Speedily she prepared to leave a place which she really loved; "for,"

said she, "have I not been blessed with health and strength to perform a

great and noble work in this place?"

Ay, undoubtedly thou hast performed a blessed work; and now, go forth,

and in the heartfelt satisfaction that thou hast performed thy duty,

reap the rich reward of all thy labors.

Samuel Jones and his mother have departed for the scene of their future

labors, with their hearts filled with gratitude to God, and an humble

desire to be of service in winning many souls to the flock of our Savior

and Lord.

ORIANNA.

WITCHCRAFT.

It may not, perhaps, be generally known that a belief in witchcraft

still prevails, to a great extent, in some parts of New England. Whether

this is owing to the effect of early impressions on the mind, or to some

defect in the physical organization of the human system, is not for me

to say; my present purpose being only to relate, in as concise a manner

as may be, some few things which have transpired within a quarter of a

century; all of which happened in the immediate neighborhood of my early

home, and among people with whom I was well acquainted.

My only apology for so doing is, that I feel desirous to transmit to

posterity, something which may give them an idea of the superstition of

the present age--hoping that when they look back upon its dark page,

they will feel a spirit of thankfulness that they live in more

enlightened times, and continue the work of mental illumination, till

the mists of error entirely vanish before the light of all-conquering

truth.

In a little glen between the mountains, in the township of B., stands a

cottage, which, almost from time immemorial, has been noted as the

residence of some one of those ill-fated beings, who are said to take

delight in sending their spirits abroad to torment the children of men.

These beings, it is said, purchase their art of his satanic majesty--the

price, their immortal souls, and when Satan calls for his due, the

mantle of the witch is transferred to another mortal, who, for the sake

of exercising the art for a brief space of time, makes over the soul to

perdition.

The mother of the present occupant of this cottage lived to a very

advanced age; and for a long series of years, all the mishaps within

many miles were laid to her spiritual agency; and many were the

expedients resorted to to rid the neighborhood of so great a pest. But

the old woman, spite of all exertions to the contrary, lived on, till

she died of sheer old age.

It was some little time before it was ascertained who inherited her

mantle; but at length it was believed to be a fact that her daughter

Molly was duly authorized to exercise all the prerogatives of a witch;

and so firmly was this belief established, that it even gained credence

with her youngest brother; and after she was married, and had removed to

a distant part of the country, a calf of his, that had some strange

actions, was pronounced by the _knowing ones_, to be bewitched; and this

inhuman monster chained his calf in the fire place of his cooper-shop,

and burned it to death--hoping thereby to kill his sister, whose spirit

was supposed to be in the body of the calf.

For several years it went current that Molly fell into the fire, and was

burned to death, at the same time in which the calf was burned. But she

at length refuted this, by making her brother a visit, and spending some

little time in the neighborhood.

Some nineteen or twenty years since, two men, with whom I was well

acquainted, had an action pending in the Superior Court, and it was

supposed that the testimony of the widow Goodwin in favor of the

plaintiff, would bear hard upon the defendant. A short time previous to

the sitting of the court, a man by the name of James Doe, offered

himself as an evidence for the defendant to destroy the testimony of the

widow Goodwin, by defaming her character. Doe said that he was willing

to testify that the widow Goodwin was a witch--he knew it to be a fact;

for, once on a time she came to his bed-side, and flung a bridle over

his head, and he was instantly metamorphosed into a horse. The widow

then mounted and rode him nearly forty miles; she stopped at a tavern,

which he named, dismounted, tied him to the sign-post and left him.

After an absence of several hours, she returned, mounted, and rode him

home; and at the bed-side took off the bridle, when he resumed his

natural form.

No one acquainted with Doe thought that he meant to deviate from the

truth. Those naturally superstitious thought that the widow Goodwin was

in reality a witch; but the more enlightened believed that their

neighbor Doe was under the influence of spirituous liquor when he went

to bed; and that whatever might be the scene presented to his

imagination, it was owing to false vision, occasioned by derangement in

his upper story; and they really felt a sympathy for him, knowing that

he belonged to a family who were subject to mental aberration.

A scene which I witnessed in part, in the autumn of 1822, shall close my

chapter on witchcraft. It was between the hours of nine and ten in the

morning, that a stout-built, ruddy-faced man confined one of his cows,

by means of bows and iron chains, to an apple-tree and then beat her

till she dropped dead--saying that the cow was bewitched, and that he

was determined to kill the witch. His mother, and some of the neighbors

witnessed this cruel act without opposing him, so infatuated were they

with a belief in witchcraft.

I might enlarge upon this scene, but the recollection of what then took

place recalls so many disagreeable sensations, that I forbear. Let it

suffice to state that the cow was suffering in consequence of having

eaten a large quantity of potatoes from a heap that was exposed in the

field where she was grazing.

TABITHA.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CLEANING UP.

There is something to me very interesting in observing the

manifestations of animal instinct--that unerring prompter which guides

its willing disciple into the ever straight path, and shows him, with

unfailing sagacity, the easiest and most correct method of accomplishing

each necessary design.

But to enter here, upon a philosophical dissertation, respecting the

nature and developments of instinct, is not my design, and I will now

detain you with but one or two instances of it, which have fallen under

my own observation.

One warm day in the early spring, I observed a spider, very busily

engaged upon a dirty old web, which had for a long time, curtained a

pane of my factory window. Where Madame Arachne had kept herself during

the winter, was not in my power to ascertain; but she was in a very good

condition, plump, spry, and full of energy. The activity of her

movements awakened my curiosity, and I watched with much interest the

commotion in the old dwelling, or rather slaughter house, for I doubted

not that many a green head and blue bottle had there met an untimely

end.

I soon found that madam was very laboriously engaged in that very

necessary part of household exercises, called, CLEANING UP; and she had

chosen precisely the season for her labors which all good housewives

have by common consent appropriated to paint-cleaning, white-washing,

&c. With much labor, and a prodigal expenditure of steps, she removed,

one by one, the tiny bits of dirt, sand &c., &c., which had accumulated

in this net during the winter; but it was not done, as I at first

thought, by pushing and poking, and thrusting the intruders out, but by

gradually destroying their _location_, as a western emigrant would

say.--Whether this was done, as I at one time imagined, by devouring the

fibre as she passed over it, or by winding it around some under part of

her body, or whether she left it at the centre of the web, to which

point she invariably returned after every peregrination to the

outskirts, I could not satisfy myself. It was to me a cause of great

marvel, and awakened my perceptive as well as reflective faculties from

a long winter nap.

To the first theory there was no objection, excepting that I had never

heard of its being done; but then it might be so, and in this case I had

discovered what had escaped the observation of all preceding

naturalists. To the second there was this objection, that when I

occasionally caught a front view of "my lady," she showed no distaff,

upon which she might have re-wound her unravelled thread. The third

suggestion was also objectionable, because, though the centre looked

somewhat thicker, or I surmised that it did, yet it was not so much so

as it must have been, had it been the depot of the whole concern.

Of one thing I was at length assured--that there was to be an entire

demolition of the whole fabric, with the exception of the main beams,

(or sleepers, I think is the technical term,) which remained as usual,

when all else had been removed. Then I went away for the night, and when

I returned the next morning, expecting to behold a blank--a void, an

evacuation of premises--a removal--a disappearance--a destruction most

complete, without even a wreck left behind--lo! there was again the

rebuilt mansion--the restored fabric, the reversed Penelopian labor: and

madam was rejoicing like the patient man of Uz, when more than he had

lost was restored to him.

My feelings, (for I have a large bump of sympathy) were of that

pleasurable kind which Jack must have experienced, when he saw the

castle, which in a single night had established itself on the top of his

bean-pole; or which enlivened the bosom of Aladdin, when he saw the

beautiful palace, which in a night had travelled from the genii's

dominions to the waste field, which it then beautified; and I felt truly

rejoiced that my industrious neighbor's works of darkness were not

always deeds of evil. But alack for the poor _spinster_, when it came

_my_ turn to be _cleaning up_!

[Illustration: Decoration]

VISITS TO THE SHAKERS.

A FIRST VISIT.

Sometime in the summer of 18--, I paid a visit to one of the Shaker

villages in the State of New York. Previously to this, many times and

oft had I (when tired of the noise and contention of the world, its

erroneous opinions, and its wrong practices) longed for some retreat,

where, with a few chosen friends, I could enjoy the present, forget the

past, and be free from all anxiety respecting any future portion of

time. And often had I pictured, in imagination, a state of happy

society, where one common interest prevailed--where kindness and

brotherly love were manifested in all of the every-day affairs of

life--where liberty and equality would live, not in name, but in very

deed--where idleness, in no shape whatever, would be tolerated--and

where vice of every description would be banished, and neatness, with

order, would be manifested in all things.

Actually to witness such a state of society was a happiness which I

never expected. I thought it to be only a thing among the airy castles

which it has ever been my delight to build. But with this unostentatious

and truly kind-hearted people, the Shakers, I found it; and the reality,

in beauty and harmony, exceeded even the picturings of imagination.

No unprejudiced mind could, for a single moment, resist the conviction

that this singular people, with regard to their worldly possessions,

lived in strict conformity to the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. There

were men in this society who had added to the common stock thousands and

tens of thousands of dollars; they nevertheless labored, dressed, and

esteemed themselves as no better, and fared in all respects like those

who had never owned, neither added to the society, any worldly goods

whatever. The cheerfulness with which they bore one another's burdens

made even the temporal calamities, so unavoidable among the inhabitants

of the earth, to be felt but lightly.

This society numbered something like six hundred persons, who in many

respects were differently educated, and who were of course in

possession of a variety of prejudices, and were of contrary dispositions

and habits. Conversing with one of their elders respecting them, he

said, "You may say that these were rude materials of which to compose a

church, and speak truly: but here (though strange it may seem) they are

worked into a building, with no sound of axe or hammer. And however

discordant they were in a state of nature, the square and the plumb-line

have been applied to them, and they now admirably fit the places which

they were designed to fill. Here the idle become industrious, the

prodigal contracts habits of frugality, the parsimonious become generous

and liberal, the intemperate quit the tavern and the grog-shop, the

debauchee forsakes the haunts of dissipation and infamy, the swearer

leaves off the habits of profanity, the liar is changed into a person of

truth, the thief becomes an honest man, and the sloven becomes neat and

clean."

