CHAPTER III.

At the close of a pleasant April day, Mr. Atkins sat at his kitchen fire-side, with Charley upon his knees. "Wife," said he to Mrs. Atkins, who was busily preparing the evening meal, "is it not a year since Abby left home?"

"Why, husband, let me think: I always clean up the house thoroughly just before _fast-day_, and I had not done it when Abby went away. I remember speaking to her about it, and telling her that it was wrong to leave me at such a busy time, and she said, 'Mother, I will be at home to do it all next year.' Yes, it is a year, and I should not be surprised if she should come this week."

"Perhaps she will not come at all," said Mr. Atkins, with a gloomy look; "she has written us but few letters, and they have been very short and unsatisfactory. I suppose she has sense enough to know that no news is better than bad news, and having nothing pleasant to tell about herself, she thinks she will tell us nothing at all. But if I ever get her home again, I will keep her here. I assure you, her first year in Lowell shall also be her last."

"Husband, I told you my fears, and if you had set up your authority, Abby would have been obliged to stay at home; but perhaps she is doing pretty well. You know she is not accustomed to writing, and that may account for the few and short letters we have received; but they have all, even the shortest, contained the assurance that she would be at home at the close of the year."

"Pa, the stage has stopped here," said little Charley, and he bounded from his father's knee. The next moment the room rang with the shout of "Abby has come! Abby has come!" In a few moments more, she was in the midst of the joyful throng. Her father pressed her hand in silence, and tears gushed from her mother's eyes. Her brothers and sisters were clamorous with delight, all but little Charley, to whom Abby was a stranger, and who repelled with terror all her overtures for a better acquaintance. Her parents gazed upon her with speechless pleasure, for they felt that a change for the better had taken place in their once wayward girl. Yes, there she stood before them, a little taller and a little thinner, and, when the flush of emotion had faded away, perhaps a little paler; but the eyes were bright in their joyous radiance, and the smile of health and innocence was playing around the rosy lips. She carefully laid aside her new straw bonnet, with its plain trimming of light blue ribbon, and her dark merino dress showed to the best advantage her neat symmetrical form. There was more delicacy of personal appearance than when she left them, and also more softness of manner; for constant collision with so many young females had worn off the little asperities which had marked her conduct while at home.

"Well, Abby, how many silk gowns have you got?" said her father, as he opened a large new trunk. "_Not one_, father," said she; and she fixed her dark eyes upon him with an expression which told all. "But here are some little books for the children, and a new calico dress for mother; and here is a nice black silk handkerchief for you to wear around your neck on Sundays; accept it, dear father, for it is your daughter's first gift."

"You had better have bought me a pair of spectacles, for I am sure I cannot see anything." There were tears in the rough farmer's eyes, but he tried to laugh and joke, that they might not be perceived. "But what did you do with all your money?"

"I thought I had better leave it there," said Abby, and she placed her bank-book in her father's hand. Mr. Atkins looked a moment, and the forced smile faded away. The surprise had been too great, and tears fell thick and fast from the father's eyes.

"It is but a little," said Abby. "But it was all you could save," replied her father, "and I am proud of you, Abby; yes, proud that I am the father of such a girl. It is not this paltry sum which pleases me so much, but the prudence, self-command, and real affection for us which you have displayed. But was it not sometimes hard to resist temptation?"

"Yes, father, _you_ can never know how hard; but it was the thought of _this_ night which sustained me through it all. I knew how you would smile, and what my mother would say and feel; and though there have been moments, yes, hours, that have seen me wretched enough, yet this one evening will repay for all. There is but one thing now to mar my happiness, and that is the thought that this little fellow has quite forgotten me;" and she drew Charley to her side. But the new picture-book had already effected wonders, and in a few moments he was in her lap, with his arms around her neck, and his mother could not persuade him to retire that night until he had given "sister Abby" a hundred kisses.

"Father," said Abby, as she arose to retire, when the tall clock struck eleven, "may I not sometime go back to Lowell? I should like to add a little to the sum in the bank, and I should be glad of _one_ silk gown!"

"Yes, Abby, you may do anything you wish. I shall never again be afraid to let you spend a year in Lowell."

LUCINDA.

THE FIRST WEDDING IN SALMAGUNDI.

I have often heard this remark, "If their friends can give them nothing else, they will surely give them a wedding." As I have nothing else to present at this time, I hope my friends will not complain if I give them an account of the first wedding in our town. The ceremony of marriage being performed by his Excellency the Governor, it would not be amiss to introduce him first of all.

Let me then introduce John Wentworth (the last governor of New Hampshire while the colonies were subject to the crown of Great Britain), whose country seat was in Salmagundi. The wedding which I am about to describe was celebrated on a romantic spot, by the side of Lake Winnipiseogee. All the neighbors within ten miles were invited, and it was understood that all who came were expected to bring with them some implements of husbandry, such as ploughs, harrows, yokes, bows, wheelbarrows, hods, scythe-snaths, rakes, goads, hay-hooks, bar-pins, &c. These articles were for a fair, the product of which was to defray the expenses of the wedding, and also to fit out the bride with some household furniture. All these implements, and a thousand and one besides, being wanted on the farm of Wentworth, he was to employ persons to buy them for his own especial use.

Johnny O'Lara, an old man, who used to chop wood at my father's door, related the particulars of the wedding one evening, while I sat on a block in the chimney-corner (the usual place for the greatest rogue in the family), plying my knitting-needles, and every now and then, when the eyes of my step-mother were turned another way, playing slyly with the cat. And once, when we yonkers went upon a whortleberry excursion, with O'Lara for our pilot, he showed us the spot where the wedding took place, and described it as it was at the time. On the right was a grove of birches; on the left a grove of bushy pines, with recesses for the cows and sheep to retire from the noon-day sun. The background was a forest of tall pines and hemlocks, and in front were the limpid waters of the "Smile of the Great Spirit." These encircled about three acres of level grass-land, with here and there a scattering oak. "Under yonder oak," said O'Lara, "the ceremony was performed; and here, on this flat rock, was the rude oven constructed, where the good wives baked the lamb; and there is the place where crotched stakes were driven to support a pole, upon which hung two huge iron kettles, in which they boiled their peas. And on this very ground," said O'Lara, "in days of yore, the elfs and fairies used to meet, and, far from mortal ken, have their midnight gambols."

The wedding was on a fine evening in the latter part of the month of July, at a time when the moon was above the horizon for the whole night. The company were all assembled, with the exception of the Governor and his retinue. To while away the time, just as the sun was sinking behind the opposite mountains, they commenced singing an ode to sunset. They had sung,

"The sunset is calm on the face of the deep, And bright is the last look of Sol in the west; And broad do the beams of his parting glance sweep, Like the path that conducts to the land of the blest,"

when the blowing of a horn announced the approach of the Governor, whose barge was soon seen turning a point of land. The company gave a salute of nineteen guns, which was returned from the barge, gun for gun. The Governor and retinue soon landed, and the fair was quickly over. The company being seated on rude benches prepared for the occasion, the blowing of a horn announced that it was time for the ceremony to commence; and, being answered by a whistle, all eyes were turned toward the right, and issuing from the birchen grove were seen three musicians, with a bagpipe, fife, and a Scotch fiddle, upon which they were playing with more good nature than skill. They were followed by the bridegroom and grooms-man, and in the rear were a number of young men in their holiday clothes. These having taken their places, soft music was heard from the left; and from a recess in the pines, three maidens in white, with baskets of wild flowers on the left arm, came forth, strewing the flowers on the ground, and singing a song, of which I remember only the chorus:

"Lead the bride to Hymen's bowers, Strew her path with choicest flowers."

The bride and bridesmaid followed, and after them came several lasses in gala dresses. These having taken their places, the father of the bride arose, and taking his daughter's hand and placing it in that of Clifford, gave them his blessing. The Governor soon united them in the bonds of holy matrimony, and as he ended the ceremony with saying, "What God hath joined let no man put asunder," he heartily saluted the bride. Clifford followed his example, and after him she was saluted by every gentleman in the company. As a compensation for this "rifling of sweets," Clifford had the privilege of kissing every lady present, and beginning with Madame Wentworth, he saluted them all, from the gray-headed matron, to the infant in its mother's arms.

The cake and wine were then passed round. Being a present from Madame Wentworth, they were no doubt excellent. After this refreshment, and while the good matrons were cooking their peas, and making other preparations, the young folks spent the time in playing "blind-man's-buff," and "hide and go seek," and in singing "Jemmy and Nancy," "Barbara Allen," "The Friar with Orders Grey," "The Lass of Richmond Hill," "Gilderoy," and other songs which they thought were appropriate to the occasion.

At length the ringing of a bell announced that dinner was ready. "What, dinner at that time of night?" perhaps some will say. But let me tell you, good friends (in Johnny O'Lara's words), that "the best time for a wedding dinner, is when it is well cooked, and the guests are ready to eat it." The company were soon arranged around the rude tables, which were rough boards, laid across poles that were supported by crotched stakes driven into the ground. But it matters not what the tables were, as they were covered with cloth white as the driven snow, and well loaded with plum puddings, baked lamb, and green peas, with all necessary accompaniments for a well ordered dinner, which the guests complimented in the best possible manner, that is, by making a hearty meal.

Dinner being ended, while the matrons were putting all things to rights, the young people made preparation for dancing; and a joyous time they had. The music and amusement continued until the "blushing morn" reminded the good people that it was time to separate. The rising sun had gilded the sides of the opposite mountains, which were sending up their exhalations, before the company were all on their way to their respective homes. Long did they remember the first wedding in our town. Even after the frost of seventy winters had whitened the heads of those who were then boys, they delighted to dwell on the merry scenes of that joyful night; and from that time to the present, weddings have been fashionable in Salmagundi, although they are not always celebrated in quite so romantic a manner.

TABITHA.

"BLESS, AND CURSE NOT."

The Athenians were proud of their glory. Their boasted city claimed pre-eminence in the arts and sciences; even the savage bowed before the eloquence of their soul-stirring orators; and the bards of every nation sang of the glory of Athens.

But pre-eminent as they were, they had not learned to be merciful. The pure precepts of kindness and love were not taught by their sages; and their noble orators forgot to inculcate the humble precepts of forgiveness, and the "charity which hopeth all things." They told of patriotism, of freedom, and of that courage which chastises wrong or injury with physical suffering; but they told not of that nobler spirit which "renders good for evil," and "blesses, but curses not."

Alcibiades, one of their own countrymen, offended against their laws, and was condemned to expiate the offence with his life. The civil authorities ordered his goods to be confiscated, that their value might swell the riches of the public treasury; and everything that pertained to him, in the way of citizenship, was obliterated from the public records. To render his doom more dreary and miserable,--to add weight to the fearful fulness of his sentence,--the priests and priestesses were commanded to pronounce upon him their curse. One of them, however, a being gentle and good as the principles of mercy which dwelt within her heart--timid as the sweet songsters of her own myrrh and orange groves, and as fair as the acacia-blossom of her own bower--rendered courageous by the all-stimulating and powerful influence of kindness, dared alone to assert the divinity of her office, by refusing to curse her unfortunate fellow-being--asserting that she was "PRIESTESS TO BLESS, AND NOT TO CURSE."

LISETTA.

ANCIENT POETRY.

I love old poetry, with its obscure expressions, its obsolete words, its quaint measure, and rough rhyme. I love it with all these, perhaps _for_ these. It is because it is different from modern poetry, and not that I think it better, that it at times affords me pleasure. But when one has been indulging in the perusal of the smooth and elegant productions of later poets, there is at least the charm of variety in turning to those of ancient bards. This is pleasant to those who love to exercise the imagination--for if we would understand our author, we must go back into olden times; we must look upon the countenances and enter into the feelings of a long-buried generation; we must remember that much of what we know was then unknown, and that thoughts and sentiments which may have become common to us, glowed upon these pages in all their primal beauty. Much of which our writer may speak has now been wholly lost; and difficult, if not impossible, to be understood are many of his expressions and allusions.

But these difficulties present a "delightful task" to those who would rather push on through a tangled labyrinth, than to walk with ease in a smooth-rolled path. Their self-esteem is gratified by being able to discover beauty where other eyes behold but deformity: and a brilliant thought or glowing image is rendered to them still more beautiful, because it shines through a veil impenetrable to other eyes. They are proud of their ability to perceive this beauty, or understand that oddity, and they care not for the mental labor which they have been obliged to perform.

When I turn from modern poetry to that of other days, it is like leaving bright flowery fields to enter a dark tangled forest. The air is cooler, but damp and heavy. A sombre gloom reigns throughout, occasionally broken by flitting sunbeams, which force their way through the thick branches which meet above me, and dance and glitter upon the dark underwood below. They are strongly contrasted with the deep shade around, and my eye rests upon them with more pleasure than it did upon the broad flood of sunshine which bathes the fields without. My searching eye at times discovers some lonely flower, half hidden by decayed leaves and withered moss, yet blooming there in undecaying beauty. There are briers and thistles and creeping vines around, but I heedlessly press on, for I must enjoy the fragrance and examine the structure of these unobtrusive plants. I enjoy all this for a while, but at length I grow chilled and weary, and am glad to leave the forest for a less fatiguing resort.

But there is one kind of old poetry to which these remarks may not apply--I mean the POETRY OF THE BIBLE.--And how much is there of this! There are songs of joy and praise, and those of woe and lamentation; there are odes and elegies; there are prophecies and histories; there are descriptions of nature and narratives of persons, and all written with a fervency of feeling which embodies itself in lofty and glowing imagery. And what is this but poetry? yet not that which can be compared to some dark, mazy forest, but rather like a sacred grove, such as "were God's first temples." There is no gloom around, neither is there bright sunshine; but a calm and holy light pervades the place. The tall trees meet not above me, but through their lofty boughs I can look up and see the blue heavens bending their perfect dome above the hallowed spot, while now and then some fleecy cloud sails slowly on, as though it loved to shadow the still loneliness beneath. There are soft winds murmuring through the high tree-tops, and their gentle sound is like a voice from the spirit-land. There are delicate white flowers waving upon their slight stems, and their sweet fragrance is like the breath of heaven. I feel that I am in God's temple. The Spirit above waits for the sacrifice. I can now erect an altar, and every selfish worldly thought should be laid thereon, a free-will offering. But when the rite is over, and I leave this consecrated spot for the busy path of life, I should strive to bear into the world a heart baptized in the love of beauty, holiness, and truth.

I have spoken figuratively--perhaps too much so to please the pure and simple tastes of some--but He who made my soul and placed it in the body which it animates, implanted within it a love of the beautiful in literature, and this love was first awakened and then cherished by the words of Holy Writ.

I have, when a child, read my Bible, from its earliest book to its latest. I have gone in imagination to the plains of Uz, and have there beheld the pastoral prince in all his pride and glory. I have marked him; too, when in the depth of his sorrow he sat speechless upon the ground for seven days and seven nights; but when he opened his mouth and spake, I listened with eagerness to the heart-stirring words and startling imagery which poured forth from his burning lips! But my heart has thrilled with a delightful awe when "the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind," and I listened to words of more simplicity than uninspired man may ever conceive.

I have gone, too, with the beloved disciple into that lonely isle where he beheld those things of which he was commanded to write. My imagination dared not conceive of the glorious throne, and of Him who sat upon it; but I have looked with a throbbing delight upon the New Jerusalem coming down from heaven in her clear crystal light, "as a bride adorned for her husband." I have gazed upon the golden city, flashing like "transparent glass," and have marked its pearly gates and walls of every precious stone. In imagination have I looked upon all this, till my young spirit longed to leave its earthly tenement and soar upward to that brighter world, where there is no need of sun or moon, for "the Lamb is the light thereof."

I have since read my Bible for better purposes than the indulgence of taste. There must I go to learn my duty to God and my neighbor. There should I look for precepts to direct the life that now is, and for the promise of that which is to come; yet seldom do I close that sacred volume without a feeling of thankfulness, that the truths of our holy religion have been so often presented in forms which not only reason and conscience will approve, but also which the fancy can admire and the heart must love.

ELLA.

THE SPIRIT OF DISCONTENT.

"I will not stay in Lowell any longer; I am determined to give my notice this very day," said Ellen Collins, as the earliest bell was tolling to remind us of the hour for labor.

"Why, what is the matter, Ellen? It seems to me you have dreamed out a new idea! Where do you think of going? and what for?"

"I am going home, where I shall not be obliged to rise so early in the morning, nor be dragged about by the ringing of a bell, nor confined in a close noisy room from morning till night. I will not stay here; I am determined to go home in a fortnight."

Such was our brief morning's conversation.

