CHAPTER II.

A year passed by, and our Harriet was a totally changed being, in intellect and deportment. Her cousins boarded in a small family, that they might have a better opportunity of pursuing their studies during their leisure hours. She was their constant companion. At first she did not open a book; and numberless were the roguish artifices she employed to divert the attention of her cousins from theirs. They often laid them aside for a lively chat with her; and then urged her to study with them. She loved them ardently. To her affection she at last yielded, and not to any anticipations of pleasure or profit in the results, for she had been _educated_ to believe that there was none of either.

Charles had been studying Latin and mathematics; Jane, botany, geology, and geography of the heavens. She instructed Charles in these latter sciences; he initiated her as well as he might, into the mysteries of _hic, hæc, hoc_, and algebra. At times of recitation, Harriet sat and laughed at their "queer words." When she accompanied them in their search for flowers, she amused herself by bringing mullen, yarrow, and, in one instance, a huge sunflower.--When they had traced constellations, she repeated to them a satire on star-gazers, which she learned of her father.

The _histories_ of the constellations and flowers first arrested her attention, and kindled a romance which had hitherto lain dormant. A new light was in her eye from that hour, and a new charm in her whole deportment. She commenced study under very discouraging circumstances. Of this she was deeply sensible. She often shed a few tears as she thought of her utter ignorance, then dashed them off, and studied with renewed diligence and success. She studied two hours every morning before commencing labor and until half past eleven at night. She took her book and her dinner to the mill, that she might have the whole intermission for study. This short season, with the reflection she gave during the afternoon, was sufficient for the mastery of a hard lesson. She was close in her attendance at the sanctuary. She joined a Bible class; and the teachings there fell with a sanctifying influence on her spirit, subduing but not destroying its vivacity, and opening a new current to her thoughts and affections. Although tears of regret for misspent years often stole down her cheeks, she assured Jane that she was happier at the moment than in her hours of loudest mirth.

Her letters to her friends had prepared them for a change, but not for _such_ a change--so great and so happy. She was now a very beautiful girl, easy and graceful in her manners, soft and gentle in her conversation, and evidently conscious of her superiority, only to feel more humble, more grateful to Heaven, her dear cousins, her minister, her Sabbath school teacher, and other beloved friends, who by their kindness had opened such new and delightful springs of feeling in her heart.

She flung her arms around her mother's neck, and wept tears of gratitude and love. Mrs. Greenough felt that she was no longer alone in the world; and Mr. Greenough, as he watched them--the wife and the daughter--inwardly acknowledged that there was that in the world dearer to his heart than his farm and his independence.

Amongst Harriet's baggage was a rough deal box. This was first opened. It contained her books, a few minerals and shells. There were fifty well-selected volumes, besides a package of gifts for her father, mother, and brother.--There was no book-case in the house; and the kitchen shelf was full of old almanacs, school books, sermons, and jest books. Mr. Greenough rode to the village, and returned with a rich secretary, capacious enough for books, minerals, and shells. He brought the intelligence, too, that a large party of students and others were to spend the evening with them. Harriet's heart beat quick, as she thought of young Curtis, and wondered if he was among the said students.--Before she left Bradford, struck with the beauty and simplicity of her appearance, he sought and obtained an introduction to her, but left her side, after sundry ineffectual attempts to draw her into conversation, disappointed and disgusted. He _was_ among Harriet's visitors.

"Pray, Miss Curtis, what may be your opinion of our belle, Miss Greenough?" asked young Lane, on the following morning, as Mr. Curtis and his sister entered the hall of the academy.

"Why, I think that her improvement has been astonishingly rapid during the past year; and that she is now a really charming girl."

"Has she interfered with your heart, Lane?" asked his chum.

"As to that, I do not feel entirely decided. I think I shall renew my call, however--nay, do not frown, Curtis; I was about to add, if it be only to taste her father's delicious melons, pears, plums, and apples."

Curtis blushed slightly, bowed, and passed on to the school room. He soon proved that he cared much less for Mr. Greenough's fruit than for his daughter: for the fruit remained untasted if Harriet was at his side. He was never so happy as when Mr. Greenough announced his purpose of sending Harriet to the academy two or three years. Arrangements were made accordingly, and the week before Charles left home for college, she was duly installed in his father's family.

She missed him much; but the loss of his society was partially counterbalanced by frequent and brotherly letters from him, and by weekly visits to her home, which by the way, is becoming quite a paradise under her supervision.--She has been studying painting and drawing. Several well-executed specimens of each adorn the walls and tables of their sitting-room and parlor. She has no "regular built" centre-table, but in lieu thereof she has removed from the garret an old round table that belonged to her grandmother. This she has placed in the centre of the sitting-room; and what with its very pretty covering (which falls so near the floor as to conceal its uncouth legs), and its books, it forms no mean item of elegance and convenience.

Mr. Greenough and his help have improved a few leisure days in removing the trees that entirely concealed the Merrimac. By the profits resulting from their sale, he has built a neat and tasteful enclosure for his house and garden. This autumn shade-trees and shrubbery are to be removed to the yard, and fruit-trees and vines to the garden. Next winter a summer-house is to be put in readiness for erection in the spring.

All this, and much more, Mr. Greenough is confident he can accomplish, without neglecting his _necessary_ labors, or the course of reading he has marked out, "by and with the advice" of his wife and Harriet. And more, and better still, he has decided that his son George shall attend school, at least two terms yearly. He will board at home, and will be accompanied by his cousin Charles, whom Mr. Greenough has offered to board gratis, until his education is completed. By this generosity on the part of her uncle, Jane will be enabled to defray other expenses incidental to Charles's education, and still have leisure for literary pursuits.

Most truly might Mr. Greenough say,--

"The day is come I never thought to see, Strange revolutions in my farm and me."

A.

FANCY.

O Swiftly flies the shuttle now, Swift as an arrow from the bow: But swifter than the thread is wrought, Is soon the flight of busy thought; For Fancy leaves the mill behind, And seeks some novel scenes to find. And now away she quickly hies-- O'er hill and dale the truant flies. Stop, silly maid! where dost thou go? Thy road may be a road of woe: Some hand may crush thy fairy form, And chill thy heart so lately warm. "Oh no," she cries in merry tone, "I go to lands before unknown; I go in scenes of bliss to dwell, Where ne'er is heard a factory bell."

Away she went; and soon I saw, That Fancy's wish was Fancy's law; For where the leafless trees were seen, And Fancy wished them to be green, Her wish she scarcely had made known, Before green leaves were on them grown. She spake--and there appear'd in view, Bright manly youths, and maidens, too. And Fancy called for music rare-- And music filled the ravished air.

And then the dances soon began, And through the mazes lightly ran The footsteps of the fair and gay-- For this was Fancy's festal day. On, on they move, a lovely group! Their faces beam with joy and hope; Nor dream they of a danger nigh, Beneath their bright and sunny sky. One of the fair ones is their queen, For whom they raise a throne of green; And Fancy weaves a garland now, To place upon the maiden's brow; And fragrant are the blooming flowers, In her enchanted fairy-bowers.

And Fancy now away may slip, And o'er the green-sward lightly skip, And to her airy castle hie-- For Fancy hath a castle nigh. The festal board she quick prepares, And every guest the bounty shares,-- And seated at the festal board, Their merry voices now are heard, As each youth places to his lips, And from the golden goblet sips A draught of the enchanting wine That came from Fancy's fruitful vine.

But hark! what sound salutes mine ear? A distant rumbling now I hear. Ah, Fancy! 'tis no groundless fear, The rushing whirlwind draweth near! Thy castle walls are rocking fast,-- The glory of thy feast is past; Thy guests are now beneath the wave,-- Oblivion is their early grave, Thy fairy bower has vanished--fled: Thy leafy tree are withered--dead! Thy lawn is now a barren heath, Thy bright-eyed maids are cold in death! Those manly youth that were so gay, Have vanished in the self-same way!

Oh Fancy! now remain at home, And be content no more to roam; For visions such as thine are vain, And bring but discontent and pain. Remember, in thy giddy whirl, That _I_ am but a factory girl: And be content at home to dwell, Though governed by a "factory bell."

FIDUCIA.

THE WIDOW'S SON.

Among the multitudes of females employed in our manufacturing establishments, persons are frequently to be met with, whose lives are interspersed with incidents of an interesting and even thrilling character. But seldom have I met with a person who has manifested so deep devotion, such uniform cheerfulness, and withal so determined a perseverance in the accomplishment of a cherished object, as Mrs. Jones.

This inestimable lady was reared in the midst of affluence, and was early married to the object of her heart's affection. A son was given them, a sweet and lovely boy. With much joy they watched the development of his young mind, especially as he early manifested a deep devotional feeling, which was cultivated with the most assiduous attention.

But happiness like this may not always continue. Reverses came. That faithful husband and affectionate father was laid on a bed of languishing. Still he trusted in God; and when he felt that the time of his departure approached, he raised his eyes, and exclaimed, "Holy Father! Thou hast promised to be the widow's God and judge, and a Father to the fatherless; into Thy care I commit my beloved wife and child. Keep Thou them from evil, as they travel life's uneven journey. May their service be acceptable in thy sight." He then quietly fell asleep.

Bitter indeed were the tears shed over his grave by that lone widow and her orphan boy; yet they mourned not as those who mourn without hope. Instead of devoting her time to unavailing sorrow, Mrs. Jones turned her attention to the education of her son, who was then in his tenth year. Finding herself in reduced circumstances, she nobly resolved to support her family by her own exertions, and keep her son at school. With this object, she procured plain needle-work, by which, with much economy, she was enabled to live very comfortably, until Samuel had availed himself of all the advantages presented him by the common schools and high school. He was then ready to enter college--but how were the necessary funds to be raised to defray his expenses?

This was not a new question to Mrs. Jones. She had pondered it long and deeply, and decided upon her course; yet she had not mentioned it to her son, lest it should divert his mind from his studies. But as the time now rapidly approached when she was to carry her plan into operation, she deemed it proper to acquaint Samuel with the whole scheme.

As they were alone in their neat little parlor, she aroused him from a fit of abstraction, by saying, "Samuel, my dear son, before your father died we solemnly consecrated you to the service of the Lord; and that you might be the better prepared to labor in the gospel vineyard, your father designed to give you a liberal education. He was called home; yet through the goodness of our Heavenly Father, I have been enabled thus far to prosecute his plan. It is now time for you to enter college, and in order to raise the necessary funds, I have resolved to sell my little stock of property, and engage as an operative in a factory."

At this moment, neighbor Hall, an old-fashioned, good-natured sort of a man, entered very unceremoniously, and having heard the last sentence, replied: "Ah! widow, you know that I do not like the plan of bringing up our boys in idleness. But then Samuel is such a good boy, and so fond of reading, that I think it a vast pity if he cannot read all the books in the state. Yes, send him to college, widow; there he will have reading to his heart's content. You know there is a gratuity provided for the education of indigent and pious young men."

"Yes," said Mrs. Jones, "I know it; but I am resolved that if my son ever obtains a place among the servants of the Prince of Peace, he shall stand forth unchained by the bondage of men, and nobly exert the energies of his mind as the Lord's freeman."

Samuel, who had early been taught the most perfect obedience, now yielded reluctant consent to this measure.--Little time was requisite for arrangements; and having converted her little effects into cash, they who had never before been separated, now took an affectionate and sorrowful leave of each other, and departed--the one to the halls of learning, and the other to the power-looms.

We shall now leave Samuel Jones, and accompany his mother to Dover. On her arrival, she assumed her maiden name, which I shall call Lucy Cambridge; and such was her simplicity and quietness of deportment, that she was never suspected of being other than she seemed. She readily obtained a situation in a weave-room, and by industry and close application, she quickly learned the grand secret of a successful weaver--namely, "Keep the filling running, and the web clear."

The wages were not then reduced to the present low standard, and Lucy transmitted to her son, monthly, all, saving enough to supply her absolute necessities.

As change is the order of the day in all manufacturing places, so, in the course of change, Lucy became my room-mate; and she whom I had before admired, secured my love and ardent friendship. Upon general topics she conversed freely; but of her history and kindred, never. Her respectful deportment was sufficient to protect her from the inquiries of curiosity; and thus she maintained her reserve until one evening when I found her sadly perusing a letter. I thought she had been weeping. All the sympathies of my nature were aroused, and throwing my arms around her neck, I exclaimed, "Dear Lucy, does your letter bring you bad news, or are any of your relatives"----I hesitated and stopped; for, thought I, "perhaps she _has_ no relatives. I have never heard her speak of any: she may be a lone orphan in the world." It was then she yielded to sympathy, what curiosity had never ventured to ask. From that time she continued to speak to me of her history and hopes. As I have selected names to suit myself, she has kindly permitted me to make an extract from her answer to that letter, which was as follows:

"My Dear Son,--in your letter of the 16th, you entreat me to leave the mill, saying, 'I would rather be a scavenger, a wood-sawyer, or anything, whereby I might honestly procure a subsistence for my mother and myself, than have you thus toil, early and late. Mother, the very thought is intolerable! O come away--for dearly as I love knowledge, I cannot consent to receive it at the price of my mother's happiness.'

"My son, it is true that factory life is a life of toil--but I am preparing the way for my only son to go forth as a herald of the cross, to preach repentance and salvation to those who are out of the way. I am promoting an object which was very near the heart of my dear husband. Wherefore I desire that you will not again think of pursuing any other course than the one already marked out for you; for you perceive that my agency in promoting your success, forms an important part of _my_ happiness."

Often have I seen her eyes sparkle with delight as she mentioned her son and his success. And after the labor and toil of attending "double work" during the week, very often have I seen her start with all the elasticity of youth, and go to the Post Office after a letter from Samuel. And seldom did she return without one, for he was ever thoughtful of his mother, who was spending her strength for him. And he knew very well that it was essential to her happiness to be well informed of his progress and welfare.

Nearly three years had elapsed since Lucy Cambridge first entered the mill, when the stage stopped in front of her boarding house, and a young gentleman sprang out, and inquired if Miss Lucy Cambridge was in. Immediately they were clasped in each other's arms. This token of mutual affection created no small stir among the boarders. One declared, "she thought it very singular that such a pretty young man should fancy so old a girl as Lucy Cambridge." Another said, "she should as soon think that he would marry his mother."

Samuel Jones was tall, but of slender form. His hair, which was of the darkest brown, covered an unusually fine head. His eyes, of a clear dark grey, beaming with piety and intelligence, shed a lustre over his whole countenance, which was greatly heightened by being overshadowed by a deep, broad forehead.

He visited his mother at this time, to endeavor to persuade her to leave the mill, and spend her time in some less laborious occupation. He assured her that he had saved enough from the stock she had already sent him, to complete his education. But she had resolved to continue in her present occupation, until her son should have a prospect of a permanent residence; and he departed alone.

Intelligence was soon conveyed to Lucy that a young student had preached occasionally, and that his labors had been abundantly blessed. And ere the completion of another year, Samuel Jones went forth a licentiate, to preach the everlasting gospel.

I will not attempt to describe the transports of that widowed heart, when she received the joyful tidings that her son had received a unanimous call to take the pastoral charge of a small but well-united society in the western part of Ohio, and only waited for her to accompany him thither.

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.

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_!

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.

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.

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.

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.

THE VILLAGE CHRONICLE.