Rush through the guards, promptly secure the maid,
  And whilst confusion reigns we'll force a passage
  To the eastern gate. I have already gained it.

  XAINT. The time?

  DU N.              The first deep toll of yonder bell.

  XAINT. Enough! all hearts are in the cause.
                                                          [_Exeunt._

    _Another part of the Street in front of the Prison._

    _Enter SPECTATORS._

  FIRST SPECTATOR. What crowds collect! each avenue is filled,
  And every street appears a solid mass:
  E'en to the topmost ridge each house is crammed
  With earnest gazers; not an eye but turns
  Towards the black prison-walls; yet 'tis an hour
  Ere the gates open for the sad procession.
  Are scenes of death and agony so pleasant
  That such a throng of eager witnesses
  Should press to view them?

  SECOND SPEC.              Such a death is new,
  And thoughts of men are differently moved.
  Some deem the maid condemned a tool of hell,
  And some a chosen instrument of Heaven.
  Fain would they see which will assert its claim;
  Whether the fiend will leave her to her fate,
  Or some great miracle be worked to save her.

    _Enter several of DU NOIS' FRIENDS._

  FIRST VOICE. What sound is that?

  SECOND VOICE.            It is the abbey bell.
  None can mistake its toll.

  THIRD VOICE.             It cannot be;
  'Tis not the hour.

    _Enter XAINTRAILLES._

  XAINT.             The governor suspecting
  Treason perchance, or some attempt at rescue,
  Has changed both hour and route. The walls are manned,
  And every part is thronged with bristling spears.

                      [_The Procession partly seen in the distance._

    _Enter DU NOIS._

  DU N. Lose not an instant, or the maid is lost!
  Hurry down yonder avenue: by this
  We meet you at the church.

                                                          [_Exeunt._

SCENE VIII.

    _Enter DU NOIS._

  DU N. The guards, it seems, suspected me, and made
  Access impossible.

    _Enter XAINTRAILLES and others._

  XAINT.             Turn, turn Du Nois!
  Make for the eastern gate!

  DU N.                    Is she then safe?

  XAINT. It is no time for words: we must be gone.

  DU N. Is the maid safe? I ask. Du Nois doth ask.

  XAINT. Canst thou be ignorant?

  DU N.                          Say on, or deep
  Within thy breast--speak!

  XAINT.                    Thy grasp doth choke me.
  Release thy hold!

  DU N.              Now answer me, and quickly.
  Where is the maid?

  XAINT.                   Look on yon rising cloud:
  Safe in its breast her spirit mounts to heaven,
  That mercy to implore which man denied her.

     [_DU NOIS sinks on his knee, and continues to watch the cloud._

  OFFICER _to_ XAINT. How calm he is become!

  DU N.                                One speck alone--
  Now not a trace remains. (_rises._) How died the maid?
  Suppress no circumstance, no word, no look.

  XAINT. Thou hast beheld her in the shock of battle,
  Midst dangers calm, when stoutest bosoms shook.
  Hast often seen, how in such fearful times,
  She would upraise her speaking eyes to heaven,
  And stand in silence, while her countenance
  Reflected beams she thence appeared to catch;
  Such was her bearing then. Her step was firm,
  Yet modest, as might properly become
  One, who in presence of her mighty Judge
  Must quickly stand. Nor had her wonted smile
  Forsook her lip, but lingered, loath to part,
  Its former sweetness mixed with heavenly hope.
  Nor scowling eye, (for savage looks were there,)
  Nor piercing gaze, nor pity's tender glance,
  Nor urgent priest's dire threats to fright or force
  Confession from her lips, she heeded once:
  Save when to the accursed pile fast bound,
  He pointed to the smoking heap around her,
  And bade her timely think what hotter flames
  Awaited one who had been leagued with devils.
  Then passed a sudden flash o'er her pale cheek,
  And in those tones so often proved resistless,
  "Blessed," she said, "is he who hath reserved
  All judgment to himself. May thy injustice
  Be forgotten when thou most needest mercy."
  A hideous shout was raised--my blood with horror--

  DU N. Thou couldst not longer look?

  XAINT.                              I shuddering fled.
  The sound of crackling blaze, the trumpet's wail,
  The groan of thousands ringing in my ear,
  In dread of what to thee--

  DU N.                     And she is gone,
  In ignorance of all I felt for her,
  Or could have done! And nought remains of her
  That I might see how lovely even death
  Can show himself, when to the lovely joined;
  Might cheat my soul awhile she did but sleep,
  And seal a last, first kiss upon her brow!
  Earth not a particle now holds of her,
  O'er which these stranger drops might fall!

  XAINT.                                    Du Nois!
  Can this be so?

  DU N.            I do not hide my face
  Ashamed thou shouldst behold Du Nois can weep;
  Or show how grief can bend e'en his stern spirit:
  But when in after days you speak of this,
  And I perchance have found a bloody grave,
  Say, nought in life he dared, so awful seemed,
  As sight of agony which wrung his heart,
  And sank the soldier in the man.

  XAINT.                          Assist me.
  Let's bear him hence.

THE END.

Joseph Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn, Lanc.


man for whom I do not entertain that 'rapturous, soul-engrossing,
enthusiastic love' which we have always deemed so necessary in
marrying, and which, Heaven knows, I was once capable of bestowing on
a husband. Mr. Mason, whom I am about to marry, is not a man who
requires such love. The calm, quiet respect and friendship I entertain
for him, suits him far better. He is matter-of-fact--think of that,
Enna--not at all like the imaginary heroes of love we have talked of
together. But he is high-minded, and possesses much intelligence and
cultivation. We have been friends a long while, and I am confident
that, if life and health are spared, happiness will result to both
from our union."

She did not return to her country for many years after her marriage;
and when I again saw her, she presented a strong contrast, in
appearance, to the pale, heart-broken creature I had parted with ten
years before. She was more beautiful even than in her youth--still
delicate and spiritual in appearance; and the calm, matronly dignity
that pervaded her manner rendered her very lovely. Several children
she had--for our Lillie can boast a Neapolitan birth; but in her whole
troop she has but this one darling girl. Calm and quiet is Agnes Mason
in her general deportment; but her intercourse with her children
presents a strong contrast--then it is her "old enthusiasm" bursts
forth. She has been a devoted mother; and her children think her the
most perfect creature on earth. The intercourse between Agnes and
Lillie is, indeed, interesting. On the mother's part there is intense
devotion, which is fully returned by the daughter, blended with
reverential feelings. She has superintended her education, and
rendered what would have been wearisome tasks, "labors of love." How
often have I found them in the library with heads bent over the same
page, and eyes expressive of the same enthusiasm; or at the piano,
with voices and hands uniting to produce what was to my ears exquisite
harmony. Agnes' love-requiring heart, "like the Deluge wanderer," has
at last found a resting-place, and on her daughter, and on her noble,
beautiful boys, the whole rich tide of her love has been poured.

Lillie Mason, with all her beauty and wealth, will never be a belle,
as her mother says she has been made too much of "a household
darling." I watched her one evening, not a long while since, at a gay
ball, where her mother and I sat as spectatresses. She had been
persuaded from our side by a dashing _distingué_ youth, and was moving
most gracefully with him through a quadrille. In the pauses of the
dance he seemed most anxious to interest her, and I saw his fine, dark
eyes bend on her very tender glances. Her _bouquet_ seemed to him an
object of especial attention, and though a graceful dancer himself, he
seemed so wrapt up in his notice of these fragrant flowers as to
derange the quadrille more than once. I drew Agnes' attention to this.

"But see," said Agnes, "how coolly and calmly Lillie draws his
attention to the forgotten figures. I'll answer for it, she spoils
many of that youth's fine sentiments."

"I wonder," said Lillie, with a half-vexed air, after her partner had
placed her beside her mother, while he hastened to procure some
refreshments for us, "I wonder what Mr. Carlton dances for. I would
not take the trouble to stand up in a quadrille, if I were in his
place. He always talks so much as to quite forget the movements of the
dance. He renders me more nervous than any partner I ever have, for I
dislike to see my _vis-a-vis_ so bored. Just now he went through the
whole "language of flowers" in my bouquet, which would have been
interesting elsewhere, for he quotes poetry right cleverly; but it was
a little out of place where the bang of the instruments, and the
_chazzez_ and the _balancez_ made me lose one half of his pretty
eloquence. Quadrilles are senseless things any how;" and our pretty
Lillie actually yawned as she begged to know if it was not time to
go. "You know, dear mamma," she said, "that I have to arise very early
to-morrow morning, to help Tom in that hard lesson he groaned so
pitifully over to-night."

As we left the ball-room, and were making our adieux to the fair
hostess, I overheard young Carlton say reproachfully to Lillie,

"And so you are going to leave without dancing that next quadrille
with me. I know my name is on your tablets. This is too unkind, Miss
Mason."

Young Carleton is very devoted; but if his devotion is only a passing
caprice, our Lillie will not be injured by it. There is no danger of
her "falling in love" hastily, even if the lover be as handsome and
interesting as the one in question. Luckily for her happiness, her
mother, profiting by her own sad experience, has cultivated the sweet
blossoms of domestic love, and, as she says, "My Lillie's heart will
always belong, at least two-thirds, to her mother and family."

MIDNIGHT.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

    The moon looks down on a world of snow,
    And the midnight lamp is burning low,
    And the fading embers mildly glow
      In their bed of ashes soft and deep;
    All, all is still as the hour of death--
    I only hear what the old clock saith,
    And the mother and infant's easy breath,
      That flows from the holy land of Sleep.

    Or the watchman who solemnly wakes the dark,
    With a voice like a prophet's when few will hark,
    And the answering hounds that bay and bark
      To the red cock's clarion horn--
    The world goes on--the restless world,
    With its freight of sleep through darkness hurled,
    Like a mighty ship, when her sails are furled,
      On a rapid but noiseless river borne.

    Say on old clock--I love you well,
    For your silver chime, and the truths you tell--
    Your every stroke is but the knell
      Of Hope, or Sorrow buried deep;
    Say on--but only let me hear
    The sound most sweet to my listening ear,
    The child and the mother breathing clear
      Within the harvest-fields of Sleep.

    Thou watchman, on thy lonely round,
    I thank thee for that warning sound--
    The clarion cock and the baying hound
      Not less their dreary vigils keep;
    Still hearkening, I will love you all,
    While in each silent interval
    I can hear those dear breasts rise and fall
      Upon the airy tide of Sleep.

    Old world, on Time's benighted stream
    Sweep down till the stars of morning beam
    From orient shores--nor break the dream
      That calms my love to pleasures deep;
    Roll on and give my Bud and Rose
    The fullness of thy best repose,
    The blessedness which only flows
      Along the silent realms of Sleep.

A VISION.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

    I saw the Past, in heaven a mighty train,
      A countless multitude of solemn years,
      Standing like souls of martyred saints, and tears
    Ran down their pallid cheeks like summer rain;
    They clasped and wrung their white hands evermore,
      Wailing, demanding vengeance on the world:
    And Judgment, with his garments sprinkled o'er
      With guilty blood, and dusky wings unfurled,
    And sword unsheathed, expectant of His nod,
    Stood waiting by the burning throne, and God
    Rose up in heaven in ire--but Mercy fair,
      A piteous damsel clad in spotless white,
    In supplication sweet and earnest prayer
    Knelt at his feet and clung around his robe of light.

THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL.

A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE.

BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.

    For naught its power to STRENGTH can teach
    Like EMULATION--and ENDEAVOR. SCHILLER.

CHAPTER I.

HOPING AND PLANNING.

The family of Deacon Gordon were gathered in the large kitchen, at the
commencement of the first snow-storm of the season. With what delight
the children watched the driving clouds--and shouted with exultation
as they tried to count the fleecy flakes floating gently to the
earth--nestling upon its bleak, bare surface as if they would fain
shield it with a pure and beautiful mantle. Faster and faster came the
storm, even the deacon concluded that it would amount to something,
after all; perhaps there might be sleighing on Thanksgiving-day;
though he thought it rather uncertain. His wife did not reply, she was
bidding the children be a little less noisy in their mirth.

"We can get out our sleds in the morning, can't we, Mary?" said Master
Ned. "I'm so glad you finished my mittens last Saturday. I told Tom
Kelly I hoped it would snow soon, for I wanted to see how warm they
were. Wont I make the ice-balls fly!"

Ned had grown energetic with the thought, and seizing his mother's
ball of worsted aimed it at poor puss, who was sleeping quietly before
the blazing fire. Alas! for Neddy--puss but winked her great sleepy
eyes as the ball whizzed past, and was buried in the pile of ashes
that had gathered around the huge "back-log." His mother did not
scold; she had never been known to disturb the serenity of the good
deacon by an ebullition of angry words. Indeed, the neighbors often
said she was _too_ quiet, letting the children have their own way.
'Mrs. Gordon chose to rule by the law of love, a mode of government
little understood by those around her. Could they have witnessed Ned's
penitent look, when his mother simply said--"Do you see how much
trouble you have given me, my son?" they would not have doubted its
efficacy.

The deacon said nothing, but opened the almanac he had just taken down
from its allotted corner, and thought, as he searched for "Nov. 25th,"
that he had the best wife in the world, and if his children were not
good it was their own fault. The great maxim of the deacon's life had
been "let well enough alone"--but not always seeing clearly what was
"well enough," he was often surprised when he found matters did not
turn out as he had expected. This had made him comparatively a poor
man, though the fine farm he had inherited from his father should
have rendered him perfectly independent of the world. Little by little
had been sold, until it was not more than half its original size, and
the remainder, far less fertile than of old, scarce yielded a
sufficient support for his now numerous family. He had a holy horror
of debt, however--and with his wife's rigid and careful economy, he
managed to balance accounts at the end of the year. But this was
all--there was nothing in reserve--should illness or misfortune
overtake him, life's struggle would be hard indeed for his youthful
family.

The deacon was satisfied--he had found the day of the month, and in a
spirit of prophecy quite remarkable, the context added, "Snow to be
expected about this time."

"It's late enough for snow, that's true," said he, as he carefully
replaced his "farmer's library," then remarking it was near time for
tea, he took up his blue homespun frock, and went out in the face of
the storm to see that the cattle were properly cared for. The deacon
daily exemplified the motto--"A merciful man is merciful to his
beast."

"Father is right," said Mrs. Gordon, using the familiar title so
commonly bestowed upon the head of the family in that section of
country. "Mary, it is quite time you were busy, and you, James, had
better get in the wood."

The young people to whom she spoke had been conversing apart at the
furthest window of the room. Mary, a girl of fifteen, James, scarce
more than a year her senior. They started at their mother's voice, as
if they had quite forgotten where they were, but in an instant
good-humoredly said she was right, and without delay commenced their
several tasks. James was assisted by Ned, who, since he had come into
possession of his first pair of boots--an era in the life of every
boy--had been promoted to the office of chip-gatherer; and Sue, a rosy
little girl of eight or nine, spread the table, while her sister
prepared the tea, cutting the snowy loaves made by her own hand; and
bringing a roll of golden butter she herself had moulded, Mrs. Gordon
gave a look of general supervision, and finished the preparations for
the evening meal by the addition of cheese--such as city people never
see--just as Mr. Gordon and James returned, stamping the snow from
their heavy boots, and sending a shower of drops from the already
melting mass which clung to them.

Never was there a happier group gathered about a farmer's table, and
when, with bowed head and solemn voice, the father had begged the
blessing of Heaven upon their simple fare, the children did ample
justice to the plain but substantial viands. Mrs. Gordon wondered how
they found time to eat, there was so much to be said on all sides; but
talk as they would--and it is an established fact that the
conversational powers of children are developed with greater
brilliancy at table than elsewhere--when the repast was finished there
was very little reason to complain on the score of bad appetites.

Then commenced the not unpleasant task of brightening and putting away
the oft used dishes. Mary and Sue were no loiterers, and by the time
their mother had swept the hearth, and arranged the displaced
furniture, cups and plates were shining on the dresser, as the red
fire-light gleamed upon them. The deacon sat gazing intently upon the
glowing embers--apparently in deep meditation, though it is to be
questioned whether he thought at all. Mrs. Gordon had resumed her
knitting, while Sue and Ned, after disputing some time whose turn it
was to hold the yarn, were busily employed in winding a skein of
worsted into birds-nest balls.

"Seven o'clock comes very soon, don't it Eddy?" said Sue, as their
heads came in contact at the unraveling of a terrible "tangle"--"I
wish it would be always daylight, and then wouldn't we sit up a great
many hours? I'd go to school at night instead of the daytime, and do
all my errands, and go to meeting too--then we should have all day
long to play in, and if we got tired we could lie down on the grass in
the orchard and take a little nap, or here before the fire if it was
winter. Oh, dear! I'm sure I can't see why there's any dark at all!"

"You girls don't know any thing," answered Master Ned, with the
inherent air of superiority which alike animates the boy and the man,
where women are concerned--"If there was no night what would become of
the chickens? They can't go to sleep in the daylight, can they, I'd
like to know? And if they didn't go to sleep how would they ever get
fat, or large; and maybe they wouldn't have feathers; then what would
we do for bolsters, and beds, and pillows? You didn't think of that, I
guess, Susy."

Ned's patronizing air quite offended his sister, but she did not stop
to show it, for she had, as she thought, found an admirable plan for
the chickens.

"Well," said she slowly, not perceiving in her abstraction that the
skein was nearly wound, "we could make a dark room in the barn for the
biddies, and they could go in there when it ought to be sundown. I
guess they'd know--" but here there came an end to the skein and their
speculations, for seven o'clock rung clearly and loudly from the
wooden time-piece in the corner, and the children obeyed the signal
for bed, not without many "oh, dears," and wishes that the clock could
not strike.

"James," said his elder sister, as their mother left the room with the
little ones, "let us tell father and mother all about it to-night.
They might as well know now as any time; and Stephen will be back in
the morning."

"Don't speak so loud," whispered the boy, "father will hear you. I
suppose we might as well; but I do so dread it, I'm sure it would kill
me if they were to say no, and now I can hope at least."

"I know it all," said his stronger minded adviser, "but I shall feel
better when they are told. I know mother wonders what we are always
whispering about; and it does not seem right to hide any thing from
her. Here she is, and when we've got father's cider and the apples, I
shall tell them if you don't."

Poor James! it was evident that he had a cherished project at stake.
Never before had he been so long in drawing the cider. Mary had heaped
her basket with rosy-cheeked apples before he had finished; and when
at length he came from the cellar, his hand trembled, so that the
brown beverage was spilled upon the neat hearth.

"You are a little careless," said his mother; but the boy offered no
excuse; he cast an imploring glance at his sister, and walked to the
window, though the night was dark as Erebus, and the sleet struck
sharply against the glass.

"James and I want to talk with you a little while, father and mother,
if you can listen now," said Mary, boldly; and then there was a
pause--for she had dropped a whole row of stitches in her knitting,
and numberless were the loops which were left, as she took them up
again.

Her father looked at her with a stare of astonishment, or else he was
getting sleepy, and was obliged to open his eyes very widely, lest
they should close without his knowledge.

"Well, my child," said Mrs. Gordon, in a gentle tone of
encouragement--for she thought, from Mary's manner, that the
development of the confidential communications of the brother and
sister was at hand.

"We have been making a plan, mother--" but James could go no further,
and left the sentence unfinished. "Mary will tell you all," he added,
in a choking voice, as he turned once more to the window.

Mary did tell all, clearly, and without hesitation; while her mother's
pride, and her father's astonishment increased as the narrative
progressed. James, young as he was, had fixed his heart upon gaining a
classical education--a thing not so rare in the New England States as
with us, for there the false idea still prevails, that a man is unfit
to enter upon a profession until he has served the four years'
laborious apprenticeship imposed upon all "candidates for college
prizes." With us, the feeling has almost entirely passed away; a man
is not judged by the number of years he is supposed to have devoted to
the literature of past ages--the question is, what does he know? not,
how was that knowledge gained? But in the rigid and formal atmosphere
by which it was the fortune of our little hero to be surrounded, the
prejudice was strong as ever; and the ambitious boy, in dreaming out
for himself a life of fame and honor, saw before him, as an obstacle
hardly possible of being surmounted, a collegiate education.

For months he had kept the project a secret in his own heart, and had
daily, and almost hourly, gone over and over again, every difficulty
which presented itself. He saw at once that he could expect no aid
from his father, for he knew the constant struggle going on in the
household to narrow increasing expenses to their humble means. His
elder brother, Stephen, would even oppose the plan--for, he being very
like their father, was plodding and industrious, content with the
present hour, and heartily despised books and schools, as being
entirely beneath his notice. His mother would, he hoped, aid him by
her approval and encouragement--this was all _she_ could bestow; and
Mary, however willing, had not more to offer. At length he resolved to
tell his sister, who had ever been his counsellor, the project which
he had so long cherished.

"I am not selfish about it," said he, as he dilated upon the success
which he felt sure would be his, could this first stumbling-block but
be removed. "Think how much I could do for you all. Father would be
relieved from the burden of supporting me, for he does not need my
assistance now, the farm is so small, and Ed is growing old enough to
do all my work. Then you should have a capital education, for you
ought to have it; and you could teach a school that would be more to
the purpose than the district school. After I had helped you all, then
I could work for myself; and mother would be so proud of her son. But,
oh! Mary," and the boy's heart sank within him, "I know it can never
be."

The two, brother and sister, as they sat there together, were a fair
illustration of the "dreamer and the worker." Mary was scarce fifteen,
but she was thoughtful beyond her years, yet as hopeful as the child.
"Yes, I could keep school," thought she, as she looked into her
brother's earnest eyes. "What can hinder my keeping school now; and
the money I can earn, with James having his vacations to work in,
might support him."

But with this thought came another. She knew that the pay given to
district schoolteachers--women especially--was at best a bare
pittance, scarce more than sufficient for herself--for she could not
think of burdening her parents with her maintenance when her time and
labor was not theirs; and she knew that her education was too limited
to seek a larger sphere of action. So she covered her bright young
face with her hands, and it was clouded for a time with deep thought;
then looking suddenly up, the boy wondered at the change which had
passed over it, there was so much joy, even exultation in every
feature.

"I have it," said she, throwing her arms fondly about his neck. "I
know how I can earn a deal of money, more than I want. If mother will
let me, I can go to Lowell and work in a factory. Susan Hunt paid the
mortgage on her father's farm in three years; and I'm sure it would
not take any more for you than she earned."

At first the boy's heart beat wildly; for the moment it seemed as if
his dearest wishes were about to be accomplished. Then came a feeling
of reproach at his own selfishness, in gaining independence by dooming
his fair young sister to a life of constant labor and self-denial;
wasting, or at least passing the bright hours of her girlhood in the
midst of noise and heat, with rude associations for her refined and
gentle nature.

"Oh! no, Mary," said he, passionately--"never, never! You are too
good, too generous!" yet the wish of his life was too strong to be
checked at once; and when Mary pleaded, and urged him to consent to
it, and gave a thousand "woman's reasons" why it was best, and how
easy the task would be to her, when lightened by the consciousness
that she was aiding him to take a lofty place among his fellow-men, he
gave a reluctant consent to the plan, ashamed of himself the while,
and dreading lest his parents should oppose what would seem to their
calmer judgment an almost impossible scheme.

Day after day he had begged Mary to delay asking their consent, though
the suspense was an agony to the enthusiastic boy. Mary knew the
disappointment would be terrible; yet she thought if it was to come,
it had best be over with at once; and, beside, she was more hopeful
than her brother, for she had not so much at stake. Was it any wonder,
then, that James could scarce breathe while his sister calmly told
their plans, and that he dared not look into his mother's face when
the recital was ended.

There was no word spoken for some moments--the deacon looked into his
wife's face, as if he did not fully understand what he had been
listening to, and sought the explanation from her; but she gazed
intently at the fire, revealing nothing by the expression of her
features until she said, "Your father and I will talk the matter over,
children, and to-morrow you shall hear what we think of it." Without
the least idea of the decision which would be made, James was obliged
to subdue his impatience; and the evening passed wearily enough in
listening to his father's plans for repairing the barn, and making a
new ox-sled. Little did the boy hear, though he seemed to give
undivided attention.

"Have you well considered all this, my child," said Mrs. Gordon, as
she put her hand tenderly upon her daughter's forehead, and looked
earnestly into her sweet blue eyes. "James is in his own room, so do
not fear to speak openly. Are you not misled by your love for him, and
your wish that he should succeed."

"No, mother, I have thought again and again, and I know I could work
from morning till night without complaining, if I thought he was
happy. Then it will be but three or four years at the farthest, and I
shall be hardly nineteen then. I can study, too, in the evenings and
mornings, and sometimes I can get away for whole weeks, and come up
here to see you all; Lowell is not very far, you know."

"But there is another thing, Mary. Do you not know that there are many
people who consider it as a disgrace to toil thus--who would ridicule
you for publicly acknowledging labor was necessary for you; they would
perhaps shun your society, and you would be wounded by seeing them
neglect, and perhaps openly avoid you."

"I should not care at ail for that, mother. Why is it any worse to
work at Lowell than at home; and you tell me very often that I support
myself now. People that love me would go on loving me just as well as
ever; and those who don't love me, I'm sure I'm willing they should
act as they like."

"I think myself," replied her mother, pleased at the true spirit of
independence that she saw filled her daughter's heart, "that the
opinion of those who despise honest labor, is not worth caring for.
But you are young, and sneers will have their effect. You must
remember this--it is but natural. There is one thing else--we may both
be mistaken about James' ability; he may be himself--and you could not
bear to see him fail, after all. Think, it may be so; and then all
your time and your earnings will be lost."

"Not lost, mother," said the young girl, her eyes sparkling with love
and hope, "I should have done all I could to help James, you know."

Mrs. Gordon kissed her good-night with a full heart. She was proud of
her children; and few mothers have more reason for the natural
feeling. "I cannot bear to disappoint her," thought she, yet the
scheme seemed every moment more childish and impracticable.

James rose, not with the sun, but long before it; and when his father
came down, he was already busily employed in clearing a path to the
well and the barn--for the snow had fallen so heavily, that the drifts
gathered by the night wind, in its rude sport, were piled to the very
windows, obscuring the misty light of the winter's morn. How beautiful
were those snow-wreaths in their perfect purity! The brown and knotted
fences, the dingy out-buildings, were all covered with dazzling
drapery; and the leafless trees were bowed beneath the weight of a
fantastic foliage that glittered in the clear beams of the rising sun
with a splendor that was almost painful to behold.

"It wont last long with this sun," said the deacon, as he tied a
'comforter' about his throat; "but perhaps you'll have time to give
Mary and the children a ride before the roads are bare again. Mary
must do all her sleighing this winter, for she won't have much time if
she goes to the factory, poor child!"

The deacon passed on with heavy strides to the barn-yard, and left
James to hope that their petition was not rejected. It was not many
minutes after that Mary came bounding down the stone-steps, heedless
of the snow in which she trod; and the instant he looked upon her face
he was no longer in doubt.

"_Isn't_ mother good, James! She just called me into her room, and
told me that father and she have concluded we can try it at least; and
Stephen is not to know any thing about it until next April, when I am
to go. We must both of us study very hard this winter, and I shall
have such a deal of sewing to do."

Mary spoke with delighted eagerness. One would have thought, beholding
her joy, that it was a pleasant journey which she anticipated, or that
a fortune had unexpectedly been left to her; and yet the spring so
longed for, would find her among strangers, working in a close and
crowded room through the bright days. But a contented spirit hath its
own sunshine; and the dearest pleasure that mankind may know, is
contributing to the happiness of those we love. The less selfish our
devotion to friends, the more sacrificing our self-denial in their
behalf, the greater is the reward; so Mary's step was more elastic
than ever, and her bright eyes shone with a steady, cheerful light, as
she went about her daily tasks.

As she said, it was necessary that they should both be very busy
through the winter, for James hoped to be able to enter college in
August; and Mary, who had heretofore kept pace with him in most of his
studies, though she did stumble at "tupto, tupso, tetupha," and vow
that Greek was not intended for girls, did not wish to give up her
Latin and Geometry. They had such a kind instructor in Mr. Lane, the
village lawyer, that an ambition to please him made them at first
forget the difficulties of the dry rudiments; and then it was that
James first began to dream of one day being able to plead causes
himself--of studying a profession. Mr. Lane, unconsciously, had
encouraged this, by telling his little pupils, to whom he was much
attached, the difficulties that had beset his youthful career, and how
he had gained an honest independence, when he had at first been
without friends or means. Then he would look up at his pretty young
wife, or put out his arms to their little one, as if he thought, and
is not this a sufficient reward for those years of toil and
despondence. James remembered, when he was a student, teaching in
vacations to aid in supporting himself through term time. He had
boarded at Mr. Gordon's, and when he came to settle in the village,
years after, he had offered to teach James and Mary, as a slight
recompense for Mrs. Gordon's early kindness to the poor student. Two
hours each afternoon were passed in Mr. Lane's pleasant little study;
and though Stephen thought it was time wasted, he did not complain
much, for James was doubly active in the morning. Mary, too,
accomplished twice as much as ever before; and after the day's routine
of household labor and study were over, her needle flew quickly, as
she prepared her little wardrobe for leaving home. March was nearly
through before they felt that spring had come; and though Mary's eyes
were sometimes filled with tears at the thought of the coming
separation, they were quickly dried, and the first of April found her
unshaken in her resolution.

CHAPTER II.

LEAVING HOME--FACTORY LIFE.

"To-morrow will be the last day at home," thought Mary, as she bade
her mother good-night, and turned quickly to her own room to conceal
the tears that would start; and, though they fringed the lashes of the
drooping lid when at last she slept, the repose was gentle and
undisturbed--and she awoke at early dawn content, almost happy. The
morning air came freshly to her face as she leaned out of the window
to gaze once more on the extended landscape. Far away upon the
swelling hill-side, patches of snow yet lingered, while near them the
fresh grass was springing; and the old wood, at the back of the
house, was clothed anew in emerald verdure. The sombre pines were
lighted by the glittering sunlight, as it lingered lovingly among
their dim branches ere bursting away to illumine the very depths of
the solitude with smiles. A pleasant perfume was wafted from the
Arbutus, just putting forth its delicate blossoms from their
sheltering covert of dark-green leaves, mingled with the breath of the
snowy-petaled dogwood, and the blue violets that were bedded in the
rich moss on the banks of the little stream. The brook itself went
singing on its way as it wound through the darksome forest, and fell
with a plash, and a murmur, over the huge stones that would have
turned it aside from its course.

It was the first bright day of spring; and it seemed as if nature had
assumed its loveliest dress to tempt the young girl to forego her
resolve. "Home never looked so beautiful," thought she, turning from
the window; and her step was not light as usual when she joined the
family. Mrs. Gordon was serene as ever; no one could have told from
her manner that she was about to part with her daughter for the first
time; but the children were sobbing bitterly--for they had just been
told that the day had come when their sister was to leave them. They
clung to her dress as she entered, and begged her not to go.

"What shall we do without _you_, Mary?" said they; "the house will be
so lonesome."

Even Stephen, although when the plan was first revealed to him had
opposed it obstinately, was melted to something like forgiveness when
he saw that nothing could change her firm determination.

"I suppose we must _learn_ to live without you, Molly," said he; "take
good care of yourself, child--but let's have breakfast now."

The odd combination, spite of her sadness, brought the old smile to
Mary's lip; and when breakfast was over, and the deacon took the large
family Bible from its appointed resting-place, and gathered his little
flock about him, they listened quietly and earnestly to the truths of
holy writ. That family Bible! It was almost the first thing that Mary
could recollect. She remembered sitting on her father's knee, in the
long, bright Sabbath afternoons, and looking with profound awe and
astonishment into the baize-covered volume, at the quaint unartistic
prints that were scattered through it. She recalled the shiver of
horror with which she looked on "_Daniel in the den of lions_," the
curiosity which the picture of the Garden of Eden called forth, and
the undefined, yet calm and placid feeling which stole over her as she
dwelt longest upon the "Baptism of our Savior." Then there was the
family record--her own birth, and that of her brothers and sisters,
were chronicled underneath that of generations now sleeping in the
shadow of the village church. But this train of thought was broken, as
they reverentially knelt when the volume was closed, and listened to
their father's humble and fervent petition, that God would watch and
guard them all, especially commending to the protection of Heaven,
"the lamb now going out from their midst."

There were tears even upon Mrs. Gordon's face when the prayer was
ended, but there was no time to indulge in a long and sorrowful
parting. The trunks were standing already corded in the hall; the
little traveling-basket was filled with home-baked luxuries for the
way-side lunch; and Mary was soon arrayed in her plain merino dress
and little straw bonnet. There are some persons who receive whatever
air of fashion and refinement they may have from their dress; others
who impart to the coarsest material a grace that the most _recherché_
costume fails to give. Our heroine was one of the last--and never was
Chestnut street belle more beautiful than our simple country lassie,
as she stood with her mother's arm twined about her waist, receiving
her parting counsel.

The last words were said--James, in an agony of grief, had kissed her
again and again, reproaching himself constantly for his selfishness in
consenting that she should go. The children, forgetting their tears in
the excitement of the moment, ran with haste to announce that the
stage was just coming over the hill. Yes, it was standing before the
garden-gate--the trunks were lifted from the door-stone--the
clattering steps fell at her feet--a moment more and Mary was whirled
away from her quiet home, with her father's counsel, and her mother's
earnest "God bless you, and keep you, my child!" ringing in her ears.

It was quite dark ere the second day's weary journey was at an end.
Mary could scarce believe it possible that she had, indeed, arrived in
the great city, until the confused tumult that rose everywhere
around--the endless lines of glittering lamps that stretched far away
in the darkness, and the rough jolting of the coach over the hard
pavements, told too plainly that she was in a new world, surrounded by
a new order of things. As they drove rapidly through the crowded
streets, she caught a glance at the brilliantly lighted stores, and
the many gayly-dressed people that thronged them. Again the scene
changed, and she looked upon the dark-brick walls that loomed up
before her, and knew that in one of those buildings she was destined
to pass many sad and solitary days. How prison-like they seemed! Her
heart sunk within her as she gazed; the lights--the confusion
bewildered her already wearied brain; and as she sunk back into the
corner of the coach, and buried her face in her hands, she would have
given worlds to have been once more in her still, pleasant home. The
feeling of utter desolation and loneliness overcame completely, for
the time, her firm and buoyant spirit.

She was roused from her gloomy reverie as the stage stopped before the
door of a small but very comfortable dwelling, at some distance from
the principal thoroughfares. This was the residence of a sister of
Mrs. Jones, to whom she had a letter, and who was expecting her
arrival. She met Mary upon the step with a pleasant smile of welcome,
not at all as if she had been a stranger; and her husband assisted the
coachman to remove the various packages to a neat little room into
which Mary was ushered by her kind hostess, Mrs. Hall. She was very
like her sister, but older and graver. Mary's heart yearned toward her
from the moment of kindly greeting; and when they entered the cheerful
parlor together, the young guest was almost happy once more. The
children of the family, two noisy little rogues, who were very proud
of a baby sister, came for a kiss, ere they left the room for the
night; and then, with Mrs. Hall's piano, and her husband's pleasant
conversation, Mary forgot her timidity and her sadness as the evening
wore away.

"Mr. Hall will go with you to-morrow to the scene of your new life,"
said her hostess, as she bade her young charge good-night. "We have
arranged every thing, and I trust you may be happy, even though away
from your friends. We must try to make a new home for you."

Mary "blessed her unaware" for her kindness to a stranger; and though
nearly a hundred miles from those she loved, felt contented and
cheerful, and soon fell asleep to dream that she was once more by her
mother's side.

Again that feeling of desolation returned, when, upon the morrow,
leaning upon the arm of Mr. Hall, she passed through the crowded
streets, and shrank back as the passing multitude jostled against each
other. It seemed as if every one gazed curiously at her, yet,
perchance, not one amid the throng heeded the timid little stranger.
She was first conducted to the house they had chosen for her
boarding-place, and though the lady at its head received her kindly,
she felt more lonely than ever, as she passed through the long halls,
and was regarded with looks of curiosity by the groups of young girls
who were just leaving the house to enter upon their daily tasks. They
were laughing and chatting gayly with each other; and poor Mary
wondered if she should ever feel as careless and happy as they seemed
to be.

Then they turned toward the "corporation," or factory, in which a
place had been engaged for her. Oh, how endless seemed those long,
noisy rooms; how weary she grew of new faces, and the strange din that
rose up from the city. "I never shall endure this," thought the poor
girl. "I shall never be able to learn my work. How can they go about
so careless and unconcerned, performing their duties, as it were,
mechanically, without thought or annoyance. But for poor Jamie I would
return to-morrow;" and with the thought of her brother came new hope,
new energy--and she resolved to enter upon her task boldly, and
without regret.

Yet for many days, even weeks, much of her time was spent in sadness,
struggle as she would against the feeling. The girls with whom she was
called daily to associate, were, most of them, kind and good tempered:
and though her instructors did laugh a little at her awkwardness at
first, she had entered so resolutely upon her new tasks that they
soon became comparatively easy to her; and she was so indefatigable
and industrious, that her earnings, after a time, became more even
than she had hoped for.

Still she was often weary, and almost tempted to despond. The
confinement and the noise was so new to her, that at first her health
partially gave way, and for several weeks she feared that after all
she would be obliged to return to the free mountain-air of her country
home. At such times she went wearily to her labors, and often might
have uttered Miss Barret's "Moan of the Children," as she pressed her
hands upon her throbbing temples.

      "All day long the wheels are droning, turning,
      Their wind comes in our faces,
    Till our hearts turn, and our heads with pulses burning;
      And the walls turn in their places!
    Turns the sky in the high window, blank and reeling;
      Turns the long light that droopeth down the wall;
    Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling--
      All are turning all the day, and we with all.
    All day long the iron wheels are droning,
      And sometimes we could pray,
    'Oh, ye wheels,' (breaking off in a mad moaning)
      Stop! be silent for to-day!'"

Then, when despondency was fast crushing her spirit, there would,
perhaps, come a long hopeful letter from her brother, who was studying
almost night and day, and a new ambition would rise in her heart, a
fresh strength animate her, until at last, in the daily performance of
her duties, in the knowledge of the happiness she was thus enabled to
confer upon others, her mind became calm and contented, and her health
fully restored.

Thus passed the first year of her absence from home. She had become
accustomed to the habits and manners of those around her; and though
some of the girls called her a little Methodist, and sneered at her
plain economical dress, even declaring she was parsimonious, because
they knew that she rigidly limited her expenses to a very small
portion of her earnings, there were others among her associates who
fully appreciated the generous self-sacrificing spirit which animated
her, and loved her for the gentleness and purity, which all noticed,
pervaded her every thought and act.

Then, too, Mrs. Hall was ever her steadfast friend. One evening in
every week was spent in that happy family circle; and there she often
met refined and agreeable society, from which she insensibly look a
tone of mind and manner, that was far superior to that of her
companions. Mrs. Hall directed her reading, and furnished many books
Mary herself was unable to procure. Thus month after month slipped by,
and our heroine had almost forgotten she was among strangers, until
she began to look forward to a coming meeting with those she loved in
her own dear home.

[_To be concluded in our next._

REVOLUTION.

      "Anger is madness," said the sage of old;
      And 'tis with nations as it is with man,
    Their storms of passion scatter ills untold--
      Thus 'tis, and has been, since the world began.

    Change, to be blessed, must be calm and clear,
      Thoughtful and pure, sinless, and sound of mind;
    Else power unchained and change are things of fear--
      Let not the struggling to this truth be blind.--ARIAN.

FAIR MARGARET.

A LEGEND OF THOMAS THE RHYMER.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

    Old yews in the church-yard are crumbled to dust
      Deep shade on her grave-mound once flinging;
    But oral tradition, still true to its trust,
      Her name by the hearth-stone is singing;
    For never enshrined by the bard in his lay
    Was a being more lovely than Margaret Gray.

    Her father, a faithful old tenant, had died
      On lands of Sir Thomas the Seer--
    And the child who had sprung like a flower by his side,
      Sole mourner, had followed his bier;
    But Ereildoun's knight to the orphan was kind,
    And watched like a parent the growth of her mind.

    The wizard knew well that her eye was endowed
      With sight mortal vision surpassing--
    _Now_ piercing the heart of Oblivion's cloud,
      The _Past_, in its depths, clearly glassing;
    _Anon_ sending glance through that curtain of dread
    Behind which the realm of the Future lies spread.

    He gave her a key to decipher dim scrolls,
      With characters wild, scribbled over;
    And taught her dark words that would summon back souls
      Of the dead round the living to hover;
    Or oped, high discourse with his pupil to hold,
    Old books of enchantment with clasps of bright gold.

    The elf queen had met her in green, haunted dells
      When stars in the zenith were twinkling,
    And time kept the tramp of her palfry to bells,
      At her bridle rein merrily tinkling:
    By Huntley Burn oft, in the gloaming, she strolled
    Weird shapes, that were not of this earth, to behold.

    One eve came true Thomas to Margaret's bower,
      In this wise the maiden addressing--
    "No more will I visible be from this hour,
      Save to those sight unearthly possessing;
    But when I am seen at feast, funeral or fair
    Let the mortal who makes revelation beware!"

    Long years came and passed, and the Rhymer's dread seat
      Was vacant the Eildon Tree under,
    And oft would old friends by the ingle-side meet,
      And talk of his absence in wonder:
    Some thought that, afar from the dwellings of men,
    He had died in some lone Highland forest or glen:

    But others believed that in bright fairy land
      The mighty magician was living--
    That newness of life to worn heart and weak hand,
      Soft winds and pure waters were giving;
    That back to the region of heather and pine
    Would he come unimpaired by old age or decline.

    Astir was all Scotland! from mountain and moor,
      With banner folds streaming in air,
    Proud lord and retainer, the wealthy and poor,
      Thronged forth in their plaids to the fair;
    Steeds, pricked by their riders, loud clattering made,
    And, cheered by his clansmen, the bag-piper played.

    Gay lassies with snoods from the border and hills
      In holyday garb hurried thither,
    With eyes like the crystal of rock-shaded rills,
      And cheeks like the bells of the heather;
    But fairest of all, in that goodly array,
    Was the Lily of Bemerside, Margaret Gray.

    While Ayr with a gathering host overflowed,
      She marked with a look of delight
    A white-bearded horseman who gallantly rode
      On a mettlesome steed black as night,
    And cried, forcing wildly her way through the throng,
      "_Oh! master, thy pupil hath mourned for thee long!_"

    Then, checking his courser, the brow of the seer
      Grew dark, through its locks long and frosted,
    And making a sign with his hand to draw near,
      Thus the lovely offender accosted--
    "By which of thine eyes was thy master descried?"
    "With my _left_ I behold thee!" the damsel replied.

    One moment he gazed on the beautiful face,
      In fondness upturned to his own,
    As if anger at length to relenting gave place,
      Then fixed grew his visage like stone:--
    On the violet lid his cold finger he laid,
    And extinguished forever the sight of the maid.

    *    *    *    *    *

NOTE.

I am indebted to Hugh Cameron, Esquire, of Buffalo, N. Y., for this
strange and strikingly beautiful legend. Mr. C. informs me that it has
long formed a part of the fire-side lore of his own clan; and, from a
remote period, has lived in the memory of Scotland's peasantry.

He expressed surprise that men of antiquarian taste, in compiling
border ballads, and tales of enchantment, had not given "Fair
Margaret" a conspicuous place in their pages; and at his suggestion I
have attempted to clothe the fanciful outlines of the original in the
drapery of English verse.

The Eildon tree referred to in the poem was the favorite seat of
Thomas the Rhymer, and there he gave utterance to his prophecies.

STANZAS.

    The rain-bird shakes her dusty wings
      And leaves the sunny strand,
    For mossy springs, and sweetly sings,
      To greet her native land.

    The camel in the desert heeds
      Where distant waters lay,
    And onward speeds, to flowery meads,
      And fountains far away.

    The freshest drops will Beauty choose
      To keep her floweret wet,
    The purest dews, to save its hues--
      Her gentle violet.

    So--may sweet Grace our hearts renew
      With waters from above,
    So--keep in view what Mercy drew
      From this deep well of love.   W. H. DENNY.

THE LONE BUFFALO.

BY CHARLES LANMAN, AUTHOR OF "A SUMMER IN THE WILDERNESS," ETC.

Among the many legends which the traveler frequently hears, while
crossing the prairies of the Far West, I remember one, which accounts
in a most romantic manner for the origin of thunder. A summer-storm
was sweeping over the land, and I had sought a temporary shelter in
the lodge of a Sioux Indian on the banks of the St. Peters. Vividly
flashed the lightning, and an occasional peal of thunder echoed
through the firmament. While the storm continued my host and his
family paid but little attention to my comfort, for they were all
evidently stricken with terror. I endeavored to quell their fears, and
for that purpose asked them a variety of questions respecting their
people, but they only replied by repeating, in a dismal tone, the name
of the Lone Buffalo. My curiosity was of course excited, and it may be
readily imagined that I did not resume my journey without obtaining an
explanation of the mystic words; and from him who first uttered them
in the Sioux lodge I subsequently obtained the following legend:

    *    *    *    *    *

There was a chief of the Sioux nation whose name was the Master Bear.
He was famous as a prophet and hunter, and was a particular favorite
with the Master of Life. In an evil hour he partook of the white-man's
fire-water, and in a fighting broil unfortunately took the life of a
brother chief. According to ancient custom blood was demanded for
blood, and when next the Master Bear went forth to hunt, he was
waylaid, shot through the heart with an arrow, and his body deposited
in front of his widow's lodge. Bitterly did the woman bewail her
misfortune, now mutilating her body in the most heroic manner, and
anon narrating to her only son, a mere infant, the prominent events of
her husband's life. Night came, and with her child lashed upon her
back, the woman erected a scaffold on the margin of a neighboring
stream, and with none to lend her a helping hand, enveloped the corpse
in her more valuable robes, and fastened it upon the scaffold. She
completed her task just as the day was breaking, when she returned to
her lodge, and shutting herself therein, spent the three following
days without tasting food.

During her retirement the widow had a dream, in which she was visited
by the Master of Life. He endeavored to console her in her sorrow, and
for the reason that he had loved her husband, promised to make her son
a more famous warrior and medicine man than his father had been. And
what was more remarkable, this prophecy was to be realized within the
period of a few weeks. She told her story in the village, and was
laughed at for her credulity.

On the following day, when the village boys were throwing the ball
upon the plain, a noble youth suddenly made his appearance among the
players, and eclipsed them all in the bounds he made and the wildness
of his shouts. He was a stranger to all, but when the widow's dream
was remembered, he was recognized as her son, and treated with
respect. But the youth was yet without a name, for his mother had told
him that he should win one for himself by his individual prowess.

Only a few days had elapsed, when it was rumored that a party of
Pawnees had overtaken and destroyed a Sioux hunter, when it was
immediately determined in council that a party of one hundred warriors
should start upon the war-path and revenge the injury. Another council
was held for the purpose of appointing a leader, when a young man
suddenly entered the ring and claimed the privilege of leading the
way. His authority was angrily questioned, but the stranger only
replied by pointing to the brilliant eagle's feathers on his head, and
by shaking from his belt a large number of fresh Pawnee scalps. They
remembered the stranger boy, and acknowledged the supremacy of the
stranger man.

Night settled upon the prairie world, and the Sioux warriors started
upon the war-path. Morning dawned, and a Pawnee village was in ashes,
and the bodies of many hundred men, women, and children were left upon
the ground as food for the wolf and vulture. The Sioux warriors
returned to their own encampment, when it was ascertained that the
nameless leader had taken more than twice as many scalps as his
brother warriors. Then it was that a feeling of jealousy arose, which
was soon quieted, however, by the news that the Crow Indians had
stolen a number of horses and many valuable furs from a Sioux hunter
as he was returning from the mountains. Another warlike expedition was
planned, and as before, the nameless warrior took the lead.

The sun was near his setting, and as the Sioux party looked down upon
a Crow village, which occupied the centre of a charming valley, the
Sioux chief commanded the attention of his braves and addressed them
in the following language:

"I am about to die, my brothers, and must speak my mind. To be
fortunate in war is your chief ambition, and because I have been
successful you are unhappy. Is this right? Have you acted like men? I
despise you for your meanness, and I intend to prove to you this night
that I am the bravest man in the nation. The task will cost me my
life, but I am anxious that my nature should be changed and I shall be
satisfied. I intend to enter the Crow village alone, but before
departing, I have one favor to command. If I succeed in destroying
that village, and lose my life, I want you, when I am dead, to cut off
my head and protect it with care. You must then kill one of the
largest buffaloes in the country and cut off his head. You must then
bring his body and my head together, and breathe upon them, when I
shall be free to roam in the Spirit-land at all times, and over our
great Prairie-land wherever I please. And when your hearts are
troubled with wickedness remember the Lone Buffalo."

The attack upon the Crow village was successful, but according to his
prophecy the Lone Buffalo received his death wound, and his brother
warriors remembered his parting request. The fate of the hero's mother
is unknown, but the Indians believe that it is she who annually sends
from the Spirit-land the warm winds of spring, which cover the
prairies with grass for the sustenance of the Buffalo race. As to the
Lone Buffalo, he is never seen even by the most cunning hunter,
excepting when the moon is at its full. At such times he is invariably
alone, cropping his food in some remote part of the prairies; and
whenever the heavens resound with the moanings of the thunder, the
red-man banishes from his breast every feeling of jealousy, for he
believes it to be the warning voice of the Lone Buffalo.

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

BY MRS. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON.

    "And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,
    Will it not seem as if the sunny day
                Turned from its door away?
    While through its chambers wandering, weary hearted,
    I languish for thy voice which passed me still,
                Even as a singing rill."

    My gentle child--my own sweet May--
      Come sit thee by my side,
    Thy wonted place in by-gone years,
      Whatever might betide.
    Come--I would press that cloudless brow,
      And gaze into those eyes,
    Whose azure hue and brilliancy
      Seemed borrowed from the skies.

    Thou ne'er hast known a mother's love,
      Save what my heart hath given;
    Thy fair young mother--long years since--
      Found rest in yonder Heaven.
    Where waves and dashing spray ran high
      We took thee from her grasp;
    All vainly had the Tyrant striven
      To rend that loving clasp.

    We strove in vain life to recall,
      And 'neath the old oak's shade
    We laid her calmly down to rest,
      In our own woodland glade.
    Gently--the turf by stranger hands
      Was o'er her bright head pressed;
    And burning tears from stranger hearts
      Fell o'er that place of rest.

    We took thee to our hearts and home,
      With blessings on thy head;
    We looked on thy blue eye--and wept--
      _Remembered was our dead_.
    For parted from our lonely hearth
      Was childhood's sunny smile;
    And hushed the household melody
      That could each care beguile.

    Thy name--we knew it not--and then
      For many a livelong day
    We sought for one, all beautiful--
      And, sweetest, called thee May.
    With thee--came Spring-lime to our home,
      Love's wealth of buds and flowers,
    Lingering--till in its fairy train
      Shone Summer's golden hours.

    How will I miss thine own dear voice
      In Summer's soft, bright eve;
    A blight will rest on tree and flower--
      The hue of things that grieve;
    And when the wintry hour hath come,
      And 'round the blazing hearth
    Shall cluster faces we have loved--
      Lost--lost thy joyous mirth.

    Another hand will twine those curls
      That gleam so brightly now;
    Another heart will thrill to hear
      From _thee_ affection's vow;
    For I have marked the rosy blush
      Steal o'er thy brow and cheek,
    When gentle words fell on thy ear,
      Which only love can speak.

    Tears--tears!--a shadow should not rest
      Upon thy bridal day;
    My spirit's murmurings shall cease
      And joy be thine, sweet May.
    They come with flowers--pure orange flowers--
      To deck thy shining hair;
    Young bride--go forth--and bear with thee,
      My blessing and my prayer.

WHEN SHALL I SEE THE OBJECT THAT I LOVE.

A FAVORITE SWISS AIR.

ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE
BY
JOHN B. MÜLLER.

COPYRIGHTED BY GEORGE WILLIG, NO. 171 CHESNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA.

[Illustration:]

_Not too slow_.

PIANO.

Wann wer-de oh wan wer-de ich, Die fer-nen blau-en Hoeh'n, Von

When shall I see, when shall I see, The ob-ject that I love? The

mei-nem Vat-er-land wenn dich, Hel-ve-lien wie-der seh'n? Denk'

friends, the home of in-fan-cy, The mai-den and the grove. The

[Illustration:]

ich da-ran, Schlaegt, selbst als Mann, Mir meine Brust mil Schmerz und lust', Denn

Val-leys fair, The wa-ter clear, The low-ing herds, The sing-ing birds, When

al-len Freu-den noch be-wust Moecht ich's noch ein-mal seh'n.

shall I see, when shall I see, The things I love so dear?

2.

    When shall I see, when shall I see,
      As I have seen before,
    The gathering crowd beneath the tree,
      With her that I adore?
        And happy hear
        Her voice so clear,
        Blend with my own,
        In liquid tone.
    When shall I see, when shall I see,
      The things I hold so dear?

2.

    Zwar glaenzt die Sonne ueberall
      Dem Menschen in der Welt;
    Doch we zuerst ihr goldner Strahl
      Ihm in das Auge faellt?
        Wo er als Kind,
        Sanft und gelind,
        An mütter Hand,
        Sprach und empfand,
    Da ist allein sein Vaterland
  Koennt' ich's noch einmal seh'n?

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

     _Edith Kinnaird, By the Author of "The Maiden Aunt."
     Boston: E. Littell & Co._

Fiction has exercised an important influence over the public from the
earliest ages of the world. Nor is the reason difficult to determine.
Where one man takes delight in the subtleties of logic, ten derive
pleasure from the indulgence of the fancy. The love of fiction is
common to the unlettered savage as well as to the civilized European,
and has marked alike the ancient and the modern world. The oldest
surviving book, if we except the narrative of Moses, is, perhaps, a
fiction--we mean the book of Job. To reach its date we must go back
beyond the twilight of authentic history, far into the gloom of the
antique past, to the very earliest periods of the earth's existence.
We must ascend to the time when the Assyrian empire was yet in its
youth, when the patriarchs still fed their flocks on the hills of
Palestine, when the memory of the visible presence of the Almighty
among men remained fresh in the traditions of the East. The beautiful
story of Ruth comes next, but ages later than its predecessor. Then
follows the sonorous tale of Homer, clanging with a martial spirit
that will echo to all time. Descending to more modern eras, we reach
the legends of Haroun El Reschid; the tales of the Provençal
troubadours; the romances of chivalry; and finally the novels of this
and the past century. For nearly four thousand years fiction has
delighted and moulded mankind. It has survived, too, when all else has
died. The Chaldean books of astrology are lost to the moderns; but the
story of the Idumean has reached us unimpaired. The lawgivers of Judah
are no more, and the race of Abraham wanders over the earth; but the
simple tale of Ruth preserves the memory of their customs, and keeps
alive the glory of the past.

It will not do to despise that which is so indestructible, and which
everywhere exercises such powerful influence. Pedants may scorn
fiction as beneath them, and waste their lives in composing dry
treatises that will never be read; but the wise man, instead of
deriding this tremendous engine, will endeavor to bend it to his
purposes; and whether he seeks to shape the tale that is to be
rehearsed on the dreamy banks of the Orontes, or to write the novel
that will be read by thousands in England and America, will labor so
to mix instruction with amusement, that his audience shall insensibly
become moulded to his views. The moral teachers of both ancient and
modern times have chosen the vehicle of fiction to inculcate truth;
and even inspiration has not scorned to employ it in the service of
religion. The most beautiful fictions ever written were the parables
of the Savior. But it is also true that some of the most deleterious
books we have are romances. This, however, is no reason why fiction
should be abandoned to bad men, or proscribed as it is by many
well-meaning moralists. Wesley said, with his strong Saxon sense, that
he did not see why the devil should have all the good tunes.

Hence, in criticising a novel, it becomes important to examine the
tendency of the work. We utterly repudiate the idea that a reviewer
has nothing to do with the morality of a book. We reject the specious
jargon to the contrary urged by the George Sand school. A novel
should be something more than a mere piece of intellectual mechanism,
because if not, it is injurious. There can be no medium. A fiction
which does not do good does harm. There never was a romance written
which had not its purpose, either open or concealed, from that of
Waverley, which inculcated loyalty, to that of Oliver Twist, which
teaches the brotherhood of man. Some novels are avowedly and
insolently vicious; such are the Adventures of Faublas and the Memoirs
of a Woman of Quality. Others, under the guise of philanthropy, sap
every notion of right and duty: such are Martin the Foundling,
Consuelo, _et id omne genus_. It is the novels of this last class
which are the most deleterious; for, with much truth, they contain
just enough poison to vitiate the whole mass. Chemists tell us that
the smallest atom of putrid matter, if applied to the most gigantic
body, will, in time, infect the whole: just so the grain of sophistry
in Consuelo, admitting there is no more, in the end destroys all that
the book contains of the beautiful and true. Said a lady in conversing
on this subject: "I always find that people who read such books
remember only what is bad in them." Her plain common sense hit the
nail on the head, while transcendental folly hammered all around it in
vain. We have spoken of Consuelo thus particularly because it is the
best of its class: and of that enervating fiction we here record our
deliberate opinion, that it will turn more than one foolish Miss into
a strolling actress, under the insane and preposterous notion that it
is her mission.

We do not say that art should be despised by the novelist; we only
contend that it should not be polluted. We would have every novel a
work of art, but the art should be employed on noble subjects, not on
indifferent or disgraceful ones. If authors plead a mission to write,
it must be to write that which will do good. A Raphael may boast of
inspiration when he paints a Madonna, but not when his brush stoops to
a Cyprian or a Satyr. The Pharisees of old prayed unctuously in the
market-places: so the George Sands of our day boast of their superior
insight into the beautiful and true. We doubt whether both are not
impudent hypocrites.

The novel, which has proved the text to these remarks, belongs to a
different, and, we hold, a better school. It originally appeared in
Sharpe's London Magazine, and has just been republished by E. Littell
& Co. Edith Kinnaird is a fiction which the most artistic mind will
feel delight in perusing, yet one which the humblest will understand,
and from which both may derive improvement. The heroine is neither a
saint nor a fool, but a living woman; her sufferings spring from her
errors, and are redeemed by her repentance: all is natural, beautiful,
refreshing and noble. We rise from the perusal of such a fiction
chastened and improved.

Instead of rendering its readers dissatisfied with themselves, with
their lot in life, with society, with every thing, this novel makes
them feel that life is a battle, yet that victory is sure to reward
all who combat aright--that after the dust and heat of the struggle
comes the repose of satisfied duty. Yet there is nothing didactic in
the volume. Its influence upon the heart is like that of the dew of
heaven, silent, gradual, imperceptible. Is not this a proof of its
intrinsic merit?

Consuelo herself, as an ideal, is not more lovely than Edith Kinnaird,
while the latter, in the eyes of truth, is infinitely the nobler
woman. We hope to hear from the author again. Let us have more of such
novels: there cannot be too many of them. How can noble and talented
souls do more good than by furnishing the right kind of novels. Just
as the old religious painters used to limn saints and Madonnas, let us
now write works of artistic and moral fiction.

     _Jane Eyre. An Autobiography. Boston: William D.
     Ticknor & Co._ 1 _vol._ 12_mo._

Few novels published within the last ten years have made so great a
stir among readers of all classes as this. The Harpers have sold a
vast number of their cheap reprint, and we have here to notice its
appearance in the old duodecimo shape, with large type and white
paper. That the work bears unmistakable marks of power and originality
cannot be questioned, and in a limited range of characterization and
description evinces sagacity and skill. The early portions of the
novel are especially truthful and vivid. The description of the
heroine's youthful life--the exact impression which is conveyed of the
child's mind--the influences which went to modify her character--the
scenes at the boarding-school--all have a distinctness of delineation
which approaches reality itself. But when the authoress comes to deal
with great passions, and represent morbid characters, we find that she
is out of her element. The character of Rochester is the character of
a mechanical monster. The authoress has no living idea of the kind of
person she attempts to describe. She desires to represent a reckless
man, made bad by circumstances, but retaining many marks of a noble
character, and she fills his conversation with slang, makes him
impudent and lustful, a rascal in every sense of the word, without the
remotest idea of what true chivalric love for a woman means; and this
mechanical automaton, whose every motion reveals that he moves not by
vital powers but by springs and machinery, she makes her pure-minded
heroine love and marry.

There has been a great deal of discussion about the morality of this
part of the novel. The question resolves itself into a question of
art, for we hold that truth of representation and morality of effect
are identical. Immoral characters may be introduced into a book, and
the effect be moral on the reader's mind, but a character which is
both immoral and unnatural ever produces a pernicious effect. Now the
authoress of Jane Eyre has drawn in Rochester an unnatural character,
and she has done it from an ignorance of the inward condition of mind
which immorality such as his either springs from or produces. The
ruffian, with his fierce appetites and Satanic pride, his mistresses
and his perjuries, his hard impudence and insulting sarcasms, she
knows only verbally, so to speak. The words which describe such a
character she interprets with her fancy, enlightened by a reminiscence
of Childe Harold and the Corsair. The result is a compound of vulgar
rascalities and impotent Byronics. Every person who interprets her
description by a knowledge of what profligacy is, cannot fail to see
that she is absurdly connecting certain virtues, of which she knows a
good deal, with certain vices, of which she knows nothing. The
coarseness of portions of the novel, consisting not so much in the
vulgarity of Rochester's conversation as the _naive_ description of
some of his acts--his conduct for three weeks before his intended
marriage, for instance, is also to be laid partly to the ignorance of
the authoress of what ruffianism is, and partly to her ignorance of
what love is. No woman who had ever truly loved could have mistaken so
completely the Rochester type, or could have made her heroine love a
man of proud, selfish, ungovernable appetites, which no sophistry can
lift out of lust.

We accordingly think that if the innocent young ladies of our land lay
a premium on profligacy, by marrying dissolute rakes for the honor of
reforming them, _à la_ Jane Eyre, their benevolence will be of
questionable utility to the world. There is something romantic to
every inexperienced female mind in the idea of pirates and debauchees,
who have sentiment as well as slang, miseries as well as vices. Such
gentlemen their imaginations are apt to survey under the light of the
picturesque instead of under the light of conscience. Every poet and
novelist who addresses them on this weak side is sure of getting a
favorable hearing. Byron's popularity, as distinguished from his fame,
was mainly owing to the felicity with which he supplied the current
demand for romantic wickedness. The authoress of Jane Eyre is not a
Byron, but a talented woman, who, in her own sphere of thought and
observation, is eminently trustworthy and true, but out of it hardly
rises above the conceptions of a boarding-school Miss in her teens.
She appears to us a kind of strong-minded old maid, but with her
strong-mindedness greatly modified by the presumption as well as the
sentimentality of romantic humbug.

     _Novum Testamentum Domini Nostri Jesu Christi.
     Interpetre Theodora Beza. Philadelphia: Geo. S.
     Appleton._

In relation to the character of this version it is scarcely necessary
for us to speak. It has for centuries received the approbation of the
wisest and the best; and the copy before us seems to us, upon a brief
examination, to be accurate. The work is admirably printed, and does
credit to the publishers. We confess that we believe that the use of
this sacred work, in our seminaries and colleges, in the Latin, is
desirable in reference to every interest of religion and morality.
While we hesitate to affirm that Theodore de Beza's version of the New
Testament Scriptures is a study of the classic Latin, we still believe
that, stamped as it has been with the approbation of centuries, it is,
in relation to all the moral considerations which should control our
direction of the study of youth, worthy of all acceptance. The preface
informs us that several editions were published during the lifetime of
Beza, to which he made such improvements as his attention was directed
to, or as were prompted by his familiarity, as Greek Professor, with
the original. Since 1556, when it first appeared at Geneva, this work
has kept its place in the general esteem.

The propriety of the use of this sacred volume in schools has been
regarded as a question by some persons; but we cannot consider it a
subject of doubt. After a careful consideration of every objection, we
cannot see a reason why its gentle and holy truths should not be given
to the mind and heart at the earliest period. There is nothing so
likely to mark out the destiny of man and woman for goodness and
honor, and prosperity, as the early and earnest study of the New
Testament. Its Divine Inspirer said, "Suffer little children to come
unto me;" and one of the great evidences of its heavenly origin, is
the fact, that while its sublimity bows the haughtiest intellect to
humility and devotion, its simplicity renders its most important
teachings as intelligible to the child as the man, to the unlettered
as to the philosopher. The work is worthy the attention of all who
desire to unite education with religion.

     _The Princess. A Medley. By Alfred Tennyson. Boston:
     Wm. D. Ticknor & Co._ 1 _vol._ 12_mo_.

The success of this poem is indicated not only by the discussion it
has provoked, but its swift passage through three editions. Taken
altogether we deem it the most promising of Tennyson's productions,
evincing a growth in his fine powers, and a growth in the right
direction. It has his customary intellectual intensity, and more than
his usual heartiness and sweetness. As a poem it is properly called by
its author a medley, the plan being to bring the manners and ideas of
the chivalric period into connection with those of the present day;
the hero being a knight who adores his mistress, his mistress being a
lady who spurns his suit, and carries to its loftiest absurdities the
chimera of woman's rights. There is no less fascination in the general
conduct of the story, than truth in the result. The whole poem is
bathed in beauty, and invites perusal after perusal. In Tennyson's
other poems the general idea is lost sight of in the grandeur or
beauty of particular passages. In the present we read the poem through
as a whole, eager to follow out the development of the characters and
plot, and afterward return to admire the excellence of single images
and descriptions. In characterization the Princess evinces an
improvement on Tennyson's manner, but still we observe the manner. He
does not so much paint as engrave; the lines are so fine that they
seem to melt into each other, but the result is still not a portrait
on canvas, but an engraving on steel. His poetic power is not
sufficiently great to fuse the elements of a character indissolubly
together.

     _The Origin, Progress and Conclusion of the Florida
     War. By John T. Sprague, Brevet Captain Eighth Regiment
     U. S. Infantry. New York: D. Appleton & Co._ 1 _vol._
     8_vo._

This large volume seems to have been a labor of love with its author.
It is full of interesting and valuable matter regarding a very
peculiar contest in which our government was engaged; and to the
future historian Captain Sprague has spared a great deal of trouble
and research. The work is well got up, is illustrated with numerous
engravings, and contains full accounts of the origin and progress of
the war, the Indian chiefs engaged in it, and a record of all the
officers and privates of the army, navy, and marine corps, who were
killed in battle or died of disease. Captain Sprague says, "the causes
of the difficulties in Florida must be apparent to the minds of
careful and intelligent readers; causes not springing up in a day, but
nourished for years, aggravated as opportunities offered to enrich
adventurers, who had the temerity to hazard the scalping-knife and
rifle, and were regardless of individual rights or of law. It must be
remembered that Florida, at the period referred to, was an Indian
border, the resort of a large number of persons, more properly
_temporary inhabitants_ of the territory than citizens, who sought the
outskirts of civilization to perpetrate deeds which would have been
promptly and severely punished if committed within the limits of a
well regulated community. . . . They provoked the Indians to
aggressions; and upon the breaking out of the war, ignominiously fled,
or sought employment in the service of the general government, and
clandestinely contributed to its continuance." In these few sentences
we have the philosophy of almost all our Indian border wars. The
criminals of a community are ever its most expensive curses.

     _The Poetical Works of John Milton. A New Edition. With
     Notes, and a Life of the Author. By John Mitford.
     Lowell: D. Bixby & Co._ 2 _vols_. _8vo._

Lowell is a manufacturing city of Massachusetts, the Manchester of
America, and a place where we might expect every thing in the shape of
manufactures except classical books. Yet it rejoices in a publisher
who has really done much for good literature. If our readers will look
at their American editions of Faust, of Goethe's Correspondence with a
Child, of Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, they will find Mr. Bixby on
the title page, and Lowell as the city whence their treasures came. We
have now to chronicle another feat of the same enterprising
publisher--an edition of Milton, in two splendid octavos, printed in
large type on the finest paper, after the best and most complete
London edition, illustrated with foot notes of parallel passages from
other poets, and constituting altogether the best American edition
extant of the sublimest of poets, and having few rivals even among the
finest English editions. The life of the poet by Mitford, extending to
about a hundred pages, embodies in a clear style all the facts which
have been gathered by previous biographers, without reproducing any of
their bigotries. All the lies regarding Milton's character are
disposed of with summary justice; and the man stands out in all the
grandeur of his genius and his purity. We hope that Mr. Bixby will be
adequately remunerated for his enterprise in getting out this splendid
edition. It is an honor to the American press.

     _Eleventh Annual Report of the Secretary of the Board
     of Education of Massachusetts. Boston: Dutton &
     Wentworth._ 1 _vol._

We strongly advise our readers to procure this document, and not be
frightened from its perusal by the idea of its being a legislative
paper. It is written by Horace Mann, one of the ablest champions of
the cause of education now living, a man as distinguished for
industry, energy, and practical skill, as for eloquence and loftiness
of purpose. His report, considered simply as a composition, is written
with such splendid ability, glows throughout with so much genuine
philanthropy, and evinces so wide a command of the resources of
expression and argument, that, apart from its importance as a
contribution to the cause of education, it has general merits of mind
and style which will recommend it to every reader of taste and
feeling. The leading characteristic of Mr. Mann's writings on
education, which lifts them altogether out of the sphere of pedants
and pedagogues, is soul--a true, earnest, aspiring spirit, on fire
with a love of rectitude and truth. This gives inspiration even to his
narrative of details, and hurries the reader's mind on with his own,
through all necessary facts and figures, directly to the object. The
present report cannot but shame a mean spirit out of any person with a
spark of manliness in him. We wish its accomplished author all success
in his great and noble work.

     _Aurelian, or Rome in the Third Century. By Wm. Ware,
     Author of Zenobia and Julian. New York: C. S. Francis &
     Co._

This work has been known to the public for ten years as "_Probus_,"
and has now a reputation that promises to be as enduring as it is
brilliant. It manifests an intimate knowledge of the manners, customs
and character of the Romans; and conveys the most sacred truths
through the medium of the most elevated fiction. It is for sale at the
store of the Appletons, in Philadelphia.