The whole deportment of this truly singular people, together with the

order and neatness which I witnessed in their houses, shops, and

gardens, to all of which I had free access for the five days which I

remained with them, together with the conversations which I held with

many of the people of both sexes, confirmed the words of the

Elder.--Truly, thought I, there is not another spot in the wide earth

where I could be so happy as I could be here, provided the religious

faith and devotional exercises of the Shakers were agreeable to my own

views. Although I could not see the utility of their manner of worship,

I felt not at all disposed to question that it answered the end for

which spiritual worship was designed, and as such is accepted by our

heavenly Father. That the Shakers have a love for the Gospel exceeding

that which is exhibited by professing Christians in general, cannot be

doubted by any one who is acquainted with them. For on no other

principle could large families, to the number of fifty or sixty, live

together like brethren and sisters. And a number of these families could

not, on any other principles save those of the Gospel, form a society,

and live in peace and harmony, bound together by no other bond than that

of brotherly love, and take of each other's property, from day to day

and from year to year, using it indiscriminately, as every one hath

need, each willing that his brother should use his property, as he uses

it himself, and all this without an equivalent.

Many think that a united interest in all things temporal is contrary to

reason. But in what other light, save that of common and united

interest, could the words of Christ's prophecy or promise be fulfilled?

According to the testimony of Mark, Christ said, "There is no man who

hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife,

or children, or lands, for my sake and the Gospel's, but he shall

receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and

sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions, and in

the world to come eternal life." Not only in fact, but in theory, is an

hundredfold of private interest out of the question. For a believer who

forsook all things could not possess an hundredfold of all things only

on the principle in which he could possess _all that_ which his brethren

possessed, while they also possessed the same in an united capacity.

In whatever light it may appear to others, to me it appears beautiful

indeed, to see a just and an impartial equality reign, so that the rich

and the poor may share an equal privilege, and have all their wants

supplied. That the Shakers are in reality what they profess to be, I

doubt not. Neither do I doubt that many, very many lessons of wisdom

might be learned of them, by those who profess to be wiser. And to all

who wish to know if "any good thing can come out of Nazareth," I would

say, you had better "go and see."

A SECOND VISIT.

I was so well pleased with the appearance of the Shakers, and the

prospect of quietness and happiness among them, that I visited them a

second time. I went with a determination to ascertain as much as I

possibly could of their forms and customs of worship, the every-day

duties devolving on the members, &c.; and having enjoyed excellent

opportunities for acquiring the desired information, I wish to present a

brief account of what "I verily do know" in relation to several

particulars.

First of all, justice will not permit me to retract a word in relation

to the industry, neatness, order, and general good behavior, in the

Shaker settlement which I visited. In these respects, that singular

people are worthy of all commendation--yea, they set an example for the

imitation of Christians everywhere. Justice requires me to say, also,

that their hospitality is proverbial, and deservedly so. They received

and entertained me kindly, and (hoping perhaps that I might be induced

to join them) they extended extra-civilities to me. I have occasion to

modify the expression of my gratitude in only one particular--and that

is, one of the female elders made statements to me concerning the

requisite confessions to be made, and the forms of admission to their

society, which statements she afterwards denied, under circumstances

that rendered her denial a most aggravated insult. Declining farther

notice of this matter, because of the indelicacy of the confessions

alluded to, I pass to notice,

1st. The domestic arrangements of the Shakers. However strange the

remark may seem, it is nevertheless true, that our factory population

work fewer hours out of every twenty-four than are required by the

Shakers, whose bell to call them from their slumbers, and also to warn

them that it is time to commence the labors of the day, rings much

earlier than our factory bells; and its calls were obeyed, in the family

where I was entertained, with more punctuality than I ever knew the

greatest "workey" among my numerous acquaintances (during the fourteen

years in which I have been employed in different manufacturing

establishments) to obey the calls of the factory-bell. And not until

nine o'clock in the evening were the labors of the day closed, and the

people assembled at their religious meetings.

Whoever joins the Shakers with the expectation of relaxation from toil,

will be greatly mistaken, since they deem it an indispensable duty to

have every moment of time profitably employed. The little portions of

leisure which the females have, are spent in knitting--each one having a

basket of knitting-work for a constant companion.

Their habits of order are, in many things, carried to the extreme. The

first bell for their meals rings for all to repair to their chambers,

from which, at the ringing of the second bell, they descend to the

eating-room. Here, all take their appropriate places at the tables, and

after locking their hands on their breasts, they drop on their knees,

close their eyes, and remain in this position about two minutes. Then

they rise, seat themselves, and with all expedition swallow their food;

then rise on their feet, again lock their hands, drop on their knees,

close their eyes, and in about two minutes rise and retire. Their meals

are taken in silence, conversation being prohibited.

Those whose chambers are in the fourth story of one building, and whose

work-shops are in the third story of another building, have a daily task

in climbing stairs which is more oppressive than any of the rules of a

manufacturing establishment.

2d. With all deference, I beg leave to introduce some of the religious

views and ceremonies of the Shakers.

From the conversation of the elders, I learned that they considered it

doing God service to sever the sacred ties of husband and wife, parent

and child--the relationship existing between them being contrary to

their religious views--views which they believe were revealed from

heaven to "Mother Ann Lee," the founder of their sect, and through whom

they profess to have frequent revelations from the spiritual world.

These communications, they say, are often written on gold leaves, and

sent down from heaven to instruct the poor simple Shakers in some new

duty. They are copied, and perused, and preserved with great care. I one

day heard quite a number of them read from a book, in which they were

recorded, and the names of several of the brethren and sisters to whom

they were given by the angels, were told me. One written on a gold leaf,

was (as I was told) presented to Proctor Sampson by an angel, so late as

the summer of 1841. These "revelations" are written partly in English,

and partly in some unintelligible jargon, or unknown tongue, having a

spiritual meaning, which can be understood only by those who possess the

spirit in an eminent degree. They consist principally of songs, which

they sing at their devotional meetings, and which are accompanied with

dancing, and many unbecoming gestures and noises.

Often in the midst of a religious march, all stop, and with all their

might set to stamping with both feet. And it is no uncommon thing for

many of the worshipping assembly to crow like a parcel of young

chanticleers, while others imitate the barking of dogs; and many of the

young women set to whirling round and round--while the old men shake and

clap their hands; the whole making a scene of noise and confusion which

can be better imagined than described. The elders seriously told me

that these things were the outward manifestations of the spirit of God.

Apart from their religious meetings, the Shakers have what they call

"union meetings." These are for social converse, and for the purpose of

making the people acquainted with each other. During the day, the elders

tell who may visit such and such chambers. A few minutes past nine, work

is laid aside; the females change, or adjust, as best suits their fancy,

their caps, handkerchiefs, and pinners, with a precision which indicates

that they are not _altogether_ free from vanity. The chairs, perhaps to

the number of a dozen, are set in two rows, in such a manner that those

who occupy them may face each other. At the ringing of a bell each one

goes to the chamber where either he or she has been directed by the

elders, or remains at home to receive company, as the case may be. They

enter the chambers _sans cérémonie_, and seat themselves--the men

occupying one row of chairs, the women the other. Here, with their clean

checked home-made pocket-handkerchiefs spread in their laps, and their

spit-boxes standing in a row between them, they converse about raising

sheep and kine, herbs and vegetables, building walls and raising corn,

heating the oven and paring apples, killing rats and gathering nuts,

spinning tow and weaving sieves, making preserves and mending the

brethren's clothes,--in short, every thing they do will afford some

little conversation. But beyond their own little world they do not

appear to extend scarcely a thought. And why should they? Having so few

sources of information, they know not what is passing beyond them. They

however make the most of their own affairs, and seem to regret that they

can converse no longer, when, after sitting together from half to

three-quarters of an hour, the bell warns them that it is time to

separate, which they do by rising up, locking their hands across their

breasts, and bowing. Each one then goes silently to his own chamber.

It will readily be perceived, that they have no access to libraries, no

books, excepting school-books, and a few relating to their own

particular views; no periodicals, and attend no lectures, debates,

Lyceums, &c. They have none of the many privileges of manufacturing

districts--consequently their information is so very limited, that their

conversation is, as a thing in course, quite insipid. The manner of

their life seems to be a check to the march of mind and a desire for

improvement; and while the moral and perceptive faculties are tolerably

developed, the intellectual, with a very few exceptions, seem to be

below the average.

I have considered it my duty to make the foregoing statement of facts,

lest the glowing description of the Shakers, given in the story of my

first visit, might have a wrong influence. I then judged by outward

appearances only--having a very imperfect knowledge of the true state of

the case. Nevertheless, the _facts_ as I saw them in my first visit, are

still facts; my error is to be sought only in my inferences. Having

since had greater opportunities for observation, I am enabled to judge

more righteous judgment.

C. B.

THE LOCK OF GRAY HAIR.

Touching and simple memento of departed worth and affection! how

mournfully sweet are the recollections thou awakenest in the heart, as I

gaze upon thee--shorn after death had stamped her loved features with

the changeless hue of the grave. How vividly memory recalls the time

when, in childish sportiveness and affection, I arranged this little

tress upon the venerable forehead of my grandmother! Though Time had

left his impress there, a majestic beauty yet rested upon thy brow; for

age had no power to quench the light of benevolence that beamed from

thine eye, nor wither the smile of goodness that animated thy features.

Again do I seem to listen to the mild voice, whose accents had ever

power to subdue the waywardness of my spirit, and hush to calmness the

wild and turbulent passions of my nature.--Though ten summers have made

the grass green upon thy grave, and the white rose burst in beauty above

thine honored head, thy name is yet green in our memory, and thy virtues

have left a deathless fragrance in the hearts of thy children.

Though she of whom I tell claimed not kindred with the "high-born of

earth"--though the proud descent of titled ancestry marked not her

name--yet the purity of her spotless character, the practical usefulness

of her life, her firm adherence to duty, her high and holy submission to

the will of Heaven, in every conflict, shed a radiance more resplendent

than the glittering coronet's hues, more enduring than the wreath that

encircles the head of genius. It was no lordly dome of other climes, nor

yet of our far-off sunny south, that called her mistress; but among the

granite hills of New Hampshire (my own father-land) was her humble home.

Well do I remember the morning when she related to me (a sportive girl

of thirteen) the events of her early days.--At her request, I was her

companion during her accustomed morning walk about her own homestead.

During our ramble, she suddenly stopped, and looked intently down upon

the green earth, leaving me in silent wonder at what could so strongly

rivet her attention. At length she raised her eyes, and pointing to an

ancient hollow in the earth, nearly concealed by rank herbage, she said,

"that spot is the dearest to me on earth." I looked around, then into

her face for an explanation, seeing nothing unusually attractive about

the place. But ah! how many cherished memories came up at that moment!

The tear of fond recollection stood in her eye as she spoke:--"On this

spot I passed the brightest hours of my existence." To my eager inquiry,

Did you not always live in the large white house yonder? She replied,

"No, my child. Fifty years ago, upon this spot stood a rude dwelling,

composed of logs. Here I passed the early days of my marriage, and here

my noble first-born drew his first breath." In answer to my earnest

entreaty to tell me all about it, she seated herself upon the large

broad stone which had been her ancient hearth, and commenced her story.

"It was a bright midsummer eve when your grandfather, whom you never

saw, brought me here, his chosen and happy bride. On that morning had we

plighted our faith at the altar--that morning, with all the feelings

natural to a girl of eighteen, I bade adieu to the home of my childhood,

and with a fond mother's last kiss yet warm upon my cheek, commenced my

journey with my husband towards his new home in the wilderness. Slowly

on horseback we proceeded on our way, through the green forest path,

whose deep winding course was directed by incisions upon the trees left

by the axe of the sturdy woodsman. Yet no modern bride, in her splendid

coach, decked in satin, orange-flowers, and lace--on the way to her

stately city mansion, ever felt her heart beat higher than did my own on

that day. For as I looked upon the manly form of him beside me, as with

careful hand he guided my bridal rein--or met the fond glance of his

full dark eye, I felt that his was a changeless love.

"Thus we pursued our lonely way through the lengthening forest, where

Nature reigned almost in her primitive wildness and beauty. Now and then

a cultivated patch, with a newly-erected cottage, where sat the young

mother, hushing with her low wild song the babe upon her bosom, with the

crash of the distant falling trees, proclaimed it the home of the

emigrant.

"Twilight had thrown her soft shade over the earth: the bending foliage

assumed a deeper hue; the wild wood bird singing her last note, as we

emerged from the forest to a spot termed by the early settlers 'a

clearing.' It was an enclosure of a few acres, where the preceding year

had stood in its pride the stately forest-tree. In the centre,

surrounded by tall stalks of Indian corn, waving their silken tassels in

the night-breeze, stood the lowly cot which was to be my future home.

Beneath yon aged oak, which has been spared to tell of the past, we

dismounted from our horses, and entered our rude dwelling. All was

silent within and without, save the low whisper of the wind as it swept

through the forest. But blessed with youth, health, love, and hope, what

had we to fear? Not that the privations and hardships incident to the

early emigrant were unknown to us--but we heeded them not.

"The early dawn and dewy eve saw us unremitting in our toil, and Heaven

crowned our labors with blessings. 'The wilderness began to blossom as

the rose,' and our barns were filled with plenty.

"But there was coming a time big with the fate of these then infant

colonies. The murmur of discontent, long since heard in our large

commercial ports, grew longer and louder, beneath repeated acts of

British oppression. We knew the portentous cloud every day grew darker.

In those days our means of intelligence were limited to the casual

visitation of some traveller from abroad to our wilderness.

"But uncertain and doubtful as was its nature, it was enough to rouse

the spirit of patriotism in many a manly heart; and while the note of

preparation loudly rang in the bustling thoroughfares, its tones were

not unheard among these granite rocks. The trusty firelock was

remounted, and hung in polished readiness over each humble door. The

shining pewter was transformed to the heavy bullet, awaiting the first

signal to carry death to the oppressor.

"It was on the memorable 17th of June, 1775, that your grandfather was

at his usual labor in a distant part of his farm: suddenly there fell

upon his ear a sound heavier than the crash of the falling tree: echo

answered echo along these hills; he knew the hour had come--that the

flame had burst forth which blood alone could extinguish. His was not a

spirit to slumber within sound of that battle-peal. He dropped his

implements, and returned to his house. Never shall I forget the

expression of his face as he entered.--There was a wild fire in his

eye--his cheek was flushed--the veins upon his broad forehead swelled

nigh to bursting. He looked at me--then at his infant-boy--and for a

moment his face was convulsed. But soon the calm expression of high

resolve shone upon his features.

"Then I felt that what I had long secretly dreaded was about to be

realized. For awhile the woman struggled fearfully within me--but the

strife was brief; and though I could not with my lips say 'go,' in my

heart I responded, 'God's will be done'--for as such I could but regard

the sacred cause in which all for which we lived was staked. I dwell not

on the anguished parting, nor on the lonely desolation of heart which

followed. A few hasty arrangements, and he, in that stern band known as

the Green Mountain Boys, led by the noble Stark, hurried to the post of

danger. On the plains of Bennington he nobly distinguished himself in

that fierce conflict with the haughty Briton and mercenary foe.

"Long and dreary was the period of my husband's absence; but the God of

my fathers forsook me not. To Him I committed my absent one, in the

confidence that He would do all things well. Now and then, a hurried

scrawl, written perhaps on the eve of an expected battle, came to me in

my lonely solitude like the 'dove of peace' and consolation--for it

spoke of undying affection and unshaken faith in the ultimate success of

that cause for which he had left all.

"But he did return. Once more he was with me. I saw him press his

first-born to his bosom, and receive the little dark-eyed one, whom he

had never yet seen, with new fondness to his paternal arms. He lived to

witness the glorious termination of that struggle, the events of which

all so well know; to see the 'stars and stripes' waving triumphantly in

the breeze, and to enjoy for a brief season the rich blessings of peace

and independence. But ere the sere and yellow leaf of age was upon his

brow, the withering hand of disease laid his noble head in the dust. As

the going down of the sun, which foretells a glorious rising, so was his

death. Many years have gone by, since he was laid in his quiet

resting-place, where, in a few brief days, I shall slumber sweetly by

his side."

Such was her unvarnished story; and such is substantially the story of

many an ancient mother of New England. Yet while the pen of history

tells of the noble deeds of the patriot fathers, it records little of

the days of privation and toil of the patriot mothers--of their nights

of harassing anxiety and uncomplaining sorrow. But their virtues remain

written upon the hearts of their daughters, in characters that perish

not. Let not the rude hand of degeneracy desecrate the hallowed shrine

of their memory.

THERESA.

[Illustration: Decoration]

LAMENT OF THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK.

Oh, ladies, will you listen to a little orphan's tale?

And pity her whose youthful voice must breathe so sad a wail;

And shrink not from the wretched form obtruding on your view.

As though the heart which in it dwells must be as loathsome too.

Full well I know that mine would be a strange repulsive mind,

Were the outward form an index true of the soul within it shrined;

But though I am so all devoid of the loveliness of youth,

Yet deem me not as destitute of its innocence and truth.

And ever in this hideous frame I strive to keep the light

Of faith in God, and love to man, still shining pure and bright;

Though hard the task, I often find, to keep the channel free

Whence all the kind affections flow to those who love not me.

I sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee,

I hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly;

But my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be screened,

And the babe recoils from my embrace, as though I were a fiend.

I sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play;

For a moment will my pulses fly, and I join the band so gay;

But they depart with nasty steps, while their lips and nostrils curl,

Nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little crooked

girl

But once it was not thus with me: I was a dear-loved child;

A mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled;

No word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone,

For I to them was very near--their cherish'd, only one.

But sad the change which me befel, when they were laid to sleep,

Where the earth-worms o'er their mouldering forms their noisome

revels keep;

For of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to care,

And burdens on my back were laid a child should never bear.

And now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed--

For first upon me came disease--and deformity ensued:

Woe! woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stage

Could be redeemed from the bended form and decrepitude of age.

And yet of purest happiness I have some transient gleams;

'Tis when, upon my pallet rude, I lose myself in dreams:

The gloomy present fades away; the sad past seems forgot;

And in those visions of the night mine is a blissful lot.

The dead then come and visit me: I hear my father's voice;

I hear that gentle mother's tones, which makes my heart rejoice;

Her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow,

And she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now.

But sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears;

To find myself the creature yet of misery and tears;

And then, once more, I try to sleep, and know the thrilling bliss

To see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss.

And sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been given--

An entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven;

I have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden lyre,

And seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome choir.

And I have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay,

And, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away;

I have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright,

Which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light.

I have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bands

Who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands:

But the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn,

And the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song.

I care not for their mockery now--the thought disturbs me not,

That, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot;

But I would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain,

And I'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again.

Full well I know this ne'er can be, till I with peace am blest,

Where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest;

For the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust,

And the soul return for evermore to the "Holy One and Just."

LETTY.

[Illustration: Decoration]

THIS WORLD IS NOT OUR HOME.

How difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that they must

die, and mingle with the common earth! Though a towering monument may

mark the spot where their lifeless remains repose, their heads will lie

as low as that of the poorest peasant. All their untold gold cannot

reprieve them for one short day.

When Death places his relentless hand upon them, and as their spirit is

fast passing away, perhaps for the first time the truth flashes upon

their mind, that this world is not their home; and a thrill of agony

racks their frame at the thought of entering that land where all is

uncertainty to them. It may be that they have never humbled themselves

before the great Lawgiver and Judge, and their hearts, alas! have not

been purified and renewed by that grace for which they never

supplicated. And as the vacant eye wanders around the splendidly

furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings and couch of down, how

worthless it all seems, compared with that peace of mind which attends

"the pure in heart!"

The aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was his home, as

day by day he twines the laurel-wreath for his brow, and fondly trusts

it will be unfading in its verdure; and as the applause of a world, that

to him appears all bright and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of

Him who resigned his life on the cross for suffering humanity--he thinks

of naught but the bubble he is seeking; and when he has obtained it, it

has lost all its brilliancy--for the world has learned to look with

indifference upon the bright flowers he has scattered so profusely on

all sides, and his friends, one by one, become alienated and cold, or

bestow their praise upon some new candidate who may have entered the

arena of fame. How his heart shrinks within him, to think of the long

hours of toil by the midnight lamp--of health destroyed--of youth

departed--of near and dear ties broken by a light careless word, that

had no meaning! How bitterly does he regret that he has thrown away all

the warm and better feelings of his heart upon the fading things of

earth! How deeply does he feel that he has slighted God's holy law--for,

in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that this world was

not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity gleamed in his

pathway, he had neglected to cultivate the fadeless wreath that cheers

the dying hour! And now the low hollow cough warns him of the near

approach of that hour beyond which all to him is darkness and gloom; and

as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting that all the

bright visions of youth had so soon vanished away, the cold world

perchance passes in review before him.

He beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade, and the star of fame fall

from the brow of youth. He marks the young warrior on the field of

battle, fighting bravely, while the banner of stars and stripes waves

proudly over his head; and while thinking of the glory he shall win, a

ball enters his heart.--He gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the

lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the morning, just

touched by the hand of death; she was the light of his home, the last of

many dear ones; and he wondered why he was spared, and the young taken.

Though the cup was bitter, he drank it.

Again he turned his eyes from the world, whereon everything is written,

"fading away." Yes, wealth, beauty, fame, glory, honor, friendship, and

oh! must it be said that even love, too, fades? Almost in despair, he

exclaimed, "Is there aught that fades not?" And a voice seemed to

whisper in his ear, "There is God's love which never fades; this world

is not your home; waste not the short fragment of your life in vain

regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which is the common lot

of all; be ready, therefore, to pass to that bourne from which there is

no return, before you enter the presence of Him whose name is Love."

