gladly received. I have as much employment at tailoring as I can

find time to do, and sometimes I sit up all night, when I cannot

accomplish my self-allotted task during the day.

"I have delayed my reply to your letter, because I wished to know

what the doctors really thought of your sister Marcia. They

consulted to-day, and tell me _there is no hope_. The suspense is

now over, but I thought I was better prepared for the worst than I

am. She wished me to tell her what the doctors said. At length I

yielded to her importunities. 'Oh, mother,' said she, with a sweet

smile, 'I am so glad they have told you, for I have known it for a

long time. You must write to Rosina to come and see me before I

die.' Do as you think best, my dear, about coming. You know how glad

we would be to see you. But if you cannot come, do not grieve too

much about it.--Marcia must soon die, and you, I hope, will live

many years; but the existence which you commenced together here, I

feel assured will be continued in a happier world. The interruption

which will now take place will be short, in comparison with the life

itself which shall have no end. And yet it is hard to think that one

so young, so good, and lovely, is so soon to lie in the silent

grave. While the blue skies of heaven are daily growing more softly

beautiful, and the green things of earth are hourly putting forth a

brighter verdure, she, too, like the lovely creatures of nature, is

constantly acquiring some new charm, to fit her for that world which

she will so soon inhabit. Death is coming, with his severest

tortures, but she arrays her person in bright loveliness at his

approach, and her spirit is robed in graces which well may fit her

for that angel-band, which she is so soon to join.

"I am now writing by her bed-side. She is sleeping soundly now, but

there is a heavy dew upon the cheek, brow, and neck of the tranquil

sleeper. A rose--it is one of _your_ roses, Rosina--is clasped in

her transparent hand: and one rosy pedal has somehow dropped upon

her temple. It breaks the line which the blue vein has so distinctly

traced on the clear white brow. I will take it away, and enclose it

in the letter. When you see it, perhaps it will bring more vividly

to memory the days when you and Marcia frolicked together among the

wild rose bushes.--Those which you transplanted to the front of the

house have grown astonishingly. Marcia took care of them as long as

she could go out of doors; for she wished to do something to show

her gratitude to you. Now that she can go among them no longer, she

watches them through the window, and the little boys bring her

every morning the most beautiful blossoms. She enjoys their beauty

and fragrance, as she does everything which is reserved for her

enjoyment. There is but one thought which casts a shade upon that

tranquil spirit, and it is that she is such a helpless burden upon

us. The last time that she received a compensation for some slight

article which she had exerted herself to complete, she took the

money and sent Willy for some salt. 'Now, mother,' said she, with

the arch smile which so often illuminated her countenance in the

days of health, 'Now, mother you cannot say that I do not earn my

salt.'

"But I must soon close, for in a short time she will awaken, and

suffer for hours from her agonizing cough.--No one need tell me now

that a consumption makes an easy path to the grave. I watched too

long by your father's bed-side, and have witnessed too minutely all

of Marcia's sufferings to be persuaded of this.

"But she breathes less softly now, and I must hasten. I have said

little of the other members of the family, for I knew you would like

to hear particularly about her. The little boys are well--they are

obedient to me, and kind to their sister. Answer as soon as you

receive this, for Marcia's sake, unless you come and visit us.

"And now, hoping that this will find you in good health, as, by the

blessing of God, it leaves me, (a good though an old-fashioned

manner of closing a letter,) I remain as ever,

"Your affectionate mother."

Rosina's reply was as follows:--

"DEAR MOTHER.--I have just received your long-expected letter, and

have seated myself to commence an answer, for I cannot go home.

"I do wish very much to see you all, especially dear Marcia, once

more; but it is not best. I know you think so, or you would have

urged my return. I think I shall feel more contented here, earning

comforts for my sick sister and necessaries for you, than I should

be there, and unable to relieve a want. 'To-morrow is pay-day,' and

my earnings, amounting to ten dollars, I shall enclose in this

letter. Do not think I am suffering for anything, for I get a long

very well. But I am obliged to be extremely prudent, and the girls

here call me miserly. Oh, mother! it is hard to be so misunderstood;

but I cannot tell _them_ all.

"But your kind letters are indeed a solace to me, for they assure me

that the mother whom I have always loved and reverenced approves of

my conduct. I shall feel happier to-morrow night, when I enclose

that bill to you, than my room-mates can be in the far different

disposal of theirs.

"What a blessing it is that we can send money to our friends; and

indeed what a blessing that we can send them a letter. Last evening

you was penning the lines which I have just perused, in my

far-distant home; and not twenty-four hours have elapsed since the

rose-leaf before me was resting on the brow of my sister; but it is

now ten o'clock, and I must bid you good night, reserving for

to-morrow evening the remainder of my epistle, which I shall address

to Marcia."