In the evening, as I sat alone, reading, my companions having gone out to public lectures or social meetings, Ellen entered. I saw that she still wore the same gloomy expression of countenance, which had been manifested in the morning; and I was disposed to remove from her mind the evil influence, by a plain common-sense conversation.

"And so, Ellen," said I, "you think it unpleasant to rise so early in the morning, and be confined in the noisy mill so many hours during the day. And I think so, too. All this, and much more, is very annoying, no doubt. But we must not forget that there are advantages, as well as disadvantages, in this employment, as in every other. If we expect to find all sunshine and flowers in any station in life, we shall most surely be disappointed. We are very busily engaged during the day; but then we have the evening to ourselves, with no one to dictate to or control us. I have frequently heard you say, that you would not be confined to household duties, and that you dislike the millinery business altogether, because you could not have your evenings for leisure. You know that in Lowell we have schools, lectures, and meetings of every description, for moral and intellectual improvement."

"All that is very true," replied Ellen, "but if we were to attend every public institution, and every evening school which offers itself for our improvement, we might spend every farthing of our earnings, and even more. Then if sickness should overtake us, what are the probable consequences? Here we are, far from kindred and home; and if we have an empty purse, we shall be destitute of _friends_ also."

"I do not think so, Ellen. I believe there is no place where there are so many advantages within the reach of the laboring class of people, as exist here; where there is so much equality, so few aristocratic distinctions, and such good fellowship, as may be found in this community. A person has only to be honest, industrious, and moral, to secure the respect of the virtuous and good, though he may not be worth a dollar; while on the other hand, an immoral person, though he should possess wealth, is not respected."

"As to the morality of the place," returned Ellen, "I have no fault to find. I object to the constant hurry of everything. We cannot have time to eat, drink, or sleep; we have only thirty minutes, or at most three-quarters of an hour, allowed us, to go from our work, partake of our food, and return to the noisy chatter of machinery. Up before day, at the clang of the bell--and out of the mill by the clang of the bell--into the mill, and at work, in obedience to that ding-dong of a bell--just as though we were so many living machines. I will give my notice to-morrow: go, I will--I won't stay here and be a white slave."

"Ellen," said I, "do you remember what is said of the bee, that it gathers honey even in a poisonous flower? May we not, in like manner, if our hearts are rightly attuned, find many pleasures connected with our employment? Why is it, then, that you so obstinately look altogether on the dark side of a factory life? I think you thought differently while you were at home, on a visit, last summer--for you were glad to come back to the mill in less than four weeks. Tell me, now--why were you so glad to return to the ringing of the bell, the clatter of the machinery, the early rising, the half-hour dinner, and so on?"

I saw that my discontented friend was not in a humor to give me an answer--and I therefore went on with my talk.

"You are fully aware, Ellen, that a country life does not exclude people from labor--to say nothing of the inferior privileges of attending public worship--that people have often to go a distance to meeting of any kind--that books cannot be so easily obtained as they can here--that you cannot always have just such society as you wish--that you"--

She interrupted me, by saying, "We have no bell, with its everlasting ding-dong."

"What difference does it make?" said I, "whether you shall be awakened by a bell, or the noisy bustle of a farm-house? For, you know, farmers are generally up as early in the morning as we are obliged to rise."

"But then," said Ellen, "country people have none of the clattering of machinery constantly dinning in their ears."

"True," I replied, "but they have what is worse--and that is, a dull, lifeless silence all around them. The hens may cackle sometimes, and the geese gabble, and the pigs squeal"----

Ellen's hearty laugh interrupted my description--and presently we proceeded, very pleasantly, to compare a country life with a factory life in Lowell. Her scowl of discontent had departed, and she was prepared to consider the subject candidly. We agreed, that since we must work for a living, the mill, all things considered, is the most pleasant, and best calculated to promote our welfare; that we will work diligently during the hours of labor; improve our leisure to the best advantage, in the cultivation of the mind,--hoping thereby not only to increase our own pleasure, but also to add to the happiness of those around us.

ALMIRA.

THE WHORTLEBERRY EXCURSION.

About a dozen of us, lads and lasses, had promised friend H. that on the first lowery day we would meet him and his family on the top of Moose Mountain, for the purpose of picking whortleberries, and of taking a view of the country around. We had provided the customary complement of baskets, pails, dippers, &c.; and one morning, which promised a suitable day for our excursion, we piled ourselves into a couple of waggons, and rode to the foot of the mountain and commenced climbing it on foot. A beaten path and spotted trees were our guides. A toilsome way we found it--some places being so steep that we were obliged to hold by the twigs, to prevent us from falling.

Three-quarters of an hour after we left our horses, we found ourselves on the whortleberry ground--some of us singing, some chatting, and all trying to see who could pick the most berries. Friend H. went from place to place among the young people, and with his social conversation gave new life to the party--while his chubby boys and rosy girls by their nimbleness plainly told that they did not intend that any one should beat them in picking berries.

Towards noon, friend H. conducted us to a spring, where we made some lemonade, having taken care to bring plenty of lemons and sugar with us, and also bread and cheese for a lunch. Seated beneath a wide-spreading oak, we partook of our homely repast; and never in princely hall were the choicest viands eaten with a keener relish. After resting a while, we recommenced picking berries, and in a brief space our pails and baskets were all full.

About this time, the clouds cleared away, the sun shone out in all the splendor imaginable, and bright and beautiful was the prospect. Far as the eye could reach, in a north and north-easterly direction, were to be seen fields of corn and grain, with new mown grass-land, and potato flats, farm-houses, barns, and orchards--together with a suitable proportion of wood-land, all beautifully interspersed; and a number of ponds of water, in different places, and of different forms and sizes--some of them containing small islands, which added to the beauty of the scenery. The little village at Wakefield corner, which was about three miles distant, seemed to be almost under our feet; and with friend H.'s spy-glass, we could see the people at work in their gardens, weeding vegetables, picking cherries, gathering flowers, &c. But not one of our number had the faculty that the old lady possessed, who, in the time of the Revolution, in looking through a spy-glass at the French fleet, brought the Frenchmen so near, that she could hear them chatter; so we had to be content with ignorance of their conversation.

South-westerly might be seen Cropple-crown Mountain; and beyond it, Merry-meeting Pond, where, I have been told, Elder Randall, the father of the Free-will Baptist denomination, first administered the ordinance of Baptism. West, might be seen Tumble-down-dick Mountain; and north, the Ossipee Mountains; and far north, might be seen the White Mountains of New Hampshire, whose snow-crowned summits seemed to reach the very skies.

The prospect in the other directions was not so grand, although it was beautiful--so I will leave it, and take the shortest route, with my companions, with the baskets and pails of berries, to the house of friend H. On our way, we stopped to view the lot of rock maples, which, with some little labor, afforded a sufficient supply of sugar for the family of friend H., and we promised that in the season of sugar-making the next spring, we would make it convenient to visit the place, and witness the process of making maple-sugar.

Our descent from the mountain was by a different path--our friends having assured us, that although our route would be farther, we should find it more pleasant; and truly we did--for the pathway was not so rough as the one in which we travelled in the morning. And besides, we had the pleasure of walking over the farm of the good Quaker, and of hearing from his own lips many interesting circumstances of his life.

The country, he told us, was quite a wilderness when he first took up his abode on the mountain; and bears, he said, were as plenty as woodchucks, and destroyed much of his corn. He was a bachelor, and lived alone for a number of years after he first engaged in clearing his land. His habitation was between two huge rocks, at about seventy rods from the place where he afterwards built his house.--He showed us this ancient abode of his; it was in the midst of an old orchard. It appeared as if the rocks had been originally one; but by some convulsion of nature it had been sundered, midway, from top to bottom. The back part of this dwelling was a rock wall, in which there was a fire-place and an oven. The front was built of logs, with an aperture for a door-way; and the roof was made of saplings and bark. In this rude dwelling, friend H. dressed his food, and ate it; and here, on a bed of straw, he spent his lonely nights. A small window in the rock wall admitted the light by day; and by night, his solitary dwelling was illuminated with a pitch-pine torch.

On being interrogated respecting the cause of his living alone so long as he did, he made answer, by giving us to understand, that if he was called "the bear," he was not so much of a brute as to marry until he could give his wife a comfortable maintenance; "and moreover, I was resolved," said he, "that Hannah should never have the least cause to repent of the ready decision which she made in my favor." "Then," said one of our company, "your wife was not afraid to trust herself with the bear?" "She did not hesitate in the least," said friend H.; "for when I 'popped the question,' by saying, 'Hannah, will thee have me?' she readily answered, 'Yes, To----;' she would have said, 'Tobias, I will;' but the words died on her lips, and her face, which blushed like the rose, became deadly pale; and she would have fallen on the floor, had I not caught her in my arms. After Hannah got over her faintness, I told her that we had better not marry, until I was in a better way of living; to which she also agreed. And," said he, "before I brought home my bird, I had built yonder cage"--pointing to his house; "and now, neighbors, let us hasten to it; for Hannah will have her tea ready by the time we get there." When we arrived at the house we found that tea was ready; and the amiable Mrs. H., the wife of the good Quaker, was waiting for us, with all imaginable patience.

The room in which we took tea was remarkably neat. The white floor was nicely sanded, and the fire-place filled with pine-tops and rose-bushes; and vases of roses were standing on the mantel-piece. The table was covered with a cloth of snowy whiteness, and loaded with delicacies; and here and there stood a little China vase, filled with white and damask roses.

"So-ho!" said the saucy Henry L., upon entering the room; "I thought that you Quakers were averse to every species of decoration; but see! here is a whole flower-garden!" Friend H. smiled and said, "the rose is a favorite with Hannah; and then it is like her, with one exception." "And what is that exception?" said Henry.--"Oh," said our friend, "Hannah has no thorns to wound." Mrs. H.'s heightened color and smile plainly told us, that praise from her husband was "music to her ear." After tea, we had the pleasure of promenading through the house; and Mrs. H. showed us many articles of domestic manufacture, being the work of her own and her daughters' hands. The articles consisted of sheets, pillow-cases, bed-quilts, coverlets of various colors, and woven in different patterns,--such as chariot wheels, rose-of-sharon, ladies' delight, federal constitution--and other patterns, the names of which I have forgotten. The white bed-spreads and the table-covers, which were inspected by us, were equal, if not superior, to those of English manufacture; in short, all that we saw proclaimed that order and industry had an abiding place in the house of friend H.

Mrs. H. and myself seated ourselves by a window which overlooked a young and thrifty orchard. A flock of sheep were grazing among the trees, and their lambs were gambolling from place to place. "This orchard is more beautiful than your other," said I; "but I do not suppose it contains anything so dear to the memory of friend H. as his old habitation." She pointed to a knoll, where was a small enclosure, and which I had not before observed. "There," said she, "is a spot more dear to Tobias; for there sleep our children." "Your cup has then been mingled with sorrow?" said I. "But," replied she, "we do not sorrow without hope; for their departure was calm as the setting of yonder sun, which is just sinking from sight; and we trust that we shall meet them in a fairer world, never to part." A tear trickled down the cheek of Mrs. H., but she instantly wiped it away, and changed the conversation. Friend H. came and took a seat beside us, and joined in the conversation, which, with his assistance, became animated and amusing.

Here, thought I, dwell a couple, happily united. Friend H., though rough in his exterior, nevertheless possesses a kindly affectionate heart; and he has a wife whose price is above rubies.

The saucy Henry soon came to the door, and bawled out, "The stage is ready." We obeyed the summons, and found that Henry and friend H.'s son had been for our vehicles. We were again piled into the waggons--pails, baskets, whortleberries, and all; and with many hearty shakes of the hand, and many kind farewells, we bade adieu to the family of friend H., but not without renewing the promise, that, in the next sugar-making season, we would revisit Moose Mountain.

JEMIMA.

THE WESTERN ANTIQUITIES.

In the valley of the Mississippi, and the more southern parts of North America, are found antique curiosities and works of art, bearing the impress of cultivated intelligence. But of the race, or people, who executed them, time has left no vestige of their existence, save these monuments of their skill and knowledge. Not even a tradition whispers its _guess-work_, who they might be. We only know _they were_.

What proof and evidence do we gather from their remains, which have withstood the test of time, of their origin and probable era of their existence? That they existed centuries ago, is evident from the size which forest trees have attained, which grow upon the mounds and fortifications discovered. That they were civilized and understood the arts, is apparent from the manner of laying out and erecting their fortifications, and from various utensils of gold, copper, and iron which have occasionally been found in digging below the earth's surface. If I mistake not, I believe even glass has been found, which, if so, shows them acquainted with chemical discoveries, which are supposed to have been unknown until a period much later than the probable time of their existence. That they were not the ancestors of the race which inhabited this country at the time of its discovery by Columbus, appears conclusive from the total ignorance of the Indian tribes of all knowledge of arts and civilization, and the non-existence of any tradition of their once proud sway. That they were a mighty people is evident from the extent of territory where these antiquities are scattered. The banks of the Ohio and Mississippi tell they once lived; and even to the shore where the vast Pacific heaves its waves, there are traces of their existence. Who were they? In what period of time did they exist?

In a cave in one of the Western States, there is carved upon the walls a group of people, apparently in the act of devotion; and a rising sun is sculptured above them. From this we should infer that they were Pagans, worshipping the sun and the fabulous gods. But what most strikingly arrests the antiquarian's observation, and causes him to repeat the inquiry, "who were they?" is the habiliments of the group. One part of their habit is of the Grecian costume, and the remainder is of the Phoenicians. Were they a colony from Greece? Did they come from that land in the days of its proud glory, bringing with them a knowledge of arts, science, and philosophy? Did they, too, seek a home across the western waters, because they loved liberty in a strange land better than they loved slavery at home? Or what may be as probable, were they the descendants of some band who managed to escape the destruction of ill-fated Troy?--the descendants of a people who had called Greece a mother-country, but were sacrificed to her vindictive ire, because they were prouder to be Trojans than the descendants of Grecians? Ay, who were they? Might not America have had its Hector, its Paris, and Helen? its maidens who prayed, and its sons who fought? All this might have been. But their historians and their poets alike have perished. They _have been_; but the history of their existence, their origin, and their destruction, all, all are hidden by the dark chaos of oblivion. Imagination alone, from inanimate landmarks, voiceless walls, and soulless bodies, must weave the record which shall tell of their lives, their aims, origin, and final extinction.

Recently, report says, in Mexico there have been discovered several mummies, embalmed after the manner of the ancient Egyptians. If true, it carries the origin of this fated people still farther back; and we might claim them to be contemporaries with Moses and Joshua. Still, if I form my conclusions correctly from what descriptions I have perused of these Western relics of the past, I should decide that they corresponded better with the ancient Grecians, Phoenicians, or Trojans, than with the Egyptians. I repeat, I may be incorrect in my premises and deductions, but as imagination is their historian, it pleases me better to fill a world with heroes and beauties of Homer's delineations, than with those of "Pharaoh and his host."

LISETTE.

THE FIG-TREE.

It was a cold winter's evening. The snow had fallen lightly, and each tree and shrub was bending beneath its glittering burden. Here and there was one, with the moonbeams gleaming brightly upon it, until it seemed, with its many branches, touched by the ice-spirit, or some fairy-like creation, in its loveliness and beauty. Every thing was hushed in Dridonville.

Situated at a little distance, was a large white house, surrounded with elm-trees, in the rear of which, upon an eminence, stood a summer-house; and in the warm season might have been seen many a gay lady reclining beneath its vine-covered roof. No pains had been spared to make the situation desirable. It was the summer residence of Captain Wilson. But it was now mid-winter, and yet he lingered in the country. Many were the questions addressed by the villagers to the old gardener, who had grown grey in the captain's service, as to the cause of the long delay; but he could not, or would not, answer their inquiries.

The shutters were closed, the fire burning cheerfully, and the astral lamp throwing its soft mellow light upon the crimson drapery and rich furniture of one of the parlors. In a large easy chair was seated a gentleman, who was between fifty and sixty years of age. He was in deep and anxious thought; and ever and anon his lip curled, as if some bitter feeling was in his heart. Standing near him was a young man. His brow was open and serene; his forehead high and expansive; and his eyes beamed with an expression of benevolence and mildness. His lips were firmly compressed, denoting energy and decision of character.

"You may be seated," said Capt. Wilson, for it was he who occupied the large chair, the young man being his only son. "You may be seated, Augustus," and he cast upon him a look of mingled pride and scorn. The young man bowed profoundly, and took a seat opposite his father. There was a long pause, and the father was first to break silence. "So you intend to marry a beggar, and suffer the consequences. But do you think your love will stand the test of poverty, and the sneer of the world? for I repeat, that not one farthing of my money shall you receive, unless you comply with the promise which I long since made to my old friend, that our families should be united. She will inherit his vast possessions, as there is no other heir. True, she is a few years your senior; but that is of no importance. Your mother is older than I am. But I have told you all this before. Consider well ere you choose between wealth and poverty."

"Would that I could conscientiously comply with your request," replied Augustus, "but I have promised to be protector and friend to Emily Summerville. She is not rich in this world's goods; but she has what is far preferable--a contented mind; and you will allow that, in point of education, she will compare even with Miss Clarkson." In a firm voice he continued, "I have made my choice, I shall marry Emily;" and he was about to proceed, but his father stamped his foot, and commanded him to quit his presence. He left the house, and as he walked rapidly towards Mr. Grant's, the uncle of Miss Summerville, he thought how unstable were all earthly possessions, "and why," he exclaimed, "why should I make myself miserable for a little paltry gold? It may wound my pride at first to meet my gay associates; but that will soon pass away, and my father will see that I can provide for my own wants."

Emily Summerville was the daughter of a British officer, who for many years resided in the pleasant village of Dridonville. He was much beloved by the good people for his activity and benevolence. He built the cottage occupied by Mr. Grant. On account of its singular construction, it bore the name of the "English cottage." After his death it was sold, and Mr. Grant became the purchaser. There Emily had spent her childhood. On the evening before alluded to, she was in their little parlor, one corner of which was occupied by a large fig-tree. On a stand were geraniums, rose-bushes, the African lily, and many other plants. At a small table sat Emily, busily engaged with her needle, when the old servant announced Mr. Wilson. "Oh, Augustus, how glad I am you are come!" she exclaimed, as she sprung from her seat to meet him; "but you look sad and weary," she added, as she seated herself by his side, and gazed inquiringly into his face, the mirror of his heart. "What has happened? you look perplexed."

"Nothing more than I have expected for a long time," was the reply; and it was with heartfelt satisfaction that he gazed on the fair creature by his side, and thought she would be a star to guide him in the way of virtue. He told her all. And then he explained to her the path he had marked out for himself. "I must leave you for a time, and engage in the noise and excitement of my profession. It will not be long, if I am successful. I must claim one promise from you, that is, that you will write often, for that will be the only pleasure I shall have to cheer me in my absence."

She did promise; and when they separated at a late hour, they dreamed not that it was their last meeting on earth.

* * * * *

"Oh, uncle," said Emily, as they entered the parlor together one morning, "do look at my fig-tree; how beautiful it is. If it continues to grow as fast as it has done, I can soon sit under its branches." "It is really pretty," replied her uncle; and he continued, laughing and patting her cheek, "you must cherish it with great care, as it was a present from ---- now don't blush; I do not intend to speak his name, but was merely about to observe, that it might be now as in olden times, that as _he_ prospers, the tree will flourish; if he is sick, or in trouble, it will decay."

"If such are your sentiments," said Emily, "you will acknowledge that thus far his path has been strewed with flowers."

Many months passed away, and there was indeed a change. The tree that had before looked so green, had gradually decayed, until nothing was left but the dry branches. But she was not superstitious: "It might be," she said, "that she had killed it with kindness." Her uncle never alluded to the remark he had formerly made; but Emily often thought there might be some truth in it. She had received but one letter from Augustus, though she had written many.

Summer had passed, and autumn was losing itself in winter. Augustus Wilson was alone in the solitude of his chamber.--There was a hectic flush upon his cheek, and the low hollow cough told that consumption was busy. Was that the talented Augustus Wilson? he whose thrilling eloquence had sounded far and wide? His eyes were riveted upon a withered rose. It was given him by Emily, on the eve of his departure, with these words, "Such as I am, receive me. Would I were of more worth, for your sake."

"No," he musingly said; "it is not possible she has forgotten me. I will not, cannot believe it." He arose, and walked the room with hurried steps, and a smile passed over his face, as he held communion with the bright images of the past. He threw himself upon his couch, but sleep was a stranger to his weary frame.

Three weeks quickly passed, and Augustus Wilson lay upon his death-bed. Calm and sweet was his slumber, as the spirit took its flight to the better land. And O, it was a sad thing to see that father, with the frost of many winters upon his head, bending low over his son, entreating him to speak once more; but all was silent. He was not there; nought remained but the beautiful casket; the jewel which had adorned it was gone. And deep was the grief of the mother; but, unlike her husband, she felt she had done all she could to brighten her son's pathway in life. She knew not to what extent Capt. W. had been guilty.

Augustus was buried in all the pomp and splendor that wealth could command. The wretched father thought in this way to blind the eyes of the world. But he could not deceive himself. It was but a short time before he was laid beside his son at Mount Auburn. Several letters were found among his papers, but they had not been opened. Probably he thought that by detaining them, he should induce his son to marry the rich Miss Clarkson, instead of the poor Emily Summerville.

* * * * *

Emily Summerville firmly stood amidst the desolation that had withered all her bright hopes in life. She had followed her almost idolized uncle to the grave; she had seen the cottage, and all the familiar objects connected with her earliest recollections, pass into the hands of strangers; but there was not a sigh, nor a quiver of the lip, to tell of the anguish within. She knew not that Augustus Wilson had entered the spirit-land, until she saw the record of his death in a Boston paper. "O, if he had only sent me one word," she said; "even if it had been to tell me that I was remembered no more, it would have been preferable to this." The light which had shone so brightly on her pathway was withdrawn, and the darkness of night closed around her.

Long and fearful was the struggle between life and death; but when she arose from that sick bed, it was with a chastened spirit. "I am young," she thought, "and I may yet do much good." And when she again mingled in society, it was with a peace that the world could neither give nor take away.

She bade adieu to her native village, and has taken up her abode in Lowell. She is one of the class called "factory girls." She recently received the letters intercepted by Capt. Wilson, and the melancholy pleasure of perusing them is hallowed by the remembrance of him who is "gone, but not lost."

IONE.

VILLAGE PASTORS.

The old village pastor of New England was "a man having authority." His deacons were _under_ him, and not, as is now often the case, his tyrannical rulers; and whenever his parishioners met him, they doffed their hats, and said "Your Reverence." Whatever passed his lips was both law and gospel; and when too old and infirm to minister to his charge, he was not turned away, like an old worn-out beast, to die of hunger, or gather up, with failing strength, the coarse bit which might eke out a little longer his remaining days; but he was still treated with all the deference, and supported with all the munificence which was believed due to him whom they regarded as "God's vicegerent upon earth." He deemed himself, and was considered by his parishioners, if not infallible, yet something approaching it. Those were indeed the days of glory for New England clergymen.

Perhaps I am wrong. The present pastor of New England, with his more humble mien and conciliatory tone, his closer application and untiring activity, may be, in a wider sphere, as truly glorious an object of contemplation. Many are the toils, plans and enterprises entrusted to him, which in former days were not permitted to interfere with the duties exclusively appertaining to the holy vocation; yet with added labors, the modern pastor receives neither added honors, nor added remuneration. Perhaps it is well--nay, perhaps it is _better_; but I am confident that if the old pastor could return, and take a bird's-eye view of the situations of his successors, he would exclaim, "How has the glory departed from Israel, and how have they cast down the sons of Levi!"

I have been led to these reflections by a contemplation of the characters of the first three occupants of the pulpit in my native village.

Our old pastor was settled, as all then were, for life. I can remember him but in his declining years, yet even then was he a hale and vigorous old man. Honored and beloved by all his flock, his days passed undisturbed by the storms and tempests which have since then so often darkened and disturbed the theological world. The opinions and creeds, handed down by his Pilgrim Fathers, he carefully cherished, neither adding thereto, nor taking therefrom; and he indoctrinated the young in all the mysteries of the true faith, with an undoubting belief in its infallibility. There was much of the patriarch in his look and manner; and this was heightened by the nature of his avocations, in which pastoral labors were mingled with clerical duties. No farm was in better order than that of the parsonage; no fields looked more thriving, and no flocks were more profitable than were those of the good clergyman. Indeed he sometimes almost forgot his spiritual field, in the culture of that which was more earthly.

One Saturday afternoon the minister was very busily engaged in hay-making. His good wife had observed that during the week he had been unusually engrossed in temporal affairs, and feared for the well-being of his flock, as she saw that he could not break the earthly spell, even upon this last day of the week. She looked, and looked in vain for his return; until, finding him wholly lost to a sense of his higher duties, she deemed it her duty to remind him of them. So away she went to the haying field, and when she was in sight of the reverend haymaker, she screamed out, "Mr. W., Mr. W."

"What, my dear?" shouted Mr. W. in return.

"Do you intend to feed your people with hay to-morrow?"

This was a poser--and Mr. W. dropped his rake; and, repairing to his study, spent the rest of the day in the preparation of food more meat for those who looked so trustfully to him for the bread of life.

His faithful companion was taken from him, and those who knew of his strong and refined attachment to her, said truly, when they prophesied, that he would never marry again.

She left one son--their only child--a boy of noble feelings and superior intellect; and his father carefully educated him with a fond wish that he would one day succeed him in the sacred office of a minister of God. He hoped indeed that he might even fill the very pulpit which he must at some time vacate; and he prayed that his own life might be spared until this hope had been realized.

Endicott W. was also looked upon as their future pastor by many of the good parishioners; and never did a more pure and gentle spirit take upon himself the task of preparing to minister to a people in holy things. He was the beloved of his father, the only child who had ever blessed him--for he had not married till late in life, and the warm affections which had been so tardily bestowed upon one of the gentler sex, were now with an unusual fervor lavished upon this image of her who was gone.

When Endicott W. returned home, having completed his studies at the University, he was requested by our parish to settle as associate pastor with his father, whose failing strength was unequal to the regular discharge of his parochial duties. It was indeed a beautiful sight to see that old man, with bending form and silvery locks, joining in the public ministrations with his young and gifted son--the one with a calm expression of trusting faith; the countenance of the other beaming with that of enthusiasm and hope.

Endicott was ambitious. He longed to see his own name placed in the bright constellation of famed theologians; and though he knew that years must be spent in toil for the attainment of that object, he was willing that they should be thus devoted. The midnight lamp constantly witnessed the devotions of Endicott W. at the shrine of science; and the wasting form and fading cheek told what would be the fate of the infatuated worshipper.

It was long before our young pastor, his aged father, and the idolizing people, who were so proud of his talents, and such admirers of his virtues,--it was long ere these could be made to believe he was dying; but Endicott W. departed from life, as a bright cloud fades away in a noon-day sky--for his calm exit was surrounded by all which makes a death-bed glorious. His aged father said, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." And then he went again before his flock, and endeavored to reconcile them to their loss, and dispense again the comforts and blessings of the gospel, trusting that his strength would still be spared, until one, who was even then preparing, should be ready to take his place.

* * * * *

Shall I tell you now of my own home? It was a rude farm-house, almost embowered by ancient trees, which covered the sloping hill-side on which it was situated; and it looked like an old pilgrim, who had crawled into the thicket to rest his limbs, and hide his poverty. My parents were poor, toiling, care-worn beings, and in a hard struggle for the comforts of this life had almost forgotten to prepare for that which is to come. It is true, the outward ordinances of religion were never neglected; but the spirit, the feeling, the interest, in short all that is truly deserving the name of piety, was wanting. My father toiled through the burning heat of summer, and the biting frost of winter, for his loved ones; and my mother also labored, from the first dawn of day till a late hour at night in behalf of her family. She was true to her duties as wife and mother, but it was from no higher motive than the instincts which prompt the fowls of the air to cherish their brood; and though she perhaps did not believe that "labor was the end of life," still her conduct would have given birth to that supposition.

I had been for some time the youngest of the family, when a little brother was born. He was warmly welcomed by us, though we had long believed the family circle complete.--We were not then aware at how dear a price the little stranger was to be purchased. From the moment of his birth, my mother never knew an hour of perfect health. She had previously injured her constitution by unmitigated toil, and now were the effects to be more sensibly felt. She lived very many years; but it was the life of an invalid.

Reader, did you ever hear of the "thirty years' consumption?" a disease at present unknown in New England--for that scourge of our climate will now complete in a few months the destruction which it took years of desperate struggle to perform upon the constitutions of our more hardy ancestors.

My mother was in such a consumption--that disorder which comes upon its victim like the Aurorean flashes in an Arctic sky, now vivid in its pure loveliness, and then shrouded in a sombre gloom. Now we hoped, nay, almost believed, she was to be again quite well, and anon we watched around a bed from which we feared she would never arise.

It was strange to us, who had always seen her so unremitting in her toilsome labors, and so careless in her exposure to the elements, to watch around her now--to shield her from the lightest breeze, or the slightest dampness of the air--to guard her from all intrusion, and relieve her from all care--to be always reserving for her the warmest place by the fire-side, and preparing the choicest bit of food--to be ever ready to pillow her head and bathe her brow--in short, to be never unconscious of the presence of disease.--Our steps grew softer, and our voices lower, and the stillness of our manners had its influence upon our minds. The hush was upon our spirits; and there can surely be nothing so effectual in carrying the soul before its Maker, as disease; and it may truly be said to every one who enters the chamber of sickness, "The place whereon thou standest is holy ground."

My little brother was to us an angel sent from heaven.--He possessed a far more delicate frame and lofty intellect than any other member of the family; and his high, pale brow, and brilliant eyes, were deemed sure tokens of uncommon genius. My mother herself watched with pleasure these indications of talent, although the time had been when a predilection for literary pursuits would have been thought inconsistent with the common duties which we were all born to fulfil.

We had always respected the learned and talented, but it was with a feeling akin to the veneration we felt for the inhabitants of the spiritual world. They were far above us, and we were content to bow in reverence. Our thoughts had been restricted to the narrow circle of every-day duties, and our highest aspirations were to be admitted at length, as spectators, to the glory of a material heaven, where streets of gold and thrones of ivory form the magnificence of the place. It was different now.--With a nearer view of that better world, to which my mother had received her summons, came also more elevated spiritual and blissful views of its glory and perfection. It was another heaven, for she was another being; and she would have been willing at any moment to have resigned the existence which she held by so frail a tenure, had it not been for the sweet child which seemed to have been sent from that brighter world to hasten and prepare her for departure.

Our pastor was now a constant visitant. Hitherto he had found but little to invite him to our humble habitation. He had been received with awe and constraint, and the topics upon which he loved to dwell touched no chord in the hearts of those whom he addressed. But now my mother was anxious to pour into his ears all the new-felt sentiments and emotions with which her heart was filled. She wished to share his sympathy, and receive his instructions; for she felt painfully conscious of her extreme ignorance.

It was our pastor who first noticed in my little brother the indications of mental superiority; and we felt then as though the magical powers of some favored order of beings had been transferred to one in our own home-circle; and we loved the little Winthrop (for father had named him after the old governor) with a stronger and holier love than we had previously felt for each other. And in these new feelings how much was there of happiness! Though there was now less health, and of course less wealth, in our home, yet there was also more pure joy.

I have sometimes been out upon the barren hill-side, and thought that there was no pleasure in standing on a spot so desolate. I have been again in the same bare place, and there was a balmy odor in the delicious air, which made it bliss but to inhale the fragrance. Some spicy herb had carpeted the ground, and though too lowly and simple to attract the eye, yet the charm it threw around the scene was not less entrancing because so viewless and unobtrusive.

Such was the spell shed around our lowly home by the presence of religion. It was with us the exhalation from lowly plants, and the pure fragrance went up the more freely because they had been bruised. In our sickness and poverty we had joy in the present, and bright hopes for the future.

It was early decided that Winthrop should be a scholar.--Our pastor said it must be so, and Endicott, who was but a few years older, assisted him in his studies. They were very much together, and excepting in their own families, had no other companion. But when my brother returned from the pastor's study with a face radiant with the glow of newly-acquired knowledge, and a heart overflowing in its desire to impart to others, he usually went to his pale, emaciated mother to give vent to his sensations of joy, and came to me to bestow the boon of knowledge. I was the nearest in age. I had assisted to rear his infancy, and been his constant companion in childhood; and now our intercourse was to be continued and strengthened, amidst higher purposes and loftier feelings. I was the depository of all his hopes and fears, the sharer of all his plans for the future; and his aim was then to follow in the footsteps of Endicott W. If he could only be as good, as kind and learned, he should think himself one of the best of mankind.

When Endicott became our pastor, my brother was ready to enter college, with the determination to consecrate himself to the same high calling. It seemed hardly like reality to us, that one of our own poor household was to be an educated man. We felt lifted up--not with pride--for the feeling which elevated us was too pure for that; but we esteemed ourselves better than we had ever been before, and strove to be more worthy of the high gift which had been bestowed upon us. When my brother left home, it was with the knowledge that self-denial was to be practised, for his sake, by those who remained; but he also knew that it was to be willingly, nay, joyously performed. Still he did not know _all_. Even things which heretofore, in our poverty, we had deemed essential to comfort, were now resigned.--We did not even permit my mother to know how differently the table was spread for her than for our own frugal repast. Neither was she aware how late and painfully I toiled to prevent the hire of additional service upon our little farm. The joy in the secret depths of my heart was its own reward; and never yet have I regretted an effort or a sacrifice made then. It was a discipline like the refiner's fire, and but for my brother, I should never have been even as, with all my imperfections, I trust I am now.

My brother returned from college as the bright sun of Endicott W.'s brief career was low in a western sky. He had intended to study with him for the same vocation--and with him he _did_ prepare. O, there could have been no more fitting place to imbue the mind with that wisdom which cometh from above, than the sick room at our pastor's.

"The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileged beyond the common walks of life,"--

and Endicott's was like the shelter of some bright spirit from the other world, who, for the sake of those about him, was delaying for a while his return to the home above.--My brother was with him in his latest hours, and received as a dying bequest the charge of his people. The parish also were anxious that he should be Endicott's successor; and in the space requested for farther preparation, our old pastor returned to his pulpit.

But he had overrated his own powers; and besides, he was growing blind. There were indeed those who said that, notwithstanding his calmness in the presence of others, he had in secret wept his sight away; and that while a glimmer of it remained, the curtain of his window, which overlooked the grave-yard, had never been drawn. He ceased his labors, but a temporary substitute was easily found--for, as old Deacon S. remarked, "There are many ministers _now_, who are glad to go out to day's labor."

My mother had prayed that strength might be imparted to her feeble frame, to retain its rejoicing inhabitant until she could see her son a more active laborer in the Lord's vineyard; "and then," said she, "I can depart in peace." For years she had hoped the time would come, but dared not hope to see it. But life was graciously spared; and the day which was to see him set apart as peculiarly a servant of his God, dawned upon her in better health than she had known for years. Perhaps it was the glad spirit which imparted its renewing glow to the worn body, but she went with us that day to the service of ordination. The old church was thronged; and as the expression of thankfulness went up from the preacher's lips, that one so worthy was then to be dedicated to his service, my own heart was subdued by the solemn joy that he was one of us. My own soul was poured out in all the exercises; but when the charge was given, there was also an awe upon all the rest.

Our aged pastor had been led into his pulpit, that he might perform this ceremony; and when he arose with his silvery locks, thinned even since he stood there last, and raised his sightless eyes to heaven, I freely wept. He was in that pulpit where he had stood so many years, to warn, to guide, and to console; and probably each familiar face was then presented to his imagination. He was where his dear departed son had exercised the ministerial functions, and the same part of the service which he had performed at his ordination, he was to enact again for his successor. The blind old man raised his trembling hand, and laid it upon the head of the young candidate; and as the memories of the past came rushing over him, he burst forth in a strain of heart-stirring eloquence. There was not a tearless eye in the vast congregation; and the remembrance of that hour had doubtless a hallowing influence upon the young pastor's life.

My brother was settled for five years, and as we departed from the church, I heard Deacon S. exclaim, in his bitterness against modern degeneracy in spiritual things, that "the old pastor was settled _for life_." "So is the new one," said a low voice in reply; and for the first time the idea was presented to my mind that Winthrop was to be, like Endicott W., one of the early called.

But the impression departed in my constant intercourse with him in his home--for our lowly dwelling was still the abode of the new pastor. He would never remove from it while his mother lived, and an apartment was prepared for him adjoining hers. They were pleasant rooms, for during the few past years he had done much to beautify the place, and the shrubs which he had planted were already at their growth. The thick vines also which had struggled over the building, were now gracefully twined around the windows, and some of the old trees cut down, that we might be allowed a prospect. Still all that could conduce to beauty was retained; and I have often thought how easily and cheaply the votary of true taste can enjoy its pleasures.

Winthrop was now so constantly active and cheerful, that I could not think of death as connected with him. But I knew that he was feeble, and watched and cherished him, as I had done when he was but a little child. Though in these respects his guardian, in others I was his pupil. I sat before him, as Mary did at the Messiah's feet, and gladly received his instructions. My heart went out with him in all the various functions of his calling. I often went with him to the bed-side of the sick, and to the habitations of the wretched. None knew better than he did, how to still the throbbings of the wrung heart, and administer consolation.

I was present also, when, for the first time, he sprinkled an infant's brow with the waters of consecration; and when he had blessed the babe, he also prayed that we might all become even as that little child. I was with him, too, when for the first time he joined in holy bands, those whom none but God should ever put asunder; and if the remembrance of the fervent petition which went up for them, has dwelt as vividly in their hearts as it has in mine, that prayer must have had a holy influence upon their lives.

I have said that I remember his first baptism and wedding; but none who were present will forget his first funeral. It was our mother's. She had lived so much beyond our expectations, and been so graciously permitted to witness the fulfilment of her dearest hope, that when at length the spirit winged its flight, we all joined in the thanksgiving which went up from the lips of her latest-born, that she had been spared so long.

It was a beautiful Sabbath--that day appointed for her funeral--but in the morning a messenger came to tell us that the clergyman whom we expected was taken suddenly ill. What could be done? Our old pastor was then confined to his bed, and on this day all else were engaged. "I will perform the services myself," said Winthrop. "I shall even be happy to do it."

"Nay," said I, "you are feeble, and already spent with study and watching. It must not be so."

"Do not attempt to dissuade me, sister," he replied. "There will be many to witness the interment of her who has hovered upon the brink of the grave so long; and has not almost every incident of her life, from my very birth, been a text from which important lessons may be drawn?" And then, fixing his large mild eyes full upon me, as though he would utter a truth which duty forbade him longer to suppress, he added, "I dare not misimprove this opportunity. This first death in _my_ parish may also be the last. Nay, weep not, my sister, because I may go next. The time at best is short, and I must work while the day lasts."

I did not answer. My heart was full, and I turned away. That day my brother ascended his pulpit to conduct the funeral services, and in them he _did_ make of her life a lesson to all present. But when he addressed himself particularly to the young, the middle-aged and the old, his eyes kindled, and his cheeks glowed, as he varied the subject to present the "king of terrors" in a different light to each. Then he turned to the mourners. And who were _they?_ His own aged father, the companion for many years of her who was before them in her shroud. His own brothers and sisters, and the little ones of the third generation, whose childish memories had not even yet forgotten her dying blessing. He essayed to speak, but in vain. The flush faded from his cheek till he was deadly pale. Again he attempted to address us, and again in vain. He raised his hand, and buried his face in the folds of his white handkerchief. I also covered my eyes, and there was a deep stillness throughout the assembly. At that moment I thought more of the living than of the dead; and then there was a rush among the great congregation, like the sudden bursting forth of a mighty torrent.

I raised my eyes, but could see no one in the pulpit. The next instant it was filled. I also pressed forward, and unimpeded ascended the steps, for all stood back that I might pass. I reached him as he lay upon the seat where he had fallen, and the handkerchief, which was still pressed to his lips, was wet with blood. They bore him down, and through the aisle; and when he passed the coffin, he raised his head, and gazed a moment upon that calm, pale face. Then casting upon all around a farewell glance, he sunk gently back, and closed his eyes.

* * * * *

A few evenings after, I was sitting by his bed-side. The bright glow of a setting sun penetrated the white curtains of his windows, and fell with softened lustre upon his face. The shadows of the contiguous foliage were dancing upon the curtains, the floor, and the snowy drapery of his bed; and as he looked faintly up, he murmured, "It is a beautiful world; but the other is glorious! and my mother is there, and Endicott. See! they are beckoning to me, and smiling joyfully!--Mother, dear mother, and Endicott, I am coming!"

His voice and looks expressed such conviction of the reality of what he saw, that I also looked up to see these beautiful spirits. My glance of disappointment recalled him; and he smiled as he said, "I think it was a dream; but it will be reality soon.--Do not go," said he, as I arose to call for others. "Do not fear, sister. The bands are very loose, and the spirit will go gently, and perhaps even before you could return."

I reseated myself, and pressing his wasted hand in mine, I watched,--

"As through his breast, the wave of life Heaved gently to and fro."

A few moments more, and I was alone with the dead.

We buried Winthrop by the side of Endicott W., and the old pastor was soon laid beside them. * * * *

Years have passed since then, and I still love to visit those three graves. But other feelings mingle with those which once possessed my soul. I hear those whose high vocation was once deemed a sure guarantee for their purity, either basely calumniated, or terribly condemned. Their morality is questioned, their sincerity doubted, their usefulness denied, and their pretensions scoffed at. It may be that unholy hands are sometimes laid upon the ark, and that change of times forbids such extensive usefulness as was in the power of the clergymen of New England in former days. But when there comes a muttering cry of "Down with the priesthood!" and a denial of the good which they have effected, my soul repels the insinuation, as though it were blasphemy. I think of the first three pastors of our village, and I reverence the ministerial office and its labors,

"If I but remember only, That such as these have lived, and died."

SUSANNA.

THE SUGAR-MAKING EXCURSION.

It was on a beautiful morning in the month of March, (one of those mornings so exhilarating that they make even age and decrepitude long for a ramble), that friend H. called to invite me to visit his sugar-lot--as he called it--in company with the party which, in the preceding summer, visited Moose Mountain upon the whortleberry excursion. It was with the pleasure generally experienced in revisiting former scenes, in quest of novelty and to revive impressions and friendships, that our party set out for this second visit to Moose Mountain.

A pleasant sleigh-ride of four or five miles, brought us safely to the domicile of friend H., who had reached home an hour previously, and was prepared to pilot us to his sugar-camp. "Before we go," said he, "you must one and all step within doors, and warm your stomachs with some gingered cider." We complied with his request, and after a little social chat with Mrs. H., who welcomed us with a cordiality not to be surpassed, and expressed many a kind wish that we might spend the day agreeably, we made for the sugar-camp, preceded by friend H., who walked by the side of his sleigh, which appeared to be well loaded, and which he steadied with the greatest care at every uneven place in the path.

Arrived at the camp, we found two huge iron kettles suspended on a pole, which was supported by crotched stakes, driven in the ground, and each half full of boiling syrup. This was made by boiling down the sap, which was gathered from troughs that were placed under spouts which were driven into rock-maple trees, an incision being first made in the tree with an auger. Friend H. told us that it had taken more than two barrels of sap to make what syrup each kettle contained. A steady fire of oak bark was burning underneath the kettles, and the boys and girls, friend H.'s sons and daughters, were busily engaged in stirring the syrup, replenishing the fire, &c.

Abigail, the eldest daughter, went to her father's sleigh, and taking out a large rundlet, which might contain two or three gallons, poured the contents into a couple of pails. This we perceived was milk, and as she raised one of the pails to empty the contents into the kettles, her father called out, "Ho, Abigail! hast thee strained the milk?"

"Yes, father," said Abigail.

"Well," said friend H., with a chuckle, "Abigail understands what she is about, as well as her mother would; and I'll warrant Hannah to make better maple-sugar than any other woman in New England, or in the whole United States--and you will agree with me in that, after that sugar is turned off and cooled." Abigail turned to her work, emptied her milk into the kettles, and then stirred their contents well together, and put some bark on the fire.

"Come, Jemima," said Henry L., "let us try to assist Abigail a little, and perhaps we shall learn to make sugar ourselves; and who knows but what she will give us a 'gob' to carry home as a specimen to show our friends; and besides, it is possible that we may have to make sugar ourselves at some time or other; and even if we do not, it will never do us any harm to know how the thing is done." Abigail furnished us each with a large brass scummer, and instructed us to take off the scum as it arose, and put it into the pails; and Henry called two others of our party to come and hold the pails.

"But tell me, Abigail," said Henry, with a roguish leer, "was that milk really intended for whitening the sugar?"

"Yes," said Abigail with all the simplicity of a Quakeress, "for thee must know that the milk will all rise in a scum, and with it every particle of dirt or dust which may have found its way into the kettles."

Abigail made a second visit to her father's sleigh, accompanied by her little brother, and brought from thence a large tin baker, and placed it before the fire. Her brother brought a peck measure two-thirds full of potatoes, which Abigail put into the baker, and leaving them to their fate, returned to the sleigh, and with her brother's assistance carried several parcels, neatly done up in white napkins, into a little log hut of some fifteen feet square, with a shed roof made of slabs. We began to fancy that we were to have an Irish lunch. Henry took a sly peep into the hut when we first arrived, and he declared that there was nothing inside, save some squared logs, which were placed back against the walls, and which he supposed were intended for seats. But he was mistaken in thinking that seats were every convenience which the building contained,--as will presently be shown.

Abigail and her brother had been absent something like half an hour, and friend H. had in the mean time busied himself in gathering sap, and putting it in some barrels hard by. The kettles were clear from scum, and their contents were bubbling like soap. The fire was burning cheerfully, the company all chatting merrily, and a peep into the baker told that the potatoes were cooked.

Abigail and her brother came, and taking up the baker, carried it inside the building, but soon returned, and placed it again before the fire. Then she called to her father, who came and invited us to go and take dinner.

We obeyed the summons; but how were we surprised, when we saw how neatly arranged was every thing. The walls of the building were ceiled around with boards, and side tables fastened to them, which could be raised or let down at pleasure, being but pieces of boards fastened with leather hinges and a prop underneath. The tables were covered with napkins, white as the driven snow, and loaded with cold ham, neat's tongue, pickles, bread, apple-sauce, preserves, dough-nuts, butter, cheese, and _potatoes_--without which a Yankee dinner is never complete. For beverage, there was chocolate, which was made over a fire in the building--there being a rock chimney in one corner. "Now, neighbors," said friend H., "if you will but seat yourselves on these squared logs, and put up with these rude accommodations, you will do me a favor. We might have had our dinner at the house, but I thought that it would be a novelty, and afford more amusement to have it in this little hut, which I built to shelter us from what stormy weather we might have in the season of making sugar."

We arranged ourselves around the room, and right merry were we, for friend H.'s lively chat did not suffer us to be otherwise. He recapitulated to us the manner of his life while a bachelor; the many bear-fights which he had had; told us how many bears he had killed; how a she-bear denned in his rock dwelling the first winter after he commenced clearing his land--he having returned home to his father's to attend school; how, when he returned in the spring, he killed her two cubs, and afterwards the old bear, and made his Hannah a present of their skins to make a muff and tippet; also his courtship, marriage, &c.

In the midst of dinner, Abigail came in with some hot mince-pies, which had been heating in the baker before the fire out of doors, and which said much in praise of Mrs. H.'s cookery.

We had finished eating, and were chatting as merrily as might be, when one of the little boys called from without, "Father, the sugar has grained." We immediately went out, and found one of the boys stirring some sugar in a bowl to cool it. The fire was raked from beneath the kettles, and Abigail and her eldest brother were stirring their contents with all haste. Friend H. put a pole within the bail of one of the kettles, and raised it up, which enabled two of the company to take the other down, and having placed it in the snow, they assisted friend H. to take down the other; and while we lent a helping hand to stir and cool the sugar, friend H.'s children ate their dinners, cleared away the tables, put what fragments were left into their father's sleigh, together with the dinner-dishes, tin baker, rundlet, and the pails of scum, which were to be carried home for the swine. A firkin was also put into the sleigh; and after the sugar was sufficiently cool, it was put into the firkin, and covered up with great care.

After this we spent a short time promenading around the rock-maple grove, if leafless trees can be called a grove. A large sap-trough, which was very neatly made, struck my fancy, and friend H. said he would make me a present of it for a cradle. This afforded a subject for mirth. Friend H. said that we must not ridicule the idea of having sap-troughs for cradles; for that was touching quality, as his eldest child had been rocked many an hour in a sap-trough, beneath the shade of a tree, while his wife sat beside it knitting, and he was hard by, hoeing corn.

Soon we were on our way to friend H.'s house, which we all reached in safety; and where we spent an agreeable evening, eating maple sugar, apples, beech-nuts, &c. We also had tea about eight o'clock, which was accompanied by every desirable luxury--after which we started for home.

As we were about taking leave, Abigail made each of us a present of a cake of sugar, which was cooled in a tin heart.--"Heigh ho!" said Henry L., "how lucky! We have had an agreeable visit, a bountiful feast--have learned how to make sugar, and have all got sweethearts!"

We went home, blessing our stars and the hospitality of our Quaker friends.

I cannot close without telling the reader, that the sugar which was that day made, was nearly as white as loaf sugar, and tasted much better.

JEMIMA.

PREJUDICE AGAINST LABOR.