"Then ask not life, but joy to know

That sinless they in heaven shall stand;

That Death is not a cruel foe,

To execute a wise command.

'Tis ours to ask, 'tis God's to give.--

We live to die--and die to live."

BEATRICE.

[Illustration: Decoration]

DIGNITY OF LABOR.

From whence originated the idea, that it was derogatory to a lady's

dignity, or a blot upon the female character, to labor? and who was the

first to say sneeringly, "Oh, she _works_ for a living?" Surely, such

ideas and expressions ought not to grow on republican soil. The time has

been when ladies of the first rank were accustomed to busy themselves in

domestic employment.

Homer tells us of princesses who used to draw water from the springs,

and wash with their own hands the finest of the linen of their

respective families. The famous Lucretia used to spin in the midst of

her attendants; and the wife of Ulysses, after the siege of Troy,

employed herself in weaving, until her husband returned to Ithaca. And

in later times, the wife of George the Third, of England, has been

represented as spending a whole evening in hemming pocket-handkerchiefs,

while her daughter Mary sat in the corner, darning stockings.

Few American fortunes will support a woman who is above the calls of her

family; and a man of sense, in choosing a companion to jog with him

through all the up-hills and down-hills of life, would sooner choose one

who _had_ to work for a living, than one who thought it beneath her to

soil her pretty hands with manual labor, although she possessed her

thousands. To be able to earn one's own living by laboring with the

hands, should be reckoned among female accomplishments; and I hope the

time is not far distant when none of my countrywomen will be ashamed to

have it known that they are better versed in useful than they are in

ornamental accomplishments.

C. B.

[Illustration: Decoration]

THE VILLAGE CHRONICLE.

CHAPTER I.

"Come, Lina, dear," said Mr. Wheeler to his little daughter, "lay by

your knitting, if you please, and read me the paper."

"What, pa, this old paper, 'The Village Chronicle?'"

"Old, Lina!--why, it is damp from the press. Not so old, by more than a

dozen years, as you are."

"But, pa, the _news_ is _olds_. Our village mysteries are all worn

threadbare by the gossiping old maids before the printer can get them in

type; and the foreign information is more quickly obtained from other

sources. And, pa, I wish you wouldn't call me Lina--it sounds so

childish, and I begin to think myself quite a young lady--almost in my

teens, you know; and Angeline is not so very long."

"Well, Angeline, as you please; but see if there is not something in the

paper."

"Oh, yes, pa; to please you I will read the stupid old (_new_, I mean)

concern.--Well, in the first place, we have some poetry--some of our

village poets' (genius, you know, admits not of distinction of sex)

effusions, or rather confusions. Miss Helena (it used to be Ellen once)

Carrol's sublime sentiments upon 'The Belvidere Apollo,'--which she

never saw, nor anything like it, and knows nothing about. She had better

write about our penny-post, and then we might feel an interest in her

lucubrations, even if not very intrinsically valuable. But if she does

not want to be an old maid, she might as well leave off writing

sentimental poetry for the newspapers; for who will marry a _bleu_?"

"There is much that I might say in reply, but I will wait until you are

older. And now do not let me hear you say anything more about old maids,

at least deridingly; for I have strong hopes that my little girl will be

one herself."

"No, pa, never!--I will not marry, at least while you, or Alfred, or

Jimmy, are alive; but I cannot be an old maid--not one of those

tattling, envious, starched-up, prudish creatures, whom I have always

designated as old maids, whether they are married or single--on the

sunny or shady side of thirty."

"Well, child, I hope you never will be metamorphosed into an old maid,

then. But now for the Chronicle--I will excuse you from the poetry, if

you will read what comes next."

"Thank you, my dear father, a thousand times. It would have made me as

sick as a cup-full of warm water would do. You know I had rather take so

much hot drops.--But the next article is Miss Simpkins's very original

tale, entitled 'The Injured One,'--probably all about love and despair,

and ladies so fair, and men who don't care, if the mask they can wear,

and the girls must beware. Now ain't I literary? But to be a heroine

also, I will muster my resolution, and commence the story:

"'Madeline and Emerilla were the only daughters of Mr. Beaufort, of H.,

New Hampshire.'

"Now, pa, I can't go any farther--I would as lieve travel through the

deserts of Sahara, or run the gauntlet among the Seminoles, as to wade

through this sloshy story. Miss Simpkins always has such names to her

heroines; and they would do very well if they were placed anywhere but

in the unromantic towns of our granite State. H., I suppose, stands for

Hawke, or Hopkinton. Miss Simpkins is so soft that I do not believe Mr.

Baxter would publish her stories, if he were not engaged to her sister.

She makes me think of old 'deaf uncle Jeff,' in the story, who wanted

somebody to love."

"And she does love--she loves everybody; and I am sorry to hear you talk

so of this amiable and intellectual girl. But I do not wish to hear you

read her story now--as for her names, she would not find one

unappropriated by our towns-folks. What comes next?"

"The editorial, pa, and the caption is, 'Our Representatives.' I had ten

times rather read about the antediluvians, and I wish sometimes they

might go and keep them company. And now for the items: Our new bell got

cracked, in its winding way to this 'ere town; and the meeting-house at

the West Parish, has been fired by an incendiary; and the old elm, near

the Central House, has been blown down; and Widow Frye has had a yoke of

oxen struck by lightning; and old Col. Morton fell down dead, in a fit

of apoplexy; and the bridge over the Branch needs repairing; and 'a

friend of good order' wishes that our young men would not stand gaping

around the meeting-house doors, before or after service; and 'a friend

of equal rights' wishes that people might sell and drink as much rum as

they please, without interference, &c., &c.; and all these things we

knew before, as well as we did our A B C's. Next are the cards: The

ladies have voted their thanks to Mr. K., for his lecture upon

phrenology--the matrimonial part, I presume, included; and the

Anti-Slavery Society is to have a fair, at which will be sold all sorts

of abolition things, such as anti-slavery paper, wafers, and all such

important articles. I declare I will make a nigger doll for it. And Mr.

P., of Boston, is to deliver a lecture upon temperance; and the trustees

of the Academy have chosen Mr. Dalton for the Preceptor, and here is his

long advertisement; and the Overseers of the Poor are ready to receive

proposals for a new alms-house; and all these things, pa, which have

been the town talk this long time. But here is something new. Our

minister, dear Mr. Olden, has been very seriously injured by an accident

upon the Boston and Salem Railroad. The news must be very recent, for we

had not heard of it; and it is crowded into very fine type. Oh, how

sorry I am for him!"

"Well, Lina, or Miss Angeline, there is something of sufficient

importance to repay you for the trouble of reading it, and I am very

glad that you have done so--for I will start upon my intended journey to

Boston to-day, and can assist him to return home. Anything else?"

"Oh, yes, pa! a long list of those who have taken advantage of the

Bankrupt Act, and the Deaths and Marriages; but all mentioned here, with

whose names we were familiar, have been subjects for table-talk these

several days."

"Well, is there no foreign news?"

"Yes, pa; Queen Victoria has given another ball at Buckingham Palace;

and Prince Albert has accepted a very fine blood-hound, from Major

Sharp, of Houston; and Sir Howard Douglas has been made a Civil Grand

Cross of the Bath, &c., &c. Are not these fine things to fill up our

republican papers with?"

"Well, my daughter, look at the doings in Congress--that will suit you."

"You know better, pa. They do nothing there but scold, and strike, and

grumble--then pocket their money, and go home. See, here it begins, 'The

proceedings of the House can hardly be said to have been _important_. An

instructive and delightful _scene_ took place between Mr. Wise of

Virginia, and Mr. Stanly, of South Carolina.' Yes, pa, that's the way

they spend their time. In this _act_ of the farce, or tragedy, one

called t' other a _bull-dog_, t' other called one a _coward_. Do you

wish to hear any more?"

"You are somewhat out of humor, my child; but are there no new notices?"

"Yes, here is an 'Assessors' Notice,' and an 'Assignee's Notice,' and a

'Contractors' Notice;' but you do not care anything about them. And here

is an 'Auction Notice.'"

"What auction? Read it, my love."

"Why, the late old Mr. Gardner's farm-house, and all his furniture, are

to be sold at auction. And here is a notice of a meeting of the

Directors of the Pentucket Bank, to be held this very afternoon."

"I am very glad to have learned of it, for I must be there. Is that

all?"

"All?--no, indeed! Here are some long articles, full of _Whereases_, and

_Resolved's_, and _Be it enacted's_; but I know you will excuse me from

reading them. And now for the advertisements: Here is a fine new lot of

_Chenie-de-Laines_, 'just received' at Grosvenor's--oh, pa! do let me

have a new dress, won't you?"

"No, I can't--at least, I do not see how I can. But if you will promise

to read my paper through patiently for the future, and will prepare my

valise for my journey to Boston, I will see what I may do. Meantime I

must be off to the directors' meeting. And now let me remind you that

two items, at least, in this paper, have been of much importance to me;

and one, it seems, somewhat interesting to you. So no more fretting

about the Chronicle, if you want a _new gown_."

Mr. Wheeler left the room, and Angeline seated herself at the

work-table, to repair his vest. She was sorry she had fretted so much

about the Chronicle; but she did wish her father would take the "Ladies'

Companion," or something else, in its stead.

While seated there, her little brother came running into the room, all

out of breath, and but just able to gasp out, "Oh, Lina! there is a man

at the Central House, who has just stopped in the stage, and he is going

right on to Kentucky, and straight through the town where Alfred lives,

for I heard him say so; and I asked him if he would carry anything for

us, and he said, 'Yes, willingly.' So I ran home as fast as I could

come, to tell you to write a note, or do up a paper, or something,

because he will be so sure to get it--and right from us, too, as fast as

it can go. Now do be quick, or the stage will start off."

"Oh, dear me," exclaimed Angeline, "how I do wish we had a New York

Mirror, or a Philadelphia Courier, or a Boston Gazette, or anything but

this stupid Chronicle! Do look, Jimmy! is there nothing in this pile of

papers?"

"No, nothing that will do--so fold up the Chronicle, quick, for the

stage is starting."

Angeline, who had spent some moments in looking for another paper, now

had barely time to scrawl the short word "Lina" on the paper, wrap it in

an envelop, and direct it. Jimmy snatched it as soon as it was ready,

and ran out "_full tilt_," in knightly phrase, or, as he afterwards

said, "_lickity split_."

The stage was coming on at full speed, and he wished to stop it. Many a

time had he stood by the road-side, with his school companions, and,

waving his cap, and stretching out his neck, had hallooed, "Hurrah for

Jackson!" and he feared that, like the boy in the fable, who called

"Wolves! wolves!" if he now shouted to them from the road-side, they

would not heed him. So he ran into the middle of the road, threw up his

arms, and stood still. The driver barely reined in his horses within a

few feet of the daring boy.

"Where is the man who is going straight ahead to Kentucky?"

"Here, my lad," replied a voice, as a head popped out of the window, to

see what was the matter.

"Well, here is a paper which I wish you to carry to my brother; and if

you stop long enough where he is, you must go and see him, and tell him

you saw me too."

"Well done, my lad! you are a keen one. I'll do your bidding--but don't

you never run under stage-horses again."

He took the packet, while the driver cracked his whip; and the horses

started as the little boy leaped upon the bank, shouting, "Hurra for

Yankee Land and old Kentucky!"

CHAPTER II.

In a rude log hut of Western Kentucky was seated an animated and

intelligent-looking young man. A bright moon was silvering the

forest-tops, which were almost the only prospect from his window; but

in that beauteous light the rough clearing around seemed changed to

fairy land; and even his rude domicile partook of the transient

renovation. His lone walls, his creviced roof, and ragged floor, were

transformed beneath that silvery veil; and truly did it look as though

it might well be the abode of peaceful happiness.

"I feel as though I could write poetry now," said Alfred to himself.

"Let me see--'The Spirit's Call to the Absent,' or something like that;

but if I should strike my light, and really get pens, ink, and paper, it

would all evaporate, vanish, abscond, make tracks, become scarce, be o.

p. h. Ah, yes! the poetry would go, but the feeling, the deep affection,

which would find some other language than simple prose, can never

depart.

"How I wish I could see them all! There is not a codger in my native

town--not a crusty fusty old bachelor--not an envious tattling old

maid--not a flirt, sot, pauper, idiot, or sainted hypocrite, but I could

welcome with an embrace. But if I could only see my father, or Jimmy, or

Lina, dear girl! how much better I should feel! It would make me ten

years younger, to have a chat with Lina; and, to tell the truth, I

should like to see any woman, just to see how it would seem. I'd go a

quarter of a mile, now, to look at a row of aprons hung out to dry. But

there! it's no use to talk.

"An evening like this is such an one as might entice me to my mother's

grave, were I at home. Oh! if she were but alive--if I could only know

that she was still somewhere on the wide earth, to think and pray for

me--I might be better, as well as happier. Methinks it must be a blessed

thing to be a mother, if all sons cherish that parent's memory as I have

mine--and they do. It cheers and sustains the exile in a stranger's

land; it invigorates him in trial, and lights him through adversity; it

warns the felon, and haunts and harrows the convict; it strengthens the

captive, and exhilarates the homeward-bound. Truly must it be a blessed

thing to be a mother!"

He stopped--for in the moonlight was distinctly seen the figure of a

horseman, emerging from the public road, and galloping across the

clearing. He turned towards the office of the young surveyor, and in a

few moments the carrier had related the incident by which he obtained

the paper, and placed "The Village Chronicle" in Alfred's hand.

He struck a light, tore off the wrapper, and the only written word which

met his eye was "Lina." "Dear name!" said he, "I could almost kiss it,

especially as there is none to see me. She must have been in a

prodigious hurry! and how funny that little rascal, Jimmy, must have

looked! Well, 'when he next doth run a race, may I be there to see.'"

He took the paper to read. It was a very late one--he had never before

received one so near the date; and even that line of dates was now so

pleasing. First was Miss Helena Carroll's poetry. "Dear girl!" said he,

"what a beautiful writer she is! Really, this is poetry! This is

something which carries us away from ourselves, and more closely

connects us with the enduring, high, and beautiful. Methinks I see her

now--more thin, pale, and ethereal in her appearance than when we were

gay school-mates; but I wonder that, with all her treasures of heart and

intellect, she is still Helena Carroll.

"And now here is Miss Simpkin's story of 'The injured One'--beautiful,

interesting, and instructive, I am confident; and I will read it, every

word; but she italicises too much; she throws too lavishly the bright

robes of her prolific fancy upon the forms she conjures up from

New-England hills and vales. I wonder if she remembers now the time when

she made me shake the old-apple tree, near the pound, for her, and in

jumping down, I nearly broke my leg. Well, if I read her story, I will

try that it does not break my heart.

"And here is an excellent editorial about 'Our Representatives'--I will

read it again, and now for the ITEMS."

These were all highly interesting to the _absentee_, and on each did he

expatiate to himself. How different were his feelings from his sister's,

as he read of the cracked bell, the burned meeting-house, the dead oxen,

the apoplectic old Colonel, the decayed bridge, the hints of the friends

of "good order" and "equal rights." Then there was a little scene

suggested by every card; he wondered who had their heads examined at the

Phrenological lecture; and if the West Parish old farmers were now as

stiffly opposed to the science. And how he would like to see Lina's

chart, and to know if Jimmy had brains--he was sure he had legs, and a

big heart for a little boy; and he wondered what girls ran up to have

their heads felt of in public; and what the man said about

matrimony--an affair which in old times was thought to have more to do

with the heart than the head.

Then his imagination went forward to the fair of the Anti-Slavery

Society, and he wondered where it would be, and who would go, and what

Lina would make, and whether so much fuss about slavery was right or

wrong, and if "father" approved of it. Then the temperance lecture was

the theme for another self-disquisition. He wondered who had joined the

society, and how the Washingtonians held out, and if Mr. Hawkins was

ever coming to the West.

Then he was glad the trustees were determined to resuscitate the old

academy. What grand times he had enjoyed there, especially at the

exhibitions! and he wondered where all the pretty girls were who used to

go to school with his bachelorship. Then they were to have a new

alms-house; and forty more things were mentioned, of equal interest--not

forgetting Mr. Olden's accident, for which "father would be so sorry."

Then there were the Marriages and Deaths--each a subject of deep

interest, as was also the list of Bankrupts. The foreign news was news

to him; and Congress matters were not passed unheeded by.

Then he read with deep interest every "Assessor's Notice," also those of

"Assignees," "Contractors," and "Auctioneers." There was not a single

"Whereas" or "Resolved," but was most carefully perused; and every "Be

it enacted" stared him in the face like an old familiar friend.

Then there were the advertisements; and Grosvenor's first attracted his

attention from its _big_ letters. "CHENIE-DE-LAINES!" said he, "What in

the name of common sense are they? Something for gal's gowns, _I guess_;

and what will they next invent for a name?"

But each advertisement told its little history. Some of the old

"_pillars_" of the town were still in their accustomed places. The same

signatures, places, and almost the same goods--nothing much changed but

the dates. Another advertisement informed him of the dissolution of an

old copartnership, and another showed the formation of a new one. Some

old acquaintances had changed their location or business, and others

were about to retire from it. Those whom he remembered as almost boys,

were now just entering into active life, and those who should now be

preparing for another world were still laying up treasures on earth.

One, who had been a farmer, was now advertising himself as a _doctor_.

A lawyer had changed into a miller, and old Capt Prouty was post-master.

The former cobler now kept the bookstore, and the young major had turned

printer. The old printer was endeavoring to collect his debts--for he

said his devil had gone to Oregon, and he wished to go to the devil.

Not a single puff did Alfred omit; he noticed every new book, and

swallowed every new nostrum. "Old rags," "Buffalo Oil," "Bear's Grease,"

"Corn Plaster," "Lip Salve," "Accordions," "Feather Renovators," "Silk

Dye-Houses," "Worm Lozenges," "Ready-made Clothing," "Ladies' Slips,"

"Misses' Ties," "Christmas Presents," "Sugar-house Molasses," "Choice

Butter," "Shell Combs," "New Music," "Healing Lotions," "Last Chance,"

"Hats and Caps," "Prime Cost," "Family Pills," "Ladies' Cuff Pins,"

"Summer Boots," "Vegetable Conserve," "Muffs and Boas," "Pease's

Horehound Candy," "White Ash Coal," "Bullard's Oil-Soap," "Universal

Panacea," "Tailoress Wanted," "Unrivalled Elixir," "Excellent Vanilla,"

"Taylor's Spool Cotton," "Rooms to Let," "Chairs and Tables," "Pleasant

House," "Particular notice," "Family Groceries," "A Removal,"

"Anti-Dyspeptic Bitters," &c., &c., down to "One Cent Reward--Ran away

from the Subscriber," &c.--Yes; he had read them all, and all with much

interest, but one with a deeper feeling than was awakened by the others.

It was the notice of the sale of the late Mr. Gardner's House, farm, &c.

"And so," said Alfred, "Cynthia Gardner is now free. She used to love me

dearly--at least she said so in every thing but words; but the old man

said she should never marry a harum-scarum scape-grace like me. Well!

it's no great matter if I did sow all my wild oats then, for there is

too little cleared land to do much at it here. The old gentleman is

dead, and I'll forgive him; but I will write this very night to Cynthia,

and ask her to--

----'come, and with me share

Whate'er my hut bestows;

My cornstalk bed, my frugal fare,

My labor and repose.'"

LUCINDA.

AMBITION AND CONTENTMENT.

It has been said that all virtues, carried to their extremes, become

vices, as firmness may be carried to obstinacy, gentleness to weakness,

faith to superstition, &c., &c.; and that while cultivating them, a

perpetual care is necessary that they may not be resolved into those

kindred vices. But there are other qualities of so opposite a character,

that, though we may acknowledge them both to be virtues, we can hardly

cherish them at the same time.

Contentment is a virtue often urged upon us, and too often neglected. It

is essential to our happiness; for how can we experience pleasure while

dissatisfied with the station which has been allotted us, or the

circumstances which befall us? but when contentment degenerates into

that slothful feeling which will not exert itself for a greater

good--which would sit, and smile at ease upon the gifts which Providence

has forced upon its possessor, and turns away from the objects, which

call for the active spring and tenacious grasp--when, I repeat,

contentment is but another excuse for indolence, it then has ceased to

be a virtue.

And Ambition, which is so often denounced as a vice--which _is_ a vice

when carried to an extent that would lead its votary to grasp all upon

which it can lay its merciless clutch, and which heeds not the rights or

possessions of a fellow-being when conflicting with its own domineering

will, which then becomes so foul a vice--this same ambition, when kept

within its proper bounds, is then a virtue; and not only a virtue, but

the parent of virtues. The spirit of laudable enterprise, the noble

desire for superior excellence, the just emulation which would raise

itself to an equality with the highest--all this is the fruit of

ambition.

Here then are two virtues, ambition and contentment, both to be

commended, both to be cherished, yet at first glance at variance with

each other; at all events, with difficulty kept within those proper

bounds which will prevent a conflict between them.

We are not metaphysicians, and did we possess the power to draw those

finely-pencilled mental and moral distinctions in which the acute

reasoner delights so often to display his power, this would be no place

for us to indulge our love for nicely attenuated theories. We are aware,

that to cherish ambition for the good it may lead us to acquire, for the

noble impulses of which it may be the fountain-spring, and yet to

restrain those waters when they would gush forth with a tide which would

bear away all better feelings of the heart--this, we know, is not only

difficult, but almost impossible.

To strive for a position upon some loftier eminence, and yet to remain

unruffled if those strivings are in vain; to remain calm and cheerful

within the little circle where Providence has stationed us, yet actively

endeavoring to enlarge that circle, if not to obtain admittance to a

higher one; to plume the pinions of the soul for an upward flight, yet

calmly sink again to the earth if these efforts are but useless

flutterings; all this seems contradictory, though essential to

perfection of character.

Thankfulness for what we have, yet longings for a greater boon;

resignation to a humble lot, and a determination that it shall not

always be humble; ambition and contentment--how wide the difference, and

how difficult for one breast to harbor them both at the same time!

Nothing so forcibly convinces us of the frailty of humanity as the

tendency of all that is good and beautiful to corruption. As in the

natural world, earth's loveliest things are those which yield most

easily to blighting and decay, so in the spiritual, the noblest feelings

and powers are closely linked to some dark passion.

How easily does ambition become rapacity; and if the heart's yearnings

for the unattainable are forcibly stilled, and the mind is governed by

the determination that no wish shall be indulged but for that already in

its power, how soon and easily may it sink into the torpor of inaction!

To keep all the faculties in healthful exercise, yet always to restrain

the feverish glow, must require a constant and vigilant self-command.

How soon, in that long-past sacred time when the Savior dwelt on earth,

did the zeal of one woman in her Master's cause become tainted with the

earth-born wish that her sons might be placed, the one upon his right

and the other upon his left hand, when he should sit upon his throne of

glory; and how soon was _their_ ardent love mingled with the fiery zeal

which would call down fire from heaven upon the heads of their

fellow-men!

Here was ambition, but not a justifiable desire for elevation; an

ambition, also, which had its source in some of the noblest feelings of

the soul, and which, when directed by the pure principles which

afterwards guided their conduct, was the heart-spring of deeds which

shall claim the admiration, and spur to emulous exertions, the men of

all coming time.

"Be content with what ye have," but never with what ye are; for the wish

to be perfect, "even as our Father in heaven is perfect," must ever be

mingled with regrets for the follies and frailties which our weak nature

seems to have entailed upon us.

And while we endeavor to be submissive, cheerful, and contented with the

lot marked out for us, may gratitude arouse us to the noble desire to

render ourselves worthy of a nobler station than earth can ever present

us, even to a place upon our Savior's right hand in his heavenly

kingdom.

H. F.

A CONVERSATION ON PHYSIOLOGY.

INTRODUCTION.

Physiology, Astronomy, Geology, Botany, and kindred sciences, are not

now, as formerly, confined to our higher seminaries of learning. They

are being introduced into the common schools, not only of our large

towns and cities, but of our little villages throughout New-England.

Hence a knowledge of these sciences is becoming general. It needs not

Sibylline wisdom to predict that the time is not far distant when it

will be more disadvantageous and more humiliating to be ignorant of

their principles and technicalities, than to be unable to tell the

length and breadth of Sahara, the rise, course and fall of little rivers

in other countries, which we shall never see, never hear mentioned--and

the latitude and longitude of remote or obscure cities and towns. If a

friend would describe a flower, she would not tell us that it has so

many flower-leaves, so many of those shortest things that rise from the

centre of the flower, and so many of the longest ones; but she will

express herself with more elegance and rapidity by using the technical

names of these parts--petals, stamens, and pistils. She will not tell us

that the green leaves are formed some like a rose-leaf, only that they

are rounder, or more pointed, as the case may be; or if she can find no

similitudes, she will not use fifty words in conveying an idea that

might be given in one little word. We would be able to understand her

philosophical description. And scientific lectures, the sermons of our

best preachers, and the conversation of the intelligent, presuppose some

degree of knowledge of the most important sciences; and to those who

have not this knowledge, half their zest is lost.

If we are so situated that we cannot attend school, we have, by far the

greater part of us, hours for reading, and means to purchase books. We

should be systematic in our expenditures. They should be regulated by

the nature of the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed,--by

our wages, state of health, and the situation of our families. After a

careful consideration of these, and other incidentals that may be, we

can make a periodical appropriation of any sum we please, for the

purchase of books. Our readings, likewise, should be systematic. If we

take physiology, physiology should be read exclusively of all others,

except our Bibles and a few well-chosen periodicals, until we acquire a

knowledge of its most essential parts. Then let this be superseded by

others, interrupted in their course only by occasional reviews of those

already studied.

But there are those whose every farthing is needed to supply themselves

with necessary clothing, their unfortunate parents, or orphan brothers

and sisters with a subsistence. And forever sacred be these duties.

Blessings be on the head of those who faithfully discharge them, by a

cheerful sacrifice of selfish gratification. Cheerful, did I say? Ah!

many will bear witness to the pangs which such a sacrifice costs them.

It is a hard lot to be doomed to live on in ignorance, when one longs

for knowledge, "as the hart panteth after the water brook." My poor

friend L.'s complaint will meet an answering thrill of sympathy in many

a heart. "Oh, why is it so?" said she, while tears ran down her cheeks.

"Why have I such a thirst for knowledge, and not one source of

gratification?" We may not know _why_, my sister, but faith bids us

trust in God, and "rest in his decree,"--to be content "when he refuses

more." Yet a spirit of _true_ contentment induces no indolent yieldings

to adverse circumstances; no slumbering and folding the hands in sleep,

when there is so much within the reach of every one, worthy of our

strongest and most persevering efforts. Mrs. Hale says,--

"There is a charm in knowledge, _best_ when bought

_By vigorous toil of frame and earnest search of thought_."

And we will toil. Morning, noon, and evening shall witness our exertions

to prepare for happiness and usefulness here, and for the exalted

destiny that awaits us hereafter. But proper attention should be paid to

physical comfort as well as to mental improvement. It is only by

retaining the former that we can command the latter. The mind cannot be

vigorous while the body is weak. Hence we should not allow our toils to

enter upon those hours which belong to repose. We should not allow

ourselves, however strong the temptation, to visit the lecture-room,

&c., if the state of the weather, or of our health, renders the

experiment hazardous. Above all, we should not forget our dependence on

a higher Power. "Paul may plant, and Apollos water, but God alone giveth

the increase."

* * * * *

_Ann._ Isabel, before we commence our "big talk," let me ask you to

proceed upon the inference that we are totally ignorant of the subject

under discussion.

_Ellinora._ Yes, Isabel, proceed upon the _fact_ that I am ignorant even

of the meaning of the term _physiology_.

_Isabel._ It comes from the Greek words _phusis_, nature, and _logia_, a

collection, or _logos_, discourse; and means a collection of facts or

discourse relating to nature. Physiology is divided, first, into

Vegetable and Animal; and the latter is subdivided into Comparative and

Human. We shall confine our attention to Human Physiology, which treats

of the organs of the human body, their mutual dependence and relation,

their functions, and the laws by which our physical constitution is

governed.

_A._ And are you so heretical, dear Isabel, as to class this science, on

the score of utility, with Arithmetic and Geography--the alpha and omega

of common school education?

_I._ Yes. It is important, inasmuch as it is necessary that we know how

to preserve the fearfully delicate fabric which our Creator has

entrusted to our keeping. We gather many wholesome rules and cautions

from maternal lips; we learn many more from experiencing the painful

results that follow their violation. But this kind of knowledge comes

tardily; it may be when an infringement of some organic law, of which we

were left in ignorance, has fastened upon us painful, perhaps fatal,

disease.

_A._ We may not always avoid sickness and premature death by a knowledge

and observance of these laws; for there are hereditary diseases, in

whose origin we are not implicated, and whose effects we cannot

eradicate from our system by "all knowledge, all device."

_I._ But a knowledge of Physiology is none the less important in this

case. If the chords of our existence are shattered, they must be touched

only by the skilful hand, or they break.

_E._ Were it not for this, were there no considerations of utility in

the plea, there are others sufficiently important to become impulsive.

It would be pleasant to be able to trace the phenomena which we are

constantly observing within ourselves to their right causes.

_I._ Yes; we love to understand the springs of disease, even though "a

discovery of the cause" neither "suspends the effect, nor heals it." We

rejoice in health, and we love to know why it sits so strongly within

us. The warm blood courses its way through our veins; the breath comes

and goes freely in and out; the nerves, those subtle organs, perform

their important offices; the hand, foot, brain--nay, the whole body

moves as we will: we taste, see, hear, smell, feel; and the inquiring

mind delights in knowing by what means these wonderful processes are

carried on,--how far they are mechanical, how far chemical, and how far

resolvable into the laws of vitality. This we may learn by a study of

Physiology, at least as far as is known. We may not satisfy ourselves

upon all points. There may be, when we have finished our investigations,

a longing for a more perfect knowledge of ourselves; for "some points

must be greatly dark," so long as mind is fettered in its rangings, and

retarded in its investigations by its connection with the body. And this

is well. We love to think of the immortal state as one in which longings

for moral and intellectual improvement will _all_ be satisfied.

_A._ Yes; it would lose half its attractions if we might attain

perfection here.

_E._ And now permit me to bring you at once to our subject. What is this

life that I feel within me? Does Physiology tell us? It ought.

_I._ It does not, however; indeed, it cannot. It merely develops its

principles.

_E._ The principles of life--what are they?

_I._ The most important are _contractibility_ and _sensibility_.

_E._ Let me advertise you that I am particularly hostile to technical

words--all because I do not understand them, I allow, but please humor

this ignorance by avoiding them.

_I._ And thus perpetuate your ignorance, my dear Ellinora? No; this will

not do; for my chief object in these conversations is that you may be

prepared to profit by lectures, essays and conversation hereafter. You

will often be thrown into the company of those who express themselves in

the easiest and most proper manner, that is, by the use of technical

words and phrases. These will embarrass you, and prevent that

improvement which would be derived, if these terms were understood.

Interrupt me as often as you please with questions; and if we spend the

remainder of the evening in compiling a physiological glossary, we may

all reap advantage from the exercise. To return to the vital

principles--vital is from _vita_, life--_contractibility_ and

_sensibility_. The former is the property of the muscles. The muscles,

you know, are what we call flesh. They are composed of fibres, which

terminate in tendons.

_Alice._ Please give form to my ideas of the tendons.

_I._ With the muscles, they constitute the agents of all motion in us.

Place your hand on the inside of your arm, and then bend your elbow. You

perceive that cord, do you not? That is a tendon. You have observed them

in animals, doubtless.

_Ann._ I have. They are round, white, and lustrous; and these are the

muscular terminations.

_I._ Yes; this tendon which you perceive, is the termination of the

muscles of the fore-arm, and it is inserted into the lower arm to assist

in its elevation.

_E._ Now we are coming to it. Please tell me how I move a finger--how I

raise my hand in this manner.

_I._ It is to the contractile power of the muscles that you are indebted

for this power. I will read what Dr. Paley says of muscular contraction;

it will make it clearer than any explanation of mine. He says, "A muscle

acts only by contraction. Its force is exerted in no other way. When

the exertion ceases, it relaxes itself, that is, it returns by

relaxation to its former state, but without energy."

_E._ Just as this India-rubber springs back after extension, for

illustration.

_I._ Very well, Ellinora. He adds, "This is the nature of the muscular

fibre; and being so, it is evident that the reciprocal _energetic_

motion of the limbs, by which we mean _with force_ in opposite

directions, can only be produced by the instrumentality of opposite or

antagonist muscles--of flexors and extensors answering to each other.

For instance, the biceps and brachiæus _internus_ muscles, placed in the

front part of the upper arm, by their contraction, bend the elbow, and

with such a degree of force as the case requires, or the strength

admits. The relaxation of these muscles, after the effort, would merely

let the fore-arm drop down. For the _back stroke_ therefore, and that

the arm may not only bend at the elbow, but also extend and straighten

itself with force, other muscles, the longus, and brevis brachiæus

_externus_, and the aconæus, placed on the hinder part of the arms, by

their contractile twitch, fetch back the fore-arm into a straight line

with the cubit, with no less force than that with which it was bent out.

The same thing obtains in all the limbs, and in every moveable part of

the body. A finger is not bent and straightened without the

_contraction_ of two muscles taking place. It is evident, therefore,

that the animal functions require that particular disposition of the

muscles which we describe by the name of antagonist muscles."

_A._ Thank you, Isabel. This does indeed make the subject very plain.

These muscles contract at will.

_E._ But how can the will operate in this manner? I have always wished

to understand.

_I._ And I regret that I cannot satisfy you on this point. If we trace

the cause of muscular action by the nerves to the brain, we are no

nearer a solution of the mystery; for we cannot know what power sets the

organs of the brain at work--whether it be foreign to or of itself.

We will come now, if you please to _sensibility_, which belongs to the

nerves.

_A._ I have a very indefinite idea of the nerves.

_E._ My _ideal_ is sufficiently definite in its shape, but so droll! I

do not think of them as "being flesh of my flesh," but as a _species_ of

the _genus_ fairy. They are to us, what the Nereides are to the green

wave, the Dryades to the oak, and the Hamadryades to the little flower.

They are quite omnipotent in their operations. They make us cry or they

make us laugh; thrill us with rapture or woe as they please. And, my

dear Isabel, I shall not allow you to cheat me out of this pleasing

fancy. You may tell us just what they are, but I shall be as incredulous

as possible.

_I._ They are very slender white cords, extending from the brain and

spinal marrow--twelve pairs from the former, and thirty from the latter.

These send out branches so numerous that we cannot touch the point of a

pin to a spot that has not its nerve. The mucous membrane is--

_F._ Oh, these technicals! What is the mucous membrane?

_I._ It is a texture, or web of fibres, which lines all cavities exposed

to the atmosphere--for instance, the mouth, windpipe and stomach. It is

the seat of the senses of taste and smell.

_E._ And the nerves are the little witches that inform the brain how one

thing is sweet, another bitter; one fragrant, another nauseous.

Alimentiveness ever after frowns or smiles accordingly. So it seems that

the actions of the brain, and of the external senses, are reciprocated

by the nerves, or something of this sort. How is it, Isabel? Oh, I see!

You say sensibility belongs to the nerves. So sights by means of--of

what?

_I._ Of the optical nerves.

_E._ Yes; and sounds by means of the--

_I._ Auditory nerves.

_E._ Yes; convey impressions of externals to the brain. And "Upon this

hint" the brain acts in its consequent reflections, and in the nervous

impulses which induce muscular contractibility. And this muscular

contractibility is a contraction of the fibres of the muscles. This

contraction, of course, shortens them, and this latter _must_ result in

the bending of the arm. I think I understand it. What are the brain and

spine, Isabel? How are they connected?

_I._ You will get correct ideas of the texture of the brain by observing

that of animals. It occupies the whole cavity of the skull, is rounded

and irregular in its form, full of prominences, _alias_ bumps. These

appear to fit themselves to the skull; but doubtless the bone is moulded

by the brain. The brain is divided into two parts; the upper and

frontal part is called the _cerebrum_, the other the _cerebellum_. The

former is the larger division, and is the seat of the moral sentiments

and intellectual faculties. The latter is the seat of the propensities,

domestic and selfish.

_A._ I thank you, Isabel. Now, what is this spine, of which there is so

much "complaint" now-a-days?

_I._ I will answer you from Paley: "The spine, or backbone, is a chain

of joints of very wonderful construction. It was to be firm, yet

flexible; _firm_, to support the erect position of the body; _flexible_,

to allow of the bending of the the trunk in all degrees of curvature. It

was further, also, to become a pipe or conduit for the safe conveyance

from the brain of the most important fluid of the animal frame, that,

namely, upon which _all voluntary motion depends, the spinal marrow_; a

substance not only of the first necessity to action, if not to life, but

of a nature so delicate and tender, so susceptible and impatient of

injury, that any unusual pressure upon it, or any considerable

obstruction of its course, is followed by paralysis or death. Now, the

spine was not only to furnish the main trunk for the passage of the

medullary substance from the brain, but to give out, in the course of

its progress, small pipes therefrom, which, being afterwards

indefinitely subdivided, might, under the name of nerves, distribute

this exquisite supply to every part of the body."

_Alice._ I understand now why disease of the spine causes such

involuntary contortions and gestures, in some instances. Its connection

with the brain and nerves is so immediate, that it cannot suffer disease

without affecting the whole nervous system.

_I._ It cannot. The spinal cord or marrow is a continuation of the

brain. But we must not devote any more time to this subject.

_Bertha._ I want to ask you something about the different parts of the

eye, Isabel. When ---- ---- lectured on optics, I lost nearly all the

benefit of his lecture, except a newly awakened desire for knowledge on

this subject. He talked of the retina, cornea, iris, &c.; please tell me

precisely what they are.

_I._ The retina is a nervous membrane; in other words a thin net-work,

formed of very minute sensitive filaments. It is supposed by some to be

an expansion of the optic nerve; and on this the images of objects we

see are formed. It is situated at the back part of the eye. Rays pass

through the round opening in the iris, which we call the pupil.

_B._ What did the lecturer say is the cause of the color of the pupil?

_I._ He said that its _want of color_ is to be imputed to the fact that

rays of light which enter there are not returned; they fall on the

retina, forming there images of objects. And you recollect he said that

"absence of rays is blackness." The iris is a kind of curtain, covering

the aqueous humor--aqueous is from the Latin _aqua_, water. It is

confined only at its outer edge, or circumference; and is supplied with

muscular fibres which confer the power of adjustment to every degree of

light. It contracts or dilates involuntarily, as the light is more or

less intense, as you must have observed. The rays of light falling on

that part of the iris which immediately surrounds the pupil, cause it to

be either black, blue, or hazel. We will not linger on this ground, for

it belongs more properly to Natural Philosophy. We will discuss the

other four senses as briefly as possible. "The sense of taste," says

Hayward, "resides in the mucus membrane of the tongue, the lips, the

cheeks, and the fauces." Branches of nerves extend to every part of the

mouth where the sense of taste resides. The fluid with which the mouth

is constantly moistened is called mucus, and chiefly subserves to the

sense of taste.

_Ann._ I have observed that when the mucus is dried by fever, food is

nearly tasteless. I now understand the reason.

_E._ _Apropos_ to the senses, let me ask if feeling and touch are the

same. Alfred says they are; I contend they are not, precisely.

_I._ Hayward thinks a distinction between them unnecessary. He says they

are both seated in the same organs, and have the same nerves. But the

sense of feeling is more general, extending over the whole surface of

the skin and mucus membrane, while that of touch is limited to

particular parts, being in man most perfect in the hand; and the sense

of feeling is passive, while that of touch is active. This sense is in

the skin, and is most perfect where the epidermis, or external coat, is

the thinnest. We will look through this little magnifying glass at the

skin on my hand. You will see very minute prominences all over the

surface. These points are called papillæ. They are supposed to be the

termination of the nerves, and the _locale_ of sensation.

_E._ Will you _shape_ my ideas of sensation?

_I._ According to Lord Brougham, one of the English editors of this

edition of Paley, it is "the effect produced upon the mind by the

operation of the senses; and involves nothing like an exertion of the

mind itself."

Of the sense of hearing, I can tell you but little. Physiologists have

doubts relative to many parts of the ear; and I do not understand the

subject well enough to give you much information. I will merely name

some of the parts and their relative situations. We have first the

external ear, which projecting as it does from the head, is perfectly

adapted to the office of gathering sounds, and transmitting them to the

membrane of the tympanum, commonly called the drum of the ear, from its

resembling somewhat, in its use and structure, the head of a drum. The

tympanum is a cavity, of a cylindrical or tunnel form, and its office is

supposed to be the transmission to the internal ear of the vibrations

made upon the membrane. These vibrations are first communicated to the

malleus or hammer. This is the first of four bones, united in a kind of

chain, extending and conveying vibrations from the tympanum to the

labyrinth of the ear beyond. The other bones are the incus, or anvil,

the round bone, and the stapes, or stirrup--the latter so called from

its resemblance to a stirrup-iron. It is placed over an oval aperture,

which leads to the labyrinth, and which is closed by means of a

membranous curtain. These bones are provided with very small muscles,

and move with the vibrations of the tympanum. The equilibrium of the air

in the tympanum and atmosphere is maintained by the means of the

Eustachian tube, which extends from the back part of the fauces, or

throat, to the cavity of the tympanum. The parts last mentioned

constitute the middle ear. Of the internal ear little is known. It has

its semicircular canals, vestibules, and cochlea; but their agencies are

not ascertained.

The organ of smell is more simple. This sense lies, or is supposed to

lie, in the mucous membrane which lines the nostrils and the openings in

connection. Particles are constantly escaping from odorous bodies; and,

by being inhaled in respiration, they are thrown in contact with the

mucous membrane.

_A._ Before leaving the head, will you tell us something of the organs

of voice?

_I._ By placing your finger on the top of your windpipe, you will

perceive a slight prominence. In males this is very large. This is the

thorax. It is formed of four cartilages, two of which are connected with

a third, by means of four chords, called vocal chords, from their

performing an important part in producing the voice. Experiments have

been made, which prove that a greater part of the larynx, except these

chords, may be removed without destroying the voice. Magendie thus

accounts for the production of the voice. He says, "The air, in passing

from the lungs in expiration, is forced out of small cavities, as the

air-cells and the minute branches of the windpipe, into a large canal;

it is thence sent through a narrow passage, on each side of which is a

vibratory chord, and it is by the action of the air on these chords,

that the sonorous undulations are produced which are called voice."

_E._ Do not the lips and tongue contribute essentially to speech?

_I._ They do not. Hayward says he can bear witness to the fact that the

articulation remains unimpaired after the tongue has been removed. The

labials, _f_ and _v_, cannot be perfectly articulated without the action

of the lips.--What subject shall we take next?

_A._ A natural transition would be from the head to the heart, and, in

connection, the circulation of the blood.

_I._ Yes. I will give you an abstract of the ideas I gained in the study

of Hayward's Physiology, and the reading of Dr. Paley's Theology. The

heart, arteries, and veins are the agents of circulation. The heart is

irregular and conical in its shape; and it is hollow and double.

_A._ There is no channel of communication between these parts, is there?

_I._ None; but each side has its separate office to perform. By the

right, circulation is carried on in the lungs; and by the left through

the rest of the body. I will mark a few passages in Paley, for you to

read to us, Ann. They will do better than any descriptions of mine.

_A._ I thank you, Isabel, for giving me an opportunity to lend you

temporary relief.--"The disposition of the blood-vessels, as far as

regards the supply of the body, is like that of the water-pipes in a

city, viz. large and main trunks branching off by smaller pipes (and

these again by still narrower tubes) in every direction and towards

every part in which the fluid which they convey can be wanted. So far,

the water-pipes which serve a town may represent the vessels which

carry the blood from the heart. But there is another thing necessary to

the blood, which is not wanted for the water; and that is, the carrying

of it back again to its source. For this office, a reversed system of

vessels is prepared, which, uniting at their extremities with the

extremities of the first system, collects the divided and subdivided

streamlets, first by capillary ramifications into larger branches,

secondly by these branches into trunks; and thus returns the blood

(almost exactly inverting the order in which it went out) to the

fountain whence its motion proceeded. The body, therefore, contains two

systems of blood-vessels, arteries and veins.

"The next thing to be considered is the engine which works this

machinery, viz., the _heart_. There is provided in the central part of

the body a hollow muscle invested with spiral fibres, running in both

directions, the layers intersecting one another. By the contraction of

these fibres, the sides of the muscular cavity are necessarily squeezed

together, so as to force out from them any fluid which they may at that

time contain: by the relaxation of the same fibres, the cavities are in

their turn dilated, and, of course, prepared to admit every fluid which

may be poured into them. Into these cavities are inserted the great

trunks both of the arteries which carry out the blood, and of the veins

which bring it back. As soon as the blood is received by the heart from

the veins of the body, and _before_ that is sent out again into its

arteries, it is carried, by the force of the contraction of the heart,

and by means of a separate and supplementary artery, to the lungs, and

made to enter the vessels of the lungs, from which, after it has

undergone the action, whatever it may be, of that viscus, it is brought

back, by a large vein, once more to the heart, in order, when thus

concocted and prepared, to be thence distributed anew into the system.

This assigns to the heart a double office. The pulmonary circulation is

a system within a system; and one action of the heart is the origin of

both. For this complicated function four cavities become necessary, and

four are accordingly provided; two called ventricles, which _send out_

the blood, viz., one into the lungs in the first instance, the other

into the mass, after it has returned from the lungs; two others also,

called auricles, which receive the blood from the veins, viz. one as it

comes from the body; the other, as the same blood comes a second time

after its circulation through the lungs."

_I._ That must answer our purpose, dear Ann. Of the change which takes

place in the blood, and of the renewal of our physical system, which is

effected by circulation, I shall say nothing. We will pass to

respiration.

_E._ Whose popular name is breathing?

_I._ Yes. The act of inhaling air, is called inspiration; that of

sending it out, expiration. Its organs are the lungs and windpipe. The

apparatus employed in the mechanism of breathing is very complex. The

windpipe extends from the mouth to the lungs.

_A._ How is it that air enters it so freely, while food and drink are

excluded?

_I._ By a most ingenious contrivance. The opening to the pipe is called

glottis. This is closed, when necessary, by a little valve, or lid,

called the epiglottis (_epi_ means _upon_.)

_E._ And this faithful sentinel is none other than that perpendicular

little body which we can see in our throats, and which we have _dubbed_

palate.

_I._ You are right, Ellinora. Over this, food and drink pass on their

way to the road to the stomach, the gullet. The pressure of solids or

liquids tends to depress this lid on the glottis; and its muscular

action in deglutition, or swallowing, tends to the same effect. As soon

as the pressure is removed, the lid springs to its erect position, and

the air passes freely. Larynx and trachea are other names for the

windpipe, and pharynx is another for the gullet. The larynx divides into

two branches at the lungs, and goes to each side. Hence, by

subdivisions, it passes off in numerous smaller branches, to different

parts of the lungs, and terminates in air-cells. The lungs, known in

animals by the name of lights, consist of three parts, or lobes, one on

the right side, and two on the left.

_Alice._ The lights of inferior animals are very light and porous--do

our lungs resemble them in this?

_I._ Yes; they are full of air-tubes and air-cells. These, with the

blood vessels and the membrane which connects (and this is cellular,

that is, composed of cells,) form the lungs. The process of respiration

involves chemical, mechanical, and vital or physiological principles. Of

the mechanism I shall say but little more. You already know that the

lungs occupy the chest. Of this, the breast bone forms the front, the

spine, the back wall. Attached to this bone are twelve ribs on each

side. These are joined by muscles which are supposed to assist in

elevating them in breathing, thus enlarging the cavity of the chest. The

lower partition is formed by a muscle of great power, called the

diaphragm, and by the action of this organ alone common inspiration can

be performed. Hayward says, "The contraction of this muscle necessarily

depresses its centre, which was before elevated towards the lungs. The

instant this takes place, the air rushes into the lungs through the

windpipe, and thus prevents a vacuum, which would otherwise be produced

between the chest and lungs." Expiration is the reverse of this. The

chemistry of respiration regards the change produced in the blood by

respiration. To this change I have before alluded.

_Ann._ When we consider the offices of the heart and lungs, their

importance in vital economy, how dangerous appears the custom of

pressing them so closely between the ribs by tight lacing?

_I._ Yes; fearful and fatal beyond calculation! And one great advantage

in a general knowledge of our physical system, is the tendency this

knowledge must have to correct this habit.

_A._ To me there is not the weakest motive for tight lacing. Everything

but pride _must_ revolt at the habit; and there is something positively

disgusting and shocking in the wasp-like form, labored breathing, purple

lips and hands of the tight lacer.

_E._ They indicate such a pitiful servitude to fashion, such an utter

disregard of comfort, when it comes in collision with false notions of

elegance! Well for our sex, as we could not be induced to act from a

worthier motive, popular opinion is setting in strongly against this

practice. Many of our authors and public lecturers are bringing strong

arms and benevolent hearts to the work.

_A._ Yes; but to be perfectly consistent, should not the fashions of the

"Lady's Book," the "Ladies' Companion," and of "Graham's Magazine," be

more in keeping with the general sentiment? Their contributors furnish

essays, deprecating the evils of tight lacing, and tales illustrative of

its evil effects, yet the figures of the plates of fashions are

uniformly most unnaturally slender. And these are offered for national

standards!

_E._ "And, more's the pity," followed as such.

_I._ I think the improvements you mention would only cause a temporary

suspension of the evil. They might indeed make it the _fashion_ to wear

natural waists; but like all other fashions, it must unavoidably give

way to new modes. They might lop off a few of the branches; but science,

a knowledge of physiology alone, is capable of laying the axe at the

root of the tree.--What is digestion, Ellinora?

_E._ It is the dissolving, pulverizing, or some other _ing_, of our

food, isn't it?

_I._ Hayward says that "it is an important part of that process by which

aliment taken into the body is made to nourish it." He divides the

digestive apparatus into "the mouth and its appendages, the stomach and

the intestines." The teeth, tongue, jaws, and saliva, perform their

respective offices in mastication. Then the food passes over the

epiglottis, you recollect, down the gullet to the stomach. The saliva is

an important agent in digestion. It is secreted in glands, which pour it

into the mouth by a tube about the size of a wheat straw.

_Alice._ I heard our physician say that food should be so thoroughly

masticated before deglutition (you see I have caught your technicals,

Isabel,) that every particle would be moistened with the saliva. Then

digestion would be easy and perfect. He says that dyspepsia is often

incurred and perpetuated by eating too rapidly.

_I._ Doubtless this is the case. As soon as the food reaches the

stomach, the work of digestion commences; and the food is converted to a

mass, neither fluid or solid, called chyme. With regard to this process,

there have been many speculative theories. It has been imputed to animal

heat, to putrefaction, to a mechanical operation (something like that

carried on in the gizzard of a fowl,) to fermentation, and maceration.

It is now a generally adopted theory, that the food is _dissolved_ by

the gastric juices.

_Ann._ If these juices are such powerful solvents, why do they not act

on the stomach, when they are no longer supplied with _subjects_ in the

shape of food?

_I._ According to many authorities, they do. Comstock says that "hunger

is produced by the action of the gastric juices on the stomach." This

theory does not prevail, however; for it has been proved by experiment,

that these juices do not act on anything that has life.

_Alice._ How long does it take the food to digest?

_I._ Food of a proper kind will digest in a healthy stomach, in four or

five hours. It then passes to the intestines.

_Ann._ But why does it never leave the stomach until thoroughly

digested?

_I._ At the orifice of the stomach, there is a sort of a valve, called

pylorus, or door-keeper. Some have supposed that this valve has the

power of ascertaining when the food is sufficiently digested, and so

allows chyme to pass, while it contracts at the touch of undigested

substances.

_A._ How wonderful!

_I._ And "how passing wonder He who made us such!"

_Alice._ No wonder that a poet said--

"Strange that a harp of thousand strings

Should keep in tune so long!"

_Ann._ And no wonder that the Christian bends in lowly adoration and

love before _such_ a Creator, and _such_ a Preserver?

_E._ Now, dear Isabel, will you tell us something more?

_I._ Indeed, Ellinora, I have already gone much farther than I intended

when I commenced. But I knew not where to stop. Even now, you have but

just _commenced_ the study of _yourselves_. Let me urge you to read in

your leisure hours, and reflect in your working ones, until you

understand physiology, as well as you now do geography.

D.

[Illustration: Decoration]

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor typographical errors and inconsistencies have

been silently normalized. Archaic and variable spellings retained.