It was long before Rosina slept that night; and when she did, she was

troubled at first by fearful dreams. But at length it seemed to her that

she was approaching the quiet home of her childhood. She did not

remember where she had been, but had a vague impression that it was in

some scene of anxiety, sorrow, and fatigue; and she was longing to reach

that little cot, where it appeared so still and happy. She thought the

sky was very clear above it, and the yellow sunshine lay softly on the

hills and fields around it. She saw her rose-bushes blooming around it,

like a little wilderness of blossoms; and while she was admiring their

increased size and beauty, the door was opened, and a body arrayed in

the snowy robes of the grave, was carried beneath the rose-bushes. They

bent to a slight breeze which swept above them, and a shower of snowy

petals fell upon the marble face and shrouded form. It was as if nature

had paid this last tribute of gratitude to one who had been one of her

truest and loveliest votaries.

Rosina started forward that she might remove the fragrant covering, and

imprint one last kiss upon the fair cold brow; but a hand was laid upon

her, and a well-known voice repeated her name. And then she started, for

she heard the bell ring loudly; and she opened her eyes as Dorcas again

cried out, "Rosina, the second bell is ringing."--Elizabeth and Lucy

were already dressed, and they exclaimed at the same moment, "Remember,

Rosina, that _to-day is pay-day_."

LUCINDA.

THE INDIAN PLEDGE.

On the door-steps of a cottage in the land of "steady habits," some

ninety or an hundred years since, might, on a soft evening in June, have

been seen a sturdy young farmer, preparing his scythes for the coming

hay-making season. So intent was he upon his work that he heeded not the

approach of a tall Indian, accoutred for a hunting expedition, until,

"Will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper and lodging for the

night?" in a tone of supplication, caught his ear.

The farmer raised his eyes from his work, and darting fury from beneath

a pair of shaggy eyebrows, he exclaimed, "Heathen, Indian dog, begone!

you shall have nothing here."

"But I am very hungry," said the Indian; "give only a crust of bread and

a bone to strengthen me on my journey."

"Get you gone, you heathen dog," said the farmer; "I have nothing for

you."

"Give me but a cup of cold water," said the Indian, "for I am very

faint."

This appeal was not more successful than the others.--Reiterated abuse,

and to be told to drink when he came to a river, was all he could obtain

from one who bore the name of Christian! But the supplicating appeal

fell not unheeded on the ear of one of finer mould and more sensibility.

The farmer's youthful bride heard the whole, as she sat hushing her

infant to rest; and from the open casement she watched the poor Indian

until she saw his dusky form sink, apparently exhausted, on the ground

at no great distance from her dwelling. Ascertaining that her husband

was too busied with his work to notice her, she was soon at the Indian's

side, with a pitcher of milk and a napkin filled with bread and cheese.

"Will my red brother slake his thirst with some milk?" said this angel

of mercy; and as he essayed to comply with her invitation, she untied

the napkin, and bade him eat and be refreshed.

"Cantantowwit protect the white dove from the pounces of the eagle,"

said the Indian; "for _her_ sake the unfledged young shall be safe in

their nest, and her red brother will not seek to be revenged."

He then drew a bunch of feathers from his bosom, and plucking one of

the longest, gave it to her, and said, "When the white dove's mate

flies over the Indians' hunting grounds, bid him wear this on his

head." * * * *

The summer had passed away. Harvest-time had come and gone, and

preparations had been made for a hunting excursion by the neighbors. Our

young farmer was to be one of the party; but on the eve of their

departure he had strange misgivings relative to his safety. No doubt his

imagination was haunted by the form of the Indian, whom, in the

preceding summer he had treated so harshly.

The morning that witnessed the departure of the hunters was one of

surpassing beauty. Not a cloud was to be seen, save one that gathered on

the brow of Ichabod (our young farmer), as he attempted to tear a

feather from his hunting-cap, which was sewed fast to it. His wife

arrested his hand, while she whispered in his ear, and a slight quiver

agitated his lips as he said, "Well, Mary, if you think this feather

will protect me from the arrows of the red-skins, I'll e'en let it

remain." Ichabod donned his cap, shouldered his rifle, and the hunters

were soon on their way in quest of game.

The day wore away as was usual with people on a like excursion; and at

nightfall they took shelter in the den of a bear, whose flesh served for

supper, and whose skin spread on bruin's bed of leaves, pillowed their

heads through a long November night.

With the first dawn of morning, the hunters left their rude shelter and

resumed their chase. Ichabod, by some mishap, soon separated from his

companions, and in trying to join them got bewildered. He wandered all

day in the forest, and just as the sun was receding from sight, and he

was about sinking down in despair, he espied an Indian hut. With mingled

emotions of hope and fear, he bent his steps towards it; and meeting an

Indian at the door, he asked him to direct him to the nearest white

settlement.

"If the weary hunter will rest till morning, the eagle will show him the

way to the nest of his white dove," said the Indian, as he took Ichabod

by the hand and led him within his hut. The Indian gave him a supper of

parched corn and venison, and spread the skins of animals, which he had

taken in hunting, for his bed.