4 
 
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 ae 
 
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 ei eral 
 
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 VIEW OF LONDON FROM BUCKINGHAM PALACE. — 
 
® 
 
 PARK BENJAMIN, 
 
 BDITOR. 
 
 ‘No pent-up Utica contracts onr powers; 
 
 For the whole boundless continent is onrs.” 
 
 EXTRA SERIES. 
 
 OFFICE 30 ANN-STREET. 
 
 NUMBER 5}. 
 
 Vor. II....No. 
 
 ~ 
 
 27. 
 
 NEW-YORK, FEBRUARY, 1843. 
 
 Price 123 Cenrs 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 ene’ POR Y= Lol RE 
 NEW ENGLAND- 
 
 ate eaten s] 
 
 wo bat Om we CT RT. 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO THE READER. 
 
 Oe 
 
 Iw the following pages, I have attempted a periraiturejof Fuctory 
 Eafe in New England. 
 sublimity of execution, as at fidelity. A Salvator would have made 
 a dark and gloomy picture, doubtless, with sucha subject. A Claude 
 would have pencilled some bright and beautiful ideal of his own. 
 ‘There would have been the sunny skies of Italy, the luxuriant vales 
 of Spain, and the romantic beauty of Switzerland all combined}; and 
 
 id at would have been a glorious picture. And only a picture ; for its 
 -original could be found nowhere, excepting in the happy imagination 
 of the artist. 
 
 Grateful recollections of kindnesses extended {to me by Superin- 
 tendents, Overseers, and by my sisters of the Mills, are ever with 
 me; and they might have been to me what Claude’s genius was to 
 
 _ him, but for counteracting tendencies in these same reeollections. I 
 would do them justice every way. And, while I exhibit the lovely 
 features in the moral and intellectual character of the better part of 
 the operatives, I would show to erring ones the temptations they are 
 to resist, the vices they are to shun, and the faults in deportment 
 they are to correct, to make them good and happy. 
 
 _ Ihave dealt in fiction, for reasons that must be very obvious. But 
 Thave described no degree of intelligence, none of ignorance; no 
 conditions of happiness, none of suffering; no exercises of kindness, 
 none of neglect, whose parallels { have not witnessed, or heard well 
 attested, 
 
 In a review of Mrs. Trollope’s ‘* Michael Armstrong,” a work 
 written as an expose of the factory system in England, one of the 
 editors of the ‘“‘ Ladies’ Companion,” says: 
 
 “ The tale is very affecting, but we do not think it well managed. 
 “The rescued factory children are elevated, in the end, to too high a 
 station. It is ill-judged, and it may be said, absurd, to make as good 
 _as ‘lords and ladies’ of them.” % 
 
 Yes, in aristocratic, proud, Old England, where the factory oper- 
 atives are so degraded, and the barriers in the way of their onward 
 progress so numerous. But those acquainted with Factory Life in 
 
 Ro eng eee staan pancetta egal le ee 
 * Entered according to Act of Congress, by J. WincnEsTER, in the Clerk’s 
 “Office of the Southern District of New York, in the year 1843,. 
 
 I have aimed, not so much at beauty or) 
 
 = ~ ; rere me 
 || New England, will bear me witness, that in making “fas good as 
 
 || lords and ladies” of some of the characters in this little book, there 
 
 | has been no sacrifice of truth. 
 
 I saw a gentleman from Washington, who fills “ high places” under 
 the government, and in polite circles there, end elsewhere. He 
 said, when speaking of the factory girls: “ Please inform me on one 
 point—are thegaintelligent, well-educated, graceful, and amiable, as 
 la class 2” * 
 
 | 
 
 | One might as well ask, are members of Congress a polite, digni- 
 I; fied,and learned class of men? Are the cadets at West Point 
 tj Palendeds honorable, and pleasing, as aclass? Are the ladies of Troy 
 || Seminary graceful, intelligent, and amiable? Fer the factory girl of 
 || to-day, was the schoo! girl, the village belle, or the country maiden, 
 
 the daughter of affluence, or the destitute orphan, yesterday. A few 
 | weeks, months, years, pass away, and she is—perhaps the factory girl 
 still; toiling patiently on, for thesubsistence of worthy and beloved, 
 |; but unfortunate parents; perhaps she is again the school girl; per- 
 CU iudee she is the. faithful and efficient ‘*helpmeet” of the farmer; 
 perhaps the elegant wife of the merchant, mechanic, minister, phy- 
 sician, or lawyer, the accomplished mother of aceomplished daugh- 
 ters and honorable sons, who ‘rise up and call her blessed.” 
 
 In 740, and °41, there were at sehool in , five beside myself, 
 who had been factory gitls. One of them had studied French and 
 Italian, gnd was then studying Greek and Latin. She is now in the 
 Mill working for funds to complete her education. Another was 
 attending to Greek and Latin. She is proseeuting her studies now 
 with her husband, who is, or is about to be a clergyman. Two 
 others commenced the study of Latin. One of these left school, and 
 became the wife of a physician in the neighborhood. The cther is 
 now in, the factory, with the object of attending school again. 
 | Another studied the Latin, Greek, and French, un peu, tres peu- 
 The other was the daughter of one of the first men in the village. 
 
 Her scholarship was above mediocrity. She is now successfully 
 engaged in teaching. 
 
 I do not suppose a knowledge of these languages so common as: 
 might be inferred from this fact; but were we all to return to the 
 Mills, we should, by no means, be “ literary curiosities” there. 
 
 I donot say this in the spirit of vain-boasting. I have not writter 
 to show-to the world what a factory girl can do; or to prove that the 
 operatives are ‘¢ intelligent, well-educated, graceful, and amiable as 
 a class? But I love them, and would do them good. I have 
 attempted to clothe rules of duty in an attractive garb, that they 
 may thereby have access to those, who would pass them by, if they 
 appeared in aseries of didactic essays. I do not know—lI never can 
 know—how far I have been successful. But if the prayers I have 
 breathed over these pages are answered, tireit mission will be one of 
 
 benefit and peace. 
 
THE NEW 
 
 WORLD. Kare Kimpalt- 
 
 2 
 far 
 SS 
 
 KATE KIMBALL. | 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Never was there child happier or prettier than little Kate Kim- 
 pat. Never were there eyes so like “ bright particular stars,” in 
 the depth and strangeness of their beauty; never were motions so 
 
 delightfully varied—now elastic and graceful as the fawn’s, anon || 
 
 stately and quiet as the giraffe’s ; and never was there voice so like 
 the jingling of golden bells, as Kate’s. 
 
 What if she did live in a mere bit of a cottage by the wayside— 
 in whose little patch of ground grew nothing but potatoes, beans, 
 sunflowers, and rocks? What ifthe yard was enclosed by a Vir- 
 ginia rail, its gate nothing in the world but three or four pieces of 
 rough, shattered boards, thrown together, and hung by leather hinges? 
 And what, even, if nothing beautiful in art, had ever reached her 
 eye orear? Surely it was enough for the joyous little Kate, that 
 there was such a glorious sky above her; that towering mountains, 
 gushing streams, and beautiful trees, were all around her; and that 
 a bright carpet of grass and wild flowers, or snow and ice (as might 
 be, for little heeded Kate,) was spread out beneath her. She sang, 
 laughed, and skipped, from morning till night; and her only regret 
 were, that she lost so many ‘good times” while sleeping; and that 
 the folks would allow their minister to talk so long every Sabbath, 
 when it was so much pleasanter to hear the birds, crickets, and 
 grasshoppers sing; and to chase butterflies, or gather wild flowers. 
 
 She wasnever wholly quiet, except at evening twilight. It seemed 
 an innate propensity with her; for fromher very childhood she loved 
 to take herself away from all, at that hour, save her .own pleasant 
 dreams Then she would not have exchanged her own plat of turf 
 under the great elm, or even her moss-covered, rocky seat, so high 
 up the mountain side, for the most luxuriant sofas and ottomans; for 
 ~who eyer heard such sounds, and saw such sights, in parlor, sitting- 
 room, or boudoir, as Kate heard and saw, in the bright sunset hours 
 of her childhood? 
 
 She sat then, with her hair thrown back from her high, broad fore- 
 head, her large eyes wandering about from the dark shadows of 
 mountain and wood, to the golden and crimson clouds where the 
 sun was falling, and then to just the spot in the sky where the first 
 star of evening came out. 
 
 And, then, there were such sounds! The song of a thousand 
 birds; the hum of a thousand insects; the lowing of herds, and 
 bleating of flocks; the tinkling ef mountain rills; the rush of moun- 
 tain winds; and, it might be, the grumbling of distant thunder—came 
 in one mingled anthem. And, as she listened, her imagination, ir 
 its excitement, caught still other music, still farther in the gray dis- 
 tance, and still more strange in its sadness and beauty. Her father 
 had told her of animalcules—of ‘*the multitudes which we do not 
 see, borne on the wings of the viewless air.” Perhaps they were 
 ** hymning their low melodies.” Her mother had told her of Hea- 
 ven, and of the harps of angels. Perhaps she was ‘‘ listening to the 
 melting songs of other worlds.” 
 
 Such, and so happy, was Kate, “‘ when her life wasnew.” .There 
 were no modes of joyous existence in which she did not, at one 
 time or another, find herself; and, when at seventeen, she left her 
 home, she with truth averred, that she had known only two very 
 brief seasons of trial. 
 
 ** The first,” said she, in a letter to her cousin, ‘‘ was when I had 
 
 “been reading in a Sabbath-school book, the story of a very poor 
 family ; who were so very poor because Mr. Mason was a drunkard. 
 Their house was described; and I saw that it was just like ours. 
 The red eyes, bloated cheeks, trembling hands, and tattered clothes 
 of Mr. Mason, were like my father’s; the toils and privations, the 
 tears and prayers of Mrs. Mason, were like my mother’s. All at 
 ence the thought came to me that we were very, very poor, and 
 that my father was a drunkard. 
 
 **I can’t make you understand how I felt. It seemed to me that 
 F should die. My heart seemed ready to burst; and I trembled so 
 eis f could not stand. I, atlast, burst into tears, and cried violently 
 sora lew minutes; then, somehow, I was happy again. I remem- 
 bered hearing mother say, that all her trials—and I now understood 
 pin she meant by trials—might be traced to my father’s loss of a 
 as. pees ba gsi of the Lawrences. And then I thought 
 sia ace iret 5 isa when I became old enough, I could go to 
 
 tory, a arn a few hundreds; and then all would be well 
 
 . ry ¥ “J ? 
 again. This was when I was a mere child. 
 “ce 
 S 
 
 1] do not recollect a moment of decided suffering since then, 
 
 iseventeenth birthday. A feeling of utter desolation came over me- 
 
 at the thought of leaving home; but it lasted only a moment. I 
 know I may never return. I know that to-merrow morning I may 
 look for the last time on father, mother, and brother; but I think 
 mot. Ithink there are many days and years of happiness in store 
 for each one of us. It may be a mere superstition; but it sustains 
 me not the less.” 
 
 Kate inherited the lively and strong impulses, the depth and inten- 
 sity of feelings, which, under the pressure of misfortune, unregulated 
 as they were by correct moral principles, wrought so much wo to 
 her father. But in her mother’s moral] nature, and her mother’s 
 moral teachings, she found that excellent ballast which made her 
 little bark glide so steadily and gaily on, through storms, falls, and 
 shoals, where purple sails, and golden oars, alone, would have been 
 wholly ineffectual. 
 
 Blended as were these characteristics of the parents, in the 
 daughter, they constituted a mind almost perfect. There were all 
 the delicacy and imaginativeness which one so loves to seein female 
 character, with the buoyancy and strength so necessary in woman’s 
 conflicts. There were quick perceptions, and ardent love, for all 
 beautiful and sublime things in nature, unalloyed by a disrelish for 
 the pursuits belonging to the prose of life. 
 
 Mr. Kimball’s fondness for several scientific works, and for the 
 poems of Burns, Shakspere, Cowper, and Byron, was almost the only 
 relic of his former self. The last superfluous articles of dress and 
 furniture had long since been sacrificed, to meet the necessary 
 expenditures of the family; but these, together with a few old, wor 
 and soiled volumes of novels, had been sacredly preserved. Into 
 their mysteries, Mr. Kimball early initiated his little Kate. 
 
 But, well as she loved to revel there, and in fairy worlds of her 
 own creation, she turned from them, with a laugh and song, to the 
 humblest duties of her humblest sphere. So she danced to the musie¢ 
 of the spinning wheel; and sang to the measures of the churn, loom,. 
 and all. Nothing loth, she mounted her father’s faded and jaded old. 
 roan to harrow the ground for wheat, or assist her father in “ plow- 
 ing between the rows” of corn; for she had only to give the reius up 
 to her imagination, and her steed became the fiery Pegasus, or that 
 funny creature of John Gilpin’s, or the sub-hero of ‘* Sleepy Hollow,’” 
 or Tam O’Shanter’s Maggie; and many times she startled her father 
 from his gloomy reveries, by an outpouring of the glee she could no 
 longer contain. 
 
 She knew she would be missed at home. She knew that it was 
 not a light thing to meet the struggles she was about to impose upon 
 herself—-and these were moments when her heart sickened; and 
 she almost wished it was for her to lie down to her last sleep, under 
 the turf and flowers of her favorite haunt, rather than go out into a 
 strange world. But it was only fora moment. She turned to the 
 sunny side of the picture; and thsre were new, pleasing, and profit- 
 able friendships, superior facilities for deepening her knowledge of 
 books and of human nature ; and, besides, there were beautiful town 
 and county residences, with their piazzas, balconies, shrubberies, 
 
 had read and imagined so much. 
 
 ww 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AAALM 
 
 and after their marriage, their friendship remained unbroken to the 
 time of the removal of the Goves t) Newburyport—when Kate was 
 ten years old. 
 
 Mr. Goye was a worthy and popular barrister. They had no chil- 
 dren; and Kate was their little idol. Gladly would they have 
 adopted her for their own; but the Kimballs would not accede to 
 the proposals, advantageous as they knew them to be. 
 
 father, ‘and we can’t give her away.” 
 
 ‘« She assists me in so many ways; and she laughs and sings so 
 merrily when I am tired and low-spirited, I don’t feel as if I could 
 live without her,” said her mother, as tears fell on the head of her 
 daughter, who sat by her side, wondering how her mother could 
 weep, when the sun was shining so brightly, and the dear Mrs. Gove: 
 was near her. 
 
 But Mrs. Gove did all for Kate that was left for ker. She gave 
 her pretty dresses, and pretty books. And when Kate commenced 
 
 painting on her self-taught plan, with colors pressed from leaves» 
 
 arbors, groves, and splendid public buildings, about all of which she: 
 
 Mrs. Gove was the intimate friend of Mrs. Kimball in girlhood . 
 
 ‘‘She is our greatest blessing—almost our only one,” said her 
 
 ag Ar, 
 
 berries, and flowers, she gave her a box of water-colors, and taught P 
 
 her their use. 
 
 - Vee! Cant eae al ll i ee 
 
Kate Kimpa.u. THE NEW 
 
 WORLD. 
 
 3 
 
 Gove, of boarding with a cousin who resided near the 
 looking upon the ocean, she repaired to Newburyport. 
 
 At first, her determination of entering the Mills was earnestly 
 opposed by the Goves. They offered her every advantage of educa- 
 tion, which books and the best society could give, if she would reside 
 permanently with them. But although Kate shed tears of tude 
 
 at) 
 grat 
 
 for their kindness and love, and in'sorrow that she must reject their| 
 
 generous proposals, she was firm in her sense of duty to her parents. 
 ‘*I long for knowledge, as the traveller on a desert does for the 
 cooling draught. But its acquisition would give me no pleasure, if 
 
 its price was my duty and the happiness of my father and mother. || 
 Let me see them in a comfortable house, with a farm sufficient for| 
 
 their maintainance, and then I can attend to myself.” 
 
 Her friends loved her the better for her generoussacrifices. They 
 no longer opposed her plan; but there was no abatement of zeal in 
 her interests. They gave her books,and assistance in getting know- 
 ledge from their pages. ‘* Wax to receive, and marble to retain,” 
 her progress astonished and delightedthem. Mr. Gove often assured 
 her that the tables would soon be turned; and she would be their 
 instructer, in the sciences at least. And it was even so, at length. 
 As truth after truth burst upon her, all the enthusiasm of her nature 
 was kindled; and, in its light, she gathered inferences and ded uc- 
 
 “tions, which flitted by them with a shadowy indistinctness, or entirely 
 escaped their observation. 
 
 Kate scarcely allowed herself necessary seasons of repose; but 
 when unoccupied in the Mill, was almost incessantly engaged with 
 her books, when her dress required no attention. The latter had 
 so few accessions, that little time was needed inits regulation. Its 
 
 Mills, and of |! 
 
 a pe ee 
 
 “ sei in that little spot. After the purchase of the land and 
 
 hae S ticles of clotkin - Ae 
 cheap articles of clothing for each of the family, she reserve 
 
 d 
 
 sn fhiel } 
 (sufficient to defray her expenses back to New buryport; and ther 
 found her little purse contained twenty-five dollars. With this sunt 
 Mr. Kimball purchas ials for a partial repair of the he 
 Mr. Ki ased mat : ir of ¢! 
 
 pur materials for a partial repair of the house, 
 
 and several articles of furniture for their parlor. 
 | Those who expend scores on one single item of luxury, will smile 
 vat the idea of refitting and furnishing a house, with the paltry sum of 
 |twenty-five dollars. But in poverty’s school, the Kimballs had b 
 ‘taught multu re pare : T 
 jtaught multum facere parvo. 
 
 Mr. Kimball's untiring industry, his ready ingenuity, his careful 
 |and judicious appropriation of Kate’s mite, accomplished a happier 
 | metamorphosis there, than does a thousand, as sometimes squan- 
 \dered, in the home of the millionaire. With the assistance of his 
 kind neighbors, who volunteered their services, he refitted an old 
 cellar near the margin of the lake; and thither removed his house 
 
 The clapboards were shattered, many of them hanging by a dnale 
 nail; the shingles were decayed and mossy. These were replaced 
 by new ones. The parlor was unpainted, poorly plastered, and 
 poorly glazed. Ilere he painted, papered, and glazed. He purchased 
 a hall-dozen pretty chairs for three dollars, a pretty table for one and a 
 half, a pretty mirror for two, and a pretty bookcase he made, painted 
 and varnished with his own hands, frem bits of boards left in the con- 
 structionofhisyard. Kate’s cousin George brought mountain thorn, 
 fora hedge about the house and fower-garden—this was Kate’s plan ; 
 elms, larches, maples, and mountain ashes, from the woods; and 
 lilacs, roses, and carnations, from the village yards. He assisted. 
 Kate in arranging plats for flowers, and transferred plants from his 
 
 simplicity at work and at meeting, was only equalled by its neatness, || mother’s garden to fill them. 
 
 correct taste, and economy. 
 
 “T really believe that he would not have left me a single flower, 
 
 She toiled a year ; and then returned home, with a style of beauty |"f you had not joined your commands to mine,” said his mother 
 and manner matured, and, indeed, perfécted ; with a mind developed || jauohing ; i, 
 —] co 
 
 and strengthened by her struggles and her studies; and yet, with all 
 
 ‘‘ Never did one love another as George does you, Catharine,” 
 
 the simplicity and purity of her nature about her. Nor were these || said her aunt. ‘He mourned for you, when you went to Newbury- 
 
 all. 
 
 Mr. Gove owned some thirty or forty acres of land, in an uncul- port, much more than your mother did. It was a long time before 
 
 tivated state, contiguous 2 Mr. Kimball’s garden. This Kate par-||he appeared to feel any interest in his work, books, or anything. 
 -chased—at a price far below its real value, it must be conceded to}when he did read, it was the books that you like best. When he 
 
 the worthy ‘squire. 
 
 worked, it was to make some improvement you had suggested, in 
 
 bd | would rather give it to her, if it would please her as well,” |'the yard or gardea. Before he had the least reason to expect a 
 gaid he to his wife. ‘Asit is, I caa keep its price for a part of her|| letter from you, he began to call every day at the post-office. And 
 
 matriage portion.” 
 On examining her deed on her return home, Kate, her father, and 
 
 her mother, shed tears of pleasure and gratitude, when they saw 
 that Mr. Gove had added, wholly gratuitously, one hundred acres of 
 mountain land, all good pasturage, and much of it suitable for culti- 
 vation. 
 
 Mr, Kimball was another man from that hour. At first, perhaps, 
 only his pride was gratified. But better feelings came. Gratitude 
 
 when, at last, one came,1 never saw such a happy person. He. 
 read it again and again. He did not hear us when we spoke to him; 
 and he seemed not to know that there was anything in the world 
 but his letter, his Catharine, and himself.” 
 
 Kate smiled affectionately as her aunt concluded. Butshe betrayed 
 none of the emotions Mrs. Hanscom felt in herself, and expected to 
 
 witness in her niece. 
 “‘ He has been very low-spirited, a greater part of the time snce 
 
 to Mr. Gove, to his noble daughter, and to Heaven, that he was thus you left,” pursued Mrs. Hanscom, musirgly. “And I don't thak 
 blessed, notwithstanding his past ingratitude, indolence, and sensual his health has been so good as usual,-of late. I hope, Catharine, 
 gratifications, filled his heart almost to bursting. Many times during you will not go back, after this year. Your paula eanteaaue’s 3 
 that happy, happy evening, as they talked of the past, and laid plans)/i.5+ us all through this life ; and you and George must be married i 
 
 for the future, his emotions completely choked his utterance. 
 
 The old clock struck nine. 
 Catharine, my love, you are tired; and we will not keep you up 
 
 any longer,” said her mother, as she rose to leave the room. 
 
 a year, and live in the house with us. Our house islarg*, you know; 
 and we will have it fixed convenient and nice for you.” 
 
 Kate kissed her good aunt’s cheek. But she felt none of her 
 apprehensions about George, or of her enthusiasm in view of their 
 
 “But, before we part, let us pray,” said Mr. Kimball. And he|| norriage. “ Mother expressed the same fears about George ; but he 
 fell upon his knees. His wife and daughter knelt at his side. His denies that he isill, my dear auat; and I think he looks uncom- 
 Jowly confessions of his sins, his earnest pleadings for “the bitter || monly well. His eye is brighter, and his cheek has more color.” 
 
 past,” his thanks for life, health, friends, and, above all, fora Saviour, 
 ‘met answering thrills in the bosoms of Mrs. Kimball and Kate. They 
 wept like children; but they were tears of happiness. Aad Mrs 
 Kimball thought, that if her trials had beea a thousand times as 
 great, they would have been more than counterbalanced by the hap- 
 piness of that blest moment. ; 
 Time has proved that Mr. Kimball’s was no transient emotion, 
 growing out of the excitement of the moment. His confessions 
 were as public as they were heartfelt. He gave himself up in bap- 
 tism. He ate of the bread, and drank of the cup which Christ gave ; 
 and with him it was no uameaning ceremony. He brought all the 
 energies of his renovated and sanctified nature to the werk of human 
 improvement and happiness. No poor suffering inebriate was so 
 obscure that he did not search him out. No one was so degraded 
 
 that he did not take him by the hand and call him brother; and few || 
 
 resisted his pleadings, and went on in their wretched eourse, when 
 he became bent upon their redemption. 
 
 Kate spent a month at home; and most magical was the change]! ys stock, and farming implement 
 
 Mrs. Hanscom turned pale. “And this is what a’arms me most, 
 Catharine. °Tis the way my family have gone, one after another, 
 until there are none left for me to love, but my husband, my sod, 
 and'you, my Cathariae. Promise me that you will marry George 
 next year, Catharine.” 
 
 «“ What! whether George wishes it or not, my dear aunt Ue 
 
 <*He has surely assed you to marry him.” 
 
 *¢ Yes; or rather we have talked, ever since I have rem*mbered, 
 about being married sometime. Indeed, ’tiss) long since we began,” 
 added Kate, laughing, ‘‘ that we planned a swing, a rocking chair, 
 and asled, so capacious that we reed not be compelled to swing, 
 
 rock, and slide alternately through life.” | 
 Mrs. Hanscom laughed heartily, in spite of her gloomy apprehen- 
 
 sions. 
 < But my next year,” added Kate, seriously, ‘must be devoted to 
 my parents, with the exception of three moaths which J shall spend 
 
 atschool. There will be so many necessary expenses. Father must 
 2, Mother must havea dairy-room, 
 
THE 
 
 Kate Kimearr 
 
 4 x — anainsnsseies 
 
 NEW WORLD. 
 
 These I must get; for father can’t, his income | 
 will be so small. Then of the next year, I must spend six months at) 
 school—cousin will board me for alittle daily assistance in her work. || 
 I shall need the remainder of the year, you know, in accumulating 
 my humble ‘ fixing out This doae, my dear eunt, and 1 am at 
 your service the rest of my life, if George wishes it.” 
 
 Her eyes filled; and she ran from the room, partly to conceal her! 
 emotion, and partly to avoid further importunities from her aunt. | 
 
 She loved her cousin ; but she had began to see that it was just as 
 she loved all her favorites, and to fear that this attachment would| 
 be an unsafe basis of matrimonial happiness. But yet, he was so} 
 good, so pleasant, so fond of her, and so attentive to her comfort— 
 surely she could live happily with George. 
 
 So reasoned Kate, as she fled; and meeting her uncle on his way) 
 to the parlor she had just left, she took his hand and led him to her 
 aunt. : 
 
 The result of this interview was everything but satisfactory to Mrs. | 
 Hanscom. In vain her husband expatiated, during their ride home, 
 on the growing beauties and virtues of their niece; and on the hap-| 
 piness in store for George and them. Ske forced a smile, as often: 
 as she observed that he was talking to her; and then gave herself up 
 again to her gloomy musings, from which she was aroused, at last, | 
 by the appearance of George, who cams out to assist her in alighting | 
 from the carriage, as it stopped at their own door. | 
 
 George seemed to read her thoughts, and the cause of the unusual | 
 tenderness of her tone, as she enquired about his health, and his) 
 manner of spending his solitary day; for his hand trembled in hers; 
 the color was heightened in his cheek, and the lustre in his eye. 
 
 He was at the cottage early on the morniag of Kate’s departure; 
 put, well as Kate.loved him, she wished he had not come—for his) 
 excessive melancholy oppressed her. And when, after arranging 
 her shawl, he caught her to his heart, and imprinted a passionate | 
 kiss upon her lips, his emotion was whelly inexplicable to her. 
 
 CHAPTER UT: 
 
 Wirn renewed exertion; Kate entered upon her second jyear. Her 
 experiment was hazardous. Withher, it proved entirely successful ; 
 with others, it might result only in ruined health. Her cousin offered 
 her a home and boarding, for the sewing she could accomplish in 
 her evenings. Kate accepted her offer—it was the widow’s mite ; 
 and then, that she might not lose her hours of study, she rose an) 
 hour, or two, or three, before the time for commencing work. 
 
 By these means, on leaving the Mill for school, she sent home fifty 
 dollars, besides several articles of clothing and books. She purchased, 
 likewise, books, implements of drawing and painting for herself; 
 and made a slight addition to her simple wardrobe. Even then, it 
 consisted only of a pretty white dress for warm weather, and a 
 fifty cents per yard cambleteen for cold; two every-day dresses, and 
 an old white, made “ maist as gude as the new,” and a de l’aine for 
 mediums—excepting, of course, the necessary et cetera of female cos. | 
 tume. 
 
 But was she not happier, think ye, my sisters of the Mills, than. 
 she could have been if she had spent ali her earnings for dress? and) 
 if the fashions, instead of books, had been her study ? | 
 
 Kate entered school, as she did every other place, with the very 
 comfortable feeling, that friends were all about her, that in every) 
 being she saw a brother ora sister. Soshe laughed just as loud, 
 and as often; talked just as fast, and as confidingly, as erst. 
 
 ‘*Now, Kate, do relieve me. Iam so tired of this monotony,”| 
 said one of Kate’s schoolmates, a pleasant, pretty body, in a pretty. 
 silk dress, and a pretty straw hat; but like most young ladies, pretty 
 and unpretly, extravagantly fond of ‘‘ excitement and ice-creams.” 
 
 it was a holiday for all—ihe fourth of ’41—past ten o’clock, Eliza 
 knew ; for she had heard just nothing at all, but the tickings of her, 
 watch; and seen almost nothing, but the everlasting dial of one of 
 the town-clocks, 
 
 “‘ Every body is so dull at our house to-day !” 
 
 : i og inclusive, I suppose, my dear,”’ said Kate, laughing. 
 ae os course ; for you know I never set the tone for anything, | 
 
 ake all by a sort of infection. °*Twas barbarous in the gentle- 
 men to betake themselves to such outlandish sports, and in sueh an 
 ety ned as Plumb Island. I suppose they expect us to die 
 8 hearts before night; or perhaps their vanity makes them 
 
 map yeas that we shall follow them like children, ‘bawling down the 
 Streetg,’ after their mammas.” 
 
 and dairy apparatus. 
 
 ||man. 
 
 to recapture our cravats, handkerchiefs, or any- 
 thing we might please to commit to the old fellow.” 
 
 “Ha, Kate, what a lucky idea! Let’s have a jaunt to the island, 
 with allthe choice ‘spirits, black and white’—by which I mean, 
 males and females, Kate. 1 will give Robert Hutchins a hint; he 
 does just as he pleases with everybody ; and, trust me, Katy, we 
 willseon revenge ourselves upon our part of Newburyport, for the 
 slight put upon her daughters this fourth of July. Now let us do 
 something that will make a noise; this stillness is oppressive. I 
 tried every expedient before I came from home.” 
 
 «And as a dernier resort, dressed yourself as bewitchingty as pos- 
 sible; and then came to put yourself under the influences of my necro- 
 mancy,” said Kate. 
 
 “ Yes; but ’tis poorly you meet my ideal of weird sister, in this 
 new dress of yours. Kate, you are the prettiest creature I ever saw, 
 
 races with Boreas, 
 
 || that is a fact.” 
 
 Kate laughed heartily, blushed slightly, and turned from Eliza to 
 the window. A gentleman was passing. He smiled, bowed, and 
 touched his hat; but Kate saw mo more than half ef it; for with a 
 deeper blush, she walked back to the sofa, where Eliza was sitting. 
 
 <* But just out of the woods,” persisted Eliza, “ yet some how you 
 manage to be as genteel, sprightly, and intelligent, asif you had been 
 inoculated years ago, with all the graces—diseases, I suppose I should 
 say, to support my figure—of an accomplished lady.” 
 
 “‘¢ Well, Mr. Reynard, have you done? 
 If you have, I think you’d better run—’”’ 
 said Kate, laughing heartily at Eliza’s enthusiasm. 
 
 “Kate, praise willmever spoil you,” said Eliza. ‘Pray who was’ 
 that gentleman you just blushed at ?” 
 
 “Tig a gentleman I met last evening, at Mr. Gove’s. His name 
 is Norton. You must have seen his initials—C. N.—in the papers.”* 
 
 ‘Yes. Heisa fine writer. I admire his style muck more than 
 
 ‘\any other serious thing in the world, except Mr. Fox's preaching. 
 
 His occupation ?” 
 
 “A lawyer in crysalis ; at least, cousin says heisa lawyer. Mrs. 
 Gove told me he was recently from Cambridge ; but I inferred from 
 what she said of him, and from his conversation, that he is a clergy- 
 Now let us take a walk.” 
 
 “‘ First tell me, Kate, what made you blush so?” 
 
 ‘<> Twas all in anger, doubtless; for he disconcerted me terribly, 
 last evening, by observing me so closely. Of all things I dislike to 
 be stared at; and especially, when I am with such a quiet trio, as 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gove, and Mr. Norton formed last evening. I wished 
 that the august Miss Perry were there, that I might hide behind her; 
 or that Esq. Lane would call, and take us all to the cabinet, as he 
 always does of late, since he mounted his new hobby, Mineralogy: 
 or that you, Eliza, were there, to look at pictures with me; or that 
 the lamps would go out; or anything, ifso be I might escape Mr. 
 Norton’s eyes. I never was so foolish before; and 1 am sure, I don’t 
 know how such a spell came to settle on me last evening. It was 
 really vexatious ; for Mr. Norton was so pleasing.” 
 
 «Did your heart go pit-pat, Kate ; and did you want to get behind 
 4 curtain, where you might look on his pretty face forever, without 
 being yourself seen? Ah! *tis ‘yes,’ I know by that biush and sigh. 
 She is in love, isn’t she, Miss Holt ?” 
 
 Miss Holt was a mill acquaintance of Kate’s, who had been endea- 
 voring to read the finis of astory, in the last ‘ Lady’s Book,” all 
 this time. 
 
 “If she is her case is hopeless,” answered Miss Holt. * That 
 gentleman is an aristocrat of the first water. I know them ata 
 glance.” 
 
 ‘You rival my penetration,” said Kate. 
 insignia ? 
 
 “Lofty looks, steps of conscious and proud superiority—there, . 
 look at Col. Barnes! He will do for an illustration of my theory.” 
 
 ‘© And that gentleman behind him, for its refutation, Harriet. 
 Tis Monroe. He has just been promoted to the place of second 
 overseer. Observe his ‘ lofty looks, and steps of proud superiority.” 
 And there isa factory girl—compare her with Mrs. Barnes. On 
 which do you find your insignia ?” 
 
 “On Jane Lawrence, I confess,” replied Harriet. ‘ And ’tis all 
 because she happens to have on anew bonnet and dress; for she 
 does not wal at all like that in her mill dress.” 
 
 «© A new bonnet and dress, forsooth !’? said Kate. 
 patents of nobility !” 
 
 ‘What may be their 
 
 ** What worthy 
 
— 
 
 Kate Kimpatt. 
 
 “Yes, Miss Bartlett, the surest passport to ‘gelden opinions.” 
 said Miss Holt. ‘‘ But excuse me, Kate ; I promised to be at home 
 before eleven. ’Tis past the hour.” ; 
 
 ** You and Miss Holt have taken rather a novel, and to me a mel-| 
 ancholy position,” said Kate, as Miss Holt left the room. ‘I believe | 
 I could controvert it successfully ; but I shall not try ; for I have an 
 unconquerable antipathy to discussion.” 
 
 ** And so have I. Now put on your bonnet; and we will go off, 
 Don Quixote like, in search of adventure. But which way shall we 
 go Y hd 
 
 “TI have itnow. Mr. Pontis, the phrenologist, was expected at 
 Mr. Gove’s this morning. He is Mr. Gove’s nephew. I promised 
 Mrs. Gove that I would call to-day, for an examination of my head; 
 so if we are in humor to be amused by disagreeable truths, we will 
 call on him now. Ha! we will take cousin Edward for our ’squire ; 
 and go incognito ; or, rather, e3 ruse.” 
 
 ‘Eliza langhed and clapped her hands at the idea. ‘Oh, that is 
 delightful! We will make him suppose that we hardly know any- 
 thing.” 
 
 ‘We will be three ‘children of one faraily,’ all ‘rural rusticity,’” 
 said Kate. 
 
 ‘* Yes, who live some three or four miles back in the woods; and 
 who walked all the way into town—” 
 
 “To see the fourth of July, Elizi1. We will take Barnaby Rudge 
 for our prototype in preparing Edward—put a feather in his cap, 
 picked up ostensibly in our barnyard.” 
 
 ‘*And I will run home, and put on that gaudy chintz of mine,” 
 said Eliza. *Twas obsolete three years ago, in material, style of 
 making, and all. But don’t laugh so, Kate; you willalarm the town 
 authorities.” 
 
 “ Well, wouldn’t it be the quintessence of all funny things, if—ha, 
 ha, ha—if Mr. Pontis were to be seized with a fit of poetry; and set 
 to apostrophizing your dress? For you must know that he puts him- 
 self into the poet’s corner of every newspaper, in every town he visits. 
 He would imagine your dress, and Eve’s fig-leaf apron cotempora- 
 neous; and talk like this—ha, ha, ha! 
 
 **Tis not thy bright texture, thy gorgeous dyes, 
 Thou beautiful robe! that enrapture my eyes. 
 Tis not that thy wearer is lovelier far, 
 
 Than Houries, or Graces, or Naiads are ; 
 But thy venerable——’ 
 
 What shall be the epithet, 
 
 *Ha,no; venerable will not do. 
 Eliza? Ah, I know— 
 
 ‘But thou knowest of days which our fathers knew not ; 
 Thou talk’st of events which old Adam forgot ; 
 Thou whisp’rest of Eden, of bowers of bliss, 
 Of Venuses fairer and brighter than this.’ 
 
 “And he would be careful to italicise this, as the very apex of his 
 climax. But, about your dress—you must find a chintz reticule, of huge 
 dimensions ; and stuff it with dough-nuts and apples, for Junch; and 
 what Jones would call, a gigantic, volcanic, bandanna handkerchief.” 
 
 “*I will sew up the bottom of one of Susan’s pantalets. No mat- 
 ter about the material of the stuffing. Mr. Pontis’s imagination wil] 
 make all right. For you, Kate, ’twcould be useless to attempt a 
 metamorphosis. Your face and manners would appear through the 
 lion’s skin.” 
 
 ‘‘ IT have imitation enough for anything. I willbe all vanity and 
 pretence,” said Kate. ‘If you have any finery, such as curls, 
 ribbons, tassels, and scarfs, bring them in, and I will select. I will 
 wear this dress.” 
 
 " Mrs. Gove repeatedly laid her hand on the latch of her nephew’s 
 door § and as often turned back to the parlor to settle her features 
 into a proper serious rest. But when there, the sight of Master 
 Edward, hugging his plumed hat so closely in his arms, and looking 
 up so stupidly threugh his long hair, now thrown over his eyes of 
 Eliza’s unique attire ; and especially of Kate’s comical expression, 
 only gave fresh impetus to her mirth. 
 
 THE NEW 
 
 jseason for the chowder. 
 
 “Kate, don’t look so strangely; I never can command myself,” 
 said she. ‘ You sit just as though vou grew to your chair ten years 
 ago; and your hands are folded so! How do you get so much 
 expression into your hands? Do let them be a li:tle more naturally 
 
 in your lap. There, I can bear that better. Bat—ha, ha, ha! Kate, 
 your hair is so curious—your curls on the very top of your head. Do 
 
 move them down alittle. There, now I will think of everything ||took K 
 
 serious.” 
 
 eo “— a> . a, Se ee te es (er 
 
 WORLD. 5 
 
 —<—<—$—_._.._.___.., 
 
 nounced him. But Kate’s perfectly appropriate smile, courtesy, and * 
 her ‘* How d’ye do, sir?’ and her nephew’s manner—half serious 
 and half comical—as he turned from one to another of the strange 
 group, and then to her, asif to read an explanation of the scene, 
 were too much for that lady’s risibles. She burst intoa loud, uncon- 
 trollable fit of laughter; and was joined by the whole party. 
 
 ** Was that Mr. Norton in your room?” asked Mrs. Gove, as soon 
 as she could speak. 
 
 “Yes; he called to accompany me to Plumb Island. He was 
 engaged with Mr. Barnes when I came out.” He went to the door 
 ofhis room. ‘Alone, my friend? Please walk out this way. I 
 have some curious subjects here.” 
 
 Mr. Norton came; but he found a vacated room. 
 
 Mrs. Gove followed the fugitives. Eliza and Edward could not 
 be induced to remain; but Kate threw off redundances ; and accom- 
 panied Mrs. Gove back to the room they had left. Her eyes sparkled, 
 and her cheeks glowed, even more intensely than usual; and Mrs. 
 Gove thought she had never seen her so beautiful. 
 
 ““Now, Miss Kimball, you have given me such a clue for the 
 unravelling of your temperament, I fear I shall not fix my reputation 
 as a ‘Sir Oracle,’ even by the most positive correctness.” Mr. Pon- 
 tis laid his hand on the locale of mirthfulness. “But there is my 
 bell again. Mr. Norton, I fear we shan’t reach Plumb Island in 
 But please remain here until I am again at 
 liberty, meanwhile aunt and Miss Kimball will take care of you.” 
 
 ‘IT believe [ must transfer you wholly to Kate’s care, while I see 
 how Arabel prospers with dinner,” said Mrs. Gove. 
 
 Kate felt a slight return of her last night’s embarrassment, when 
 she found she was to be left alone with Mr. Norton. She rose half 
 involuntarily, for the purpose of accompanying Mrs. Gove from the 
 room. But Mrs. Gove laughingly shook her finger at her, and shut 
 the door between them, as she said, ** Well, well, Kate, Mr. Norton 
 may take care of you then.” 
 
 ‘And, indeed, Miss Kimball, I shall not allow you to run away 
 from me,” said Mr. Norton. He took her hand and led her back to 
 the centre-table. 
 
 Kate laughed, blushed, and then began to talk, asrapidly as possible, 
 about the prints of an annual that lay there; thea of the authors, 
 and of the peculiarities of each. Mr. Norton repeated fine passages 
 from authors she had never read, and she sang to him; and, when 
 Mrs. Gove rejoined them, with the announcement that dinner was 
 waiting, she interrupted a ¢ete-a-tete, which Kate thought the most 
 delightful she had ever enjoyed. 
 
 The gentlemen left immediately after dinner; and Mrs. Gove 
 informed Kate that Mr. Norton was the son of an old classmate and 
 intimate friend of her husband's while at college. At the early age 
 of sixteen, he was left an orphan, to the care of his maternal grand- 
 mother. She died six months before, without the accomplishment 
 of her darling wish—that of seeing her grandson an installed min- 
 ister of the gospel. 
 
 ‘*He had the offer of a vacancy at Worcester, before he left Cam- 
 bridge,” concluded Mrs. Gove. ‘‘ He has had other proposals since, 
 better, on some accounts, but he is still deliberating between them.” 
 
 we 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “Oh, what a delightful evening!” exclaimed Kate, as she and Mrs. 
 Gove walked arm in arm through Mr. Gove’s beautiful yard. “1 
 never knew itso pleasant as it has beer this summer. The sun- 
 beams seem made all of glory. Dow, Jr. would say: ‘The air 
 seems fall of exhalations from ambrosia, nectar, coffee, and all exhil- 
 arating things.’” 
 
 Mrs. Gove smiled at her young friend’s enthusiasm. She under- 
 stood, even better than Kate herself did, why all was so unusually 
 pleasant; for Kate shrank from the analysis of her feelings. She 
 knew that her heppiness was deeper than ever before ; but she dared 
 not investigate the cause. She felt as if under the influences of a 
 delicious dream; but she had no desire to throw off its witcheries. 
 
 “In three weeks this term will close,” said Mrs. Gove. ‘ Now 
 promise me that you will reside with us, when you return from home 
 —that you will come to-morrow, Kate. You will be nearer school $ 
 Mr. Gove can assist you in your studies; and we need your society 
 so much, my dear Kate.” ‘ 
 
 «Yess we do need your society, Miss Kimball,” said Mr. Norton, 
 who had approached them through the shrubbery, unperceived. He 
 ate’shand,and drew itthroughhisarm. ‘ You see how much 
 Ineed it; for I neglect my studies, my correspondence, and every- 
 
 eT Oa, oe eee ae 
 
THE 
 
 NEW 
 
 WORLD. Kats Kime att. 
 
 ———————————————E 
 
 He still retained Kate’s hand, and pressed it in both his, as he 
 poke. T'xe deep tenderness of his tone made Kate tremble, but 
 her lively genius came to her relief. 
 
 « Yes; but I shan’t allow you to hinder me, Mr. Norton. Andso, 
 if Lcome here, 1 shall doom you to pining solitude, except for a shor; 
 time at this part of the day, when we will talk, read, sing, play, or 
 walk, or muze, just as you please,” 
 
 «But, my Kate, you have never allowed intrusions at evening 
 twilight, until now,” said Mrs. Gove, peeping archly in Kate’s face. 
 
 ‘Mr. Norton and Mrs. Gove cannot intrude,” said Kate, blushing. 
 
 ‘* And you will be with us constantly, Kate. And, Mr. Norton, 
 you wiill call on us every day, on me, ten times a day, if you will. 
 I think you must indulge my foolish fondness for an exclusive monop- 
 oly of my pets, by allowing me to call you my children ; and to treat, 
 
 / 
 
 you as if you really were.” | 
 
 intel 
 “ You make me happy, my dear madam,” said Mr. Norton, with | 
 
 grateful earnestness. ‘‘l know of no one who could so well fill my | 
 mother’s place in my affections. And Miss Kimball—” he added, | 
 hesitatingly, turning to Kate. 
 
 & Why she will be your own sister Kate. So please not call me 
 Miss Kimball; I alwayz look up, when you do, to assure myself that 
 
 | 
 
 you ave not a nice, prim old bachelor of the oid school, in buckram, | 
 
 queue, and golden buckles. But there comes Mr. Gove.” 
 
 «“ Ha! asJ hoped,” said Mr. Gove, shaking Mr. Norton warmly 
 by the hand, and kissing his wife and Kate. ‘‘I called at your lodg- 
 ings as I came along, Mr. Norton, to invite you to accompany us in| 
 a walk. ’Tisa fine evening; I have been confined to my office all | 
 day. This cool air, and brisk exercise, will be luxuries to me.” 
 
 They all joyfully acceeded to his proposal. Mrs. Gove separated | 
 herself and husband from their companions, to tell him about her, 
 suecess with Kite; and to lay with him new plans for her improve- 
 ment and happiness. They walked through the cemetery, mall, and. 
 then twe or three miles down the road, by the Merrimac. 
 
 Mr. Norton told Kate of his early days—of his parents; and Kate 
 ~ wept like a child, when he described their deaths, and his subsequent 
 desolation ef feeling. He told her of his school and college career, 
 of his later studies, and of the anxieties arising from the deep and 
 solemn responsibilities of the station he was soon to assume. 
 
 «« And now, my own sister Kate,” he added, sadly, ‘“‘prove that) 
 you do indeed adept me for your brother, by repaying my egotism 
 in kind, when we walk again. Tell me of your attachments; of 
 your—of your engagement. Iremember you alluded to it in the| 
 early days of our intercourse.” 
 
 He paused for a reply, but Kate could not speak. 
 
 «¢ Will you not indulge me in this, my sister?’ They hadreached 
 her cousin’s gate. 
 answer. 
 
 “7 can’t; ask Mrs. Gove—she may tell you all.” 
 
 Mrs. Gove felt for Kate all the pride and tenderness of a mother; 
 and Kate repaid her im the confidence, sympathy and fondness of a 
 daughter. She appealed to her for advice ia every little emergency. | 
 She told her all her pleasures, and all her misgivings, with regard to 
 her engagement to her cousin George. 
 
 «<I know just how you must feel, my dear Kate,” said Mrs. Gove, 
 one time, after a long conversation with Kate upon the subject. 
 «*But don’t allow yourself to be unhappy about it; for I do not think | 
 you will ever marry him.” 
 
 Kate thought of her aunt’s presentiments respecting his health; 
 and offered up a prayer, that her release, dear as it would be, might! 
 not be purchased with his life. 
 
 ‘You start, my dear,” continued Mrs. Gove; ‘but I do not 
 believe you were made for each other.” 
 
 *©Why, just think what incongruous matches there are in the! 
 
 | 
 
 world, Mrs. Gove. And, besides, George is quite good enough for me.” || 
 
 «But he has not sufficient strength of character for you, Kate. Of 
 the two, you have the more energy ; hence he would look up to you. 
 for encouragement and support, instead of feeling and acting as your 
 protector.” 
 
 “This is just the way I feel about it, Mrs. Gove. I would not like 
 to know that I was my husband’s equal ia s¢rength. I would love to| 
 lean on him, with the feeling that if I was weak, he was strong, and| 
 could sustain me ; if [ was ignorant, he could instruct me; and if 
 erring, he could correct and guide me. Oh, I know this naa be| 
 delightful; but I shall never feel it.” 
 
 Kate burst into tears; and wept upon Mrs. Gove’s bosom; and for 
 
 the first time in her life, she found her efforts to shake off her 
 ancholy, wholly ineffectral. : 
 
 | 
 ua 
 
 ||me. 
 
 Mr. Norton still held her hand, waitiag her|| 
 
 | this too has passed. I shall soon go where my struggles will all cease. 
 
 i? . . 
 eace, and would embitter his last moments, seemed more than she 
 
 1} 
 | 
 
 ‘TI am glad to see you, my brother,” said Kate, one afternoon, 
 extending her hand to Mr. Norton, as he entered the room where she 
 was sitting. 
 
 “< Then I shall not hinder you?” said he, smiling. “ The sight of 
 Telemachus, led me to anticipate a scolding from you.” 
 
 He took a seat by her side. 
 
 «No, it has lain just so, since Mr. Gove and his wife went to ride, 
 two hours ago. I have tried hard te translate a paragraph which I 
 kaow must be very easy; but I could not fix my thoughts long 
 enough to finish it, and I was just wishing you would come in and 
 help me. Else, you might have had a scolding, for I am sadly out 
 of humor this afternoon; andI would like to relieve myself by going 
 into a pet, ora hearty laugh. I was vibrating between these two 
 
 ‘modes when you came in.” 
 
 «Perhaps I have a good mental panacea in the shape of a letter- 
 I saw one for you, in Esq. Gove’s box; and took it with me, as an 
 apology for calling at a forbidden hour.” 
 Kate knew the superscription at a glance. It was her cousia’s. 
 ‘She blushed deeply, and threw the letter on the sofa. 
 
 «Shall I go home, sister, before you will read your letter,” asked 
 Mr. Norton, laying his hand on his hat. 4 
 
 «Oh, no, no! Iam inno haste—I will read it now, if you will 
 have the goodness to construe that sentence for me.” 
 | She again looked atthe superscription. 
 | Poor George is ill, I know he is!” exclaimed she, as she trem- 
 blingly tore open the seal. His lines are irregular and broken.” 
 She turned away from Mr. Norton, and read. The letter was 
 brief; and its conclusion wrung every fibre of her heart. 
 
 “1 have told*you of our friends, and of my pursuits since you left 
 home,” he wrote. ‘ And kere I would gladly close ; but my chief 
 ‘object in writing to you, would be unaccomplished. I must tell you 
 
 i 
 
 ‘the calm, but solemn conviction of my heart, that these friends, 
 
 ‘these pursuits, will be mine but a little longer. I had been failing 
 ‘ever since you left; but so slowly, and almost imperceptibly, that [ 
 persisted in calling myself well, until a week ago, when I was. 
 ‘attacked with hemorrhage. I did not suffer much, dear Catharine ; 
 ‘Ido not now. My poor mother was the first to fear ; but she will be 
 ‘the last te hope. She talks about times when I shall be well; and 
 ‘did not wish to have you apprised of my sickness. But I am not 
 deceived. I have every reason to expect a second attack soon, and 
 to fear that that will be the last. Iknow the benevolence of your 
 heart, my dearest Catharine. I knowyour kind regard for those who 
 
 |\love you; and I fear that this will distress you more than it now does 
 
 | At first there was a fearful struggle. But it wasas brief as it 
 was severe; and it left me resigned and calm as I am now. 
 
 _ © Tcannot comprehend myself. I seem already in a new state of 
 ‘existence. Energies that I never felt before, are stirring within me, 
 ‘and increasing day by day, as I decline, physically. They seem to 
 feed upon my vitality. Still they sustain me; and they will sustain 
 ‘me in that hour when I must give up all earthly loves—yourself, my 
 ‘Catharine, the dearest one. 
 
 | <«] was not” worthy of you, love; and this we bothfelt. Butthat 
 has passed. My God only knows how dear you were to me. He 
 ‘only knows how severely, and how ineffectually I struggled to make 
 ‘my love as cool, calm, and passionless, as your own for me. But 
 
 | There we shall meet, my sweet friend, if we meet not here again. 
 
 | Catharine, the thought that I may see your face no more on earth, 
 
 /unmans me. 
 
 «?Tis morning, dear C. I found myself unable to finish last eve- 
 ning. I must write no more—my physician warns me to avoid all 
 }/emotion. 
 
 ‘“Goad bless you, my dearest, my only love. 
 |now, and forever. Yourown 
 
 Oh, may He keep you 
 GEORGE.” 
 
 | Kate buried her face in her handkerchief, and wept without 
 ‘restraint. Death had neverentered hercircle. His approach seemed 
 fearful beyond endurance. 
 
 True, she loved George only as a brother; but a knowledge of his 
 
 all absorbing passion for herself, and the conviction on his part, of 
 
 its being but poorly returned by her, had embittered his past exist- 
 
 could bear. She sobbed long and convulsively. 
 Mr. Norton sat beside her, as pale, and nearly as much agitated as 
 
 herself, Her grief seemed too excessive to be interrupted by any 
 r mel-|| inquiries, or expressions of sympathy; and he gently encircled her 
 
 waist, drew her to him, and supported her head on his shoulder. 
 
Karte Kimpa.t. 
 
 THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 7 
 
 essen eee eeeeeeneeeeeeene 
 
 She atjlength became somewhat composed ; and disengaging herself, | 
 she put her letter into his hand. 
 
 Read that, my brother; and excuse me if I leave you. 
 go to my own room.” 
 
 He led her to the door of her room; pressed her hand in silence 
 to his lips, and returned to the parlor to read her letter. He felt— 
 but, then, how he felt, can be developed by the denouement of our | 
 story. 
 
 As he foresaw, Kate decided on going home immediately. She 
 allowed herself only the ensuing day to make preparations, and take) 
 leave of her friends; and, as business in New Hampshire required 
 Mr. Gove’s attention, it was decided that he should accompany her 
 to her home. 
 
 Well did Mr. Norton act his part, as son and brother. He spent 
 the day with them, assisted them in their arrangements, and in the 
 entertainment of visitors who called to take leave of Kate. 
 kindness and delicacy of his attentions to Kate often brought tears 
 to her eyes. He had himself met afflictions, and he knew how to 
 feel for her. He had himself drank of healing waters, and he knew) 
 whither to lead her. 
 
 ** I suppose I am terrible wicked,” said Eliza, ay she left the house | 
 with her teacher and several other young friends. ‘“ But I could not! 
 bring myself to be a bit sorry, if this cousin-lover of Kate’s were to. 
 die.” 
 
 ** Why, Miss Bartlett ; you shock me,” said her teacher. 
 
 **T suppose so; but I really don’t know why. He would be hap-| 
 pier; and Kate don’t love him, I know she don’t. And Mr. Norton| 
 loves her with all his heart, evidently. I can see it in every look 
 and action. And it would be such a charming match! Oh, I should 
 dance in downright joy ; even if it was at a clergyman’s wedding. 
 Kate deserves that fortune should do all this for her; she has done 
 
 ‘so much for herself.” 
 
 I must | 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 ; 
 | 
 | 
 ' 
 | 
 
 wee 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Ir was late in the evening of the second day of their journey, || 
 
 when our friends reached Mr. Kimball’s. It was only the sixth day | 
 after George’s letter was written, but he had gone. 
 
 ‘‘ He died this morning,” said Mrs. Kimball, when Kate became | 
 sufficiently composed to | sten to particulars. ‘‘ His death was so 
 easy and happy, that it seemed more like one’s going into a pleasant 
 sleep, than it did like death. His corps is as smiling, innocent, and) 
 peautiful as a babe’s. 
 
 «*¢ All is light and unearthly peace here,’ he said, just before he| 
 died, laying his hand on his heart,” continued Mrs. Kimball. His) 
 father asked him if he had any requests to make. He had but two: | 
 that his friends would not mourn for him; and that his father would) 
 defray your expenses at school, Catharine, so that you need not be | 
 obliged to work in the mill for funds.” 
 
 Kate was unutterably affected by this new proof of her cousin’s 
 love for her. 
 
 «© Oh, could I have seen him, to tell him how dear he was to me; 
 and how much I thank him for his goodness!” exelaimed Kate, as 
 she steod with his mother over his corpse. ‘It seems more than I 
 caa bear, my dear aunt.” 
 
 ' She threw herself into Mrs. Hanscom’s arms, and wept long and 
 violently. 
 
 She was calm, comparatively, from the time that she saw her} 
 cousin consigned to the grave ; but weeks passed by, ere she could 
 shake off the sadness that settled like a pall upon her—for the bitter- 
 ness of self-reproach was hers. Her counscience acquitted her of 
 the intentional infliction of a pang, but her cousin’s sufferings had 
 been none the less. And to afflict any being she loved, seemed to 
 Kate the severest trial that could be laid upon her. 
 
 She devoted six months to her afflicted friends, to whom she wes) 
 doubly endeared since the death of their son. Meanwhile she 
 received letters often from the Goves, and from Mr. Nor‘on, com- 
 plaining of her long absence. 
 
 To Mrz. Gove’s last, urging her return to school before the com- 
 mencement of the next term, after consulting her uncle’s family and} 
 
 her own, she replied that she would be at Newburyport on the last | 
 
 o fthe next week. 
 
 After a day of busy preparation, on the evening preceding the day, 
 fixed upon for her departure, Kate went Ot alone, to look once more | 
 upon her flowers, the mountain, the lake, and all. She took a seat) 
 
 in the summer-house, that commanded a view of the whole scene. 
 
 lovely as paradise; and how changed since she left it, not), Many who have beauty, 
 
 The || 
 
 a 
 
 /pered in his hands. His crops were abundant, and sales ready. He 
 
 | *.° . 
 || had sof large quantities of valuable timber; and with their products, 
 
 had brought his buildings, and grounds about them, into excellent 
 
 '|condition. The mountain, and the lake, were all unchanged. The 
 
 ‘one 
 “Lay smiling at the mountain’s feot,” 
 just as placidly as when she first looked into its waters; and the 
 other towered up just as proudly. It was precisely one of those irre- 
 | gular, stony, abrupt heights, which always set one to thinking about 
 the ruins of abbeys, castles, monasteries, and so on. It prominences 
 | were just as abrupt, and strongly marked; its overhanging shrubbery, 
 | and the ivy that clung to its sides, just as green, and just as graceful 
 |in their dependence. It needed little aid from fancy, to find there, 
 _battlement, terrace, parapet, and all. The house was no longer an 
 unsightly hovel; but the prettiest cottage ornee one would wish to 
 see, with just the marvellously white clapboards, and astonishingly 
 | green blinds, about which Charles Dickens discourses so wonderfully. 
 , The garden no longer vegetated only in sunflowers, beans, and pota- 
 toes; but there were instead, trellised vines, clusters of lilac and rose, 
 | plats of petunias, mints, mignonettes, et cetera, with borders of carna- 
 tions. 
 
 Kate heard a carriage stop. She supposed it her uncle’s, and did 
 not leave her seat. But, in a moment, a foetstep, more elastic than 
 her uncle’s, was approaching the summer-house. It was only “* Dear 
 
 || Kate,” and “Mr. Norton,” and Kate and Mr. Norton were locked 
 
 fast in each other’s arms. Kate-first assurred herself that he did not 
 come after her because Mr. or Mrs. Gove were sick, but all because 
 he could not deny himself the pleasure of the thing; and then ske 
 cried and laughed by turns, allinjoy. They—but I need wot describe 5. 
 for they did and said all the pretty things, which all lovers do and 
 say—whether in novels or out of novels—on all such interesting 
 occasions. 
 
 } 
 
 | Mr. Norton left Newburyport soon after Ka te’s return, to take pas- 
 toral charge of a devoted little flock at P., one of the pleasantest 
 inland towns in the State. His prospect is not of a ‘‘ golden fleece ;” 
 but of great usefulness and enjoyment, with a society of intelligent, 
 warm-hearted people. 
 
 The parsonage is a classical little retreat. It is such a oné as he 
 and Kate would have planned for themselyes—exactly suited to their 
 humble means, and their humble wishes. To fit herself for its 
 keeper, end for the wife of her beloved Norton, Kate is toiling ardu- 
 ously in the cultivation of her intellect and her affections, and in the 
 acquisition of al! the accomplishments of the perfect housewife. 
 
 “ 
 
 EMMA HALE, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 From infancy, until within the last two months, Emma Hal had 
 been loved and cared for by the best and kindest of parents. They 
 were not rich; but their pretty little farm by the Merrimac, afforded 
 them all the necessaries, and many of the elegances of life. As the 
 ‘height of their fondest wishes, its avails enabled them to give to 
 Emma the best education of any girl in town. 
 
 Emma did not spead so many terms at the academy as many other 
 young ladies of the village; but her wntiring assiduity in the prose- 
 | cution of her studies while there, and at home, under the supervision 
 
 || of her excellent and accomplished mother, won for her the just repu- 
 
 tation of being the most thorough scholar among the ladies of Bosca- 
 wen. But she bore her successes so meekly, she wasso gentle and 
 affectionate, that envy was effectually put to rest in the bosoms of 
 the less fortunate. 
 
 Se Emma was 2 universal favorite. If there was a prettiest one 
 among the flowers of Esquire Marshall’s garden, Catharine gave itto 
 'Emma. Ifthere was a best specimen among minerals collected, 
 Edward bore it to her little cabinet. The best seat at school, and 
 
 '| the best rocking chair at every little party, were awarded to her as 
 
 a matter or course. 
 
 Not that she atrogated all these marks of respect to herself. No 
 one could be less exacting. They were the natural and voluntary 
 tributes of love to love—fruits of pure impulses in young and loving 
 hearts toward the young and lovely. 
 
 And here let me remark upon the injustice of the adage, os Tf da 
 would have enemies, excel others ; if friends let others excel you. 
 talent, and many real excellences, are yet 
 
 | 
 
 i ee ee 
 
THE NEW 
 
 2S 
 heart. By their assuming, haughty style of manners, *y their selfish | 
 ness and unkindness of feeling, they incur from the charitable, just}! 
 disapprobation; and from the censorious, severe scandal. They | 
 dignify these by the name of persecutions ; and; with quite the air of | 
 martyrs, say—‘ If you would have enemies, excel others; if friends, 
 let others excel you!” But the heart instinctively lofs whatever is 
 lovely, in character, face, and form. Eavy may be occasionally | 
 started in little miads, by consciousness of inferiority; yet it will)| 
 soon, and effectually be put to rest, if its object be intrinsically supe- | 
 rior. 
 
 Emma catried-about with her, constantly, a consciousness of the 
 Source of all good. She felt that she was thus blessed, not because || 
 she deserved it more than others; but because kind and loving | 
 parents were hers, and because they had faithfully and judiciously || 
 discharged their duties to her. Hence, the charm which pervaded || 
 every moment, shone in every glance of her mild blue eye, and || 
 breathed in every word she uttered. | 
 
 At last there came a melancholy change over her destiny. 
 mother was lying dangerously ill of a fever, when her father was! 
 thrown from his carriage, on a dark evening, and instantly killed. }| 
 Mrs. Hale survived this dreadful shock only two days; and poor, 
 Emma was an erphan. | 
 
 To add to her distress, which already seemed insupportable, soon | 
 s‘ter her father’s death, a letter came from his brother, at the South, | 
 stating that in consequence of recent and heavy losses, which he had 
 no means of retrieving there, he found himself under the unpleasant 
 necessity of returning to Boscawen, and renewing his claim on the 
 patrimenial estate. 
 
 This estate, the home of Emma, had descended to the joint tenure 
 of the brothers, from their father. As Albert, the father of Emma, 
 was married, and Alfred was not, it was decided that Albert should 
 occupy the estate. Meanwhile it was to be Alfred’s home, as here- 
 tofore, whenever he chose to repair to it. 
 
 Having completed his collegiate course, and the study of his pro- 
 fession, he turned himself to the choice of a wife. After looking 
 about him awhile, and making sundry inquiries asto fortune, health, 
 
 { 
 1 
 
 disposition, accomplishments, et cetera, with just the business-like || 
 
 manner of a dealer in horse flesh, he came to the very modest con-| 
 clusion, that there was but one lady in the county meet to become 
 the wife of Alfred Hale, Esq., A. M., &c. So he sat himself down 
 beside Miss Butler, and proposed “in good setterms.” She rejected 
 him. “Strange!” thought all Boscawen. “Passing strange !”’ 
 thought Alfred Hale, Esq. 
 
 His defeat became as public as he had made his intentions; his), 
 
 disappointment and chagria as excessive as his hopes had been. He 
 gave up his share of the estate to his brother, in remuneration of funds 
 he had received from him in the prosecution of his studies ; and left, 
 Boscawen—forever. At least so he delighted to declare. 
 
 wns 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Year after year passed away, and Esq. Hale did not retura. His! 
 successive letters to his brother informed him that he was married | 
 to an accomplished heiress, only daughter of Judge Fitch, a distin-| 
 guished planter—that he had abandoned his profession, and invested | 
 his little capital with his father-in-law ; and, by that means, he was | 
 rapidly increasing in wealth~—and that a fine healthy boy, and a 
 lovely daughter were added to them. 
 
 Then, as time passed on, his letters became less frequent, and more | 
 
 brief. They finally ceasetl entirely ; and for two years there had 
 been no intercourse between the families, until a distant member of | 
 
 his family wrote, apprising him of the death of his brother and sister. 
 Although never very ardent in his attachments, there had been a time 
 
 when these events would have been an affliction to him. But, for || 
 
 years, his heart had been growing selfish, under the influence of an+ 
 inordinate love of wealth and distinction. 
 
 W-ORLD- Emma Hae 
 
 His son carried about with him an inate dignity of intellect and 
 feeling, a sweet courtesy of manner, which won all hearts, and 
 made them love and respect him for himself alone. And, withal, he 
 had a kind of contempt for the aristocracy of mere wealth, which 
 contributed materially toward making his family misfortunes fall 
 lightly onhim. He had never been proud of riches; and now that 
 they were no longer his, he felt no degradation from their Joss. He 
 still respected himself because he was @ man. There were within 
 him high and energetic purposes, springing up to a new and delight- 
 ful intenseness and activity, from the ashes of factitious greatness ; 
 and he had never felt such happiness as he found in the reflection that 
 he might now be what he so much venerated—a self-made man. 
 
 Mrs. Hale and Eveline had no such consolations. They had lived 
 wholly to pleasure—that sort of pleasure which fortune yields. They 
 could conceive no modes of happiness foreign to this, and hence the 
 dismay with which they shrank from the touch of poverty. Chiefiy, 
 
 ||like Esq. Hale, they dreaded meeting the contemptuous neglect of 
 Her|}their fashionable associates. 
 
 And when he informed them cf his 
 plan to seize upon tae waole estite—one halfas his legacy, aad the 
 other as a just liquidation of his brother’s debt to him for its long 
 occupancy—they felt as if the bitterest part of their lot was passed. 
 
 Mr. Hale had strong convictions of his injustice to his niece, even 
 before his high-minded son remonstrated with him upon the subject. 
 He attempted to satisfy Henry, as he had satisfied himself, by urging 
 the illegality of his brother's claim on his part, as there had been no 
 written surrender ; his right to the portion that had originally been 
 his brother’s, growing out of that brother’s long tenancy of his; and, 
 lastly, the charity of giving the orphan a pleasant and permanent 
 home with them, and thus relieving her from ail cares and embar- 
 rassments. 
 
 Henry was unsatisfied, and his father incensed by his opposition. 
 Henry asked, and readily obtained, permission to remain at the South, 
 or go to the West, as he pleased. 
 
 Mr. Hale repaired immediately to his wife and daughter to cor- 
 gratulate them on the temporary desertion of their Mentor. Henry 
 threw himself on a sofa inhis room, and gave vent to his overcharged 
 feelings in a flood of bitter tears. His separation from his family, 
 under such circumstances, from such a cause, gave a severer pang to 
 his manly spirit than loss of wealthhad done. He wasdeeply inter- . 
 ested for his orphan cousin; and his hopes, that by assiduity ia 
 seme course of industry, he might atone forthe wrongs about to be 
 perpetrated by his family, at least as far as those wroxgs were merely 
 | pecuniary, alone induced him to relinquish his wishes to go immedi- 
 ately to her. 1 
 
 He knew nothing of Emma but what he had gathered from family 
 ‘letters. In one from Emma’s mother to his own, he found the fol- 
 lowing: 
 
 “You did not mention your daughter, my dear sister. 
 again, and tell me all about her. 
 
 Do write 
 Is she affectionate and gentle? 
 
 || Has she the mild blue eye of her grandmother’s family, or the dark 
 
 flashing one of the Hales? 
 
 “You will smile, my dear sister, at these specimens of my yankee- 
 ism. Our Emma is our dearest treasure. The time has come 
 when the charms of our youth charm usno more. Our hearts turn 
 
 from the pleasures of the world, and seek their dearest enjoyments 
 in our quiet little home. And we find them here. Emma reads to 
 us, and sings to us. She sits by our side in the sober twilight hours; 
 and she kneels with us at prayer. I know not how to express my- 
 self; but she is truly the light of our pathway; and there is that in 
 her dear presenc, in the loving glance of her deep blue eye, in her 
 ringing, happy laugh and song, and in her tender attentions to us, 
 which, next to the love of Heaven, censtitute our joy and our peace. 
 \She is in the garden now, gathering flowers. She holds them up to 
 ‘my view, and says, ‘they are for you, dear ma.” Oh may God bless 
 her, and keep her, as it were, in the hollow ef his hand, now and 
 
 } 
 
 The letter found him immediately after the unfortunate denoye- ‘forever. I do not apologize for saying so much; for how else could 
 
 ment of a chain of speculations, fraught, necessarily, with immense | 
 
 results in loss or gain. Allhad predicted the latter for Hale; he | 
 
 a mother ofsuch a daughter write to a mother ?” 
 | This letter, together with one written by his uncle, a part of ti 
 
 was so shrewd in all his plans and operation, and so lucky in all his || relating to Emma, Henry carefully preserved in a department of his 
 
 ag But they failed; and he and his father-in law were pen- 
 niless. 
 
 ‘eabinet devoted to precious mementos. 
 |Saratoga ; and was written at a time when business took bum to 
 
 His unele’s was dated at 
 
 In such an emergency, he was at an utter loss what course to pur-|| Washington, to which place he was accompanied by his wife and 
 
 sue. He knew that he held his high station in society, not from ‘daughter 
 
 They returned by way of Saratoga, and those parts of 
 
 moral or intellectual superiority, but from his great wealth; and|| Vermont in which frieads of Mr. Hale resided. That clause whieh 
 
 that his wealth and caste must be yielded together, he was painfully | 
 
 | 
 
 Henry read, until it was ‘familiar as houschold words,” ran as 
 
 convinced. For himself he did not care so much. He could go to || follows : 
 
 the west, and carve a new w 
 
 vt 
 
 y to riches and honors there. Lt 
 
 “You say, ‘Eveline bids me ask you, if your daughter is pretty, 
 
Bouma Hate. 
 
 THE NEW 
 
 WORLD. 9 
 
 and if she is a belle.” When I tell you, my brother, that, not only | 
 
 her partial parents, bnt all qualified to judge in the matter, say that || 
 
 she is a perfect copy of our mother, in mind and person, you will, 
 believe that she is pretty. She has never been at a boarding school; 
 she has few rules for the direction of her deportment ; but she seems| 
 to have an instinctive sense of propriety—of what she owes to herself! 
 and others, which supercedes all necessity of art, and makes her a 
 perfect child of nature. This peculiar feature, