Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII. No. 5. May 1848

"I wonder if you will be surprised, my dear Enna," she wrote, "when you hear that I am married? A few years ago it would have surprised me, and I should have thought it impossible. Moreover, I am marrying a 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 READThe moon looks down on a world of snow,And the midnight lamp is burning low,And the fading embers mildly glowIn 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 barkTo 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 knellOf Hope, or Sorrow buried deep;Say on – but only let me hearThe sound most sweet to my listening ear,The child and the mother breathing clearWithin the harvest-fields of Sleep.Thou watchman, on thy lonely round,I thank thee for that warning sound —The clarion cock and the baying houndNot less their dreary vigils keep;Still hearkening, I will love you all,While in each silent intervalI can hear those dear breasts rise and fallUpon the airy tide of Sleep.Old world, on Time's benighted streamSweep down till the stars of morning beamFrom orient shores – nor break the dreamThat calms my love to pleasures deep;Roll on and give my Bud and RoseThe fullness of thy best repose,The blessedness which only flowsAlong the silent realms of Sleep.

A VISION

BY R. H. STODDARDI saw the Past, in heaven a mighty train,A countless multitude of solemn years,Standing like souls of martyred saints, and tearsRan 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'erWith guilty blood, and dusky wings unfurled,And sword unsheathed, expectant of His nod,Stood waiting by the burning throne, and GodRose up in heaven in ire – but Mercy fair,A piteous damsel clad in spotless white,In supplication sweet and earnest prayerKnelt at his feet and clung around his robe of light.

THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL.

A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE

BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEALFor naught its power to STRENGTH can teachLike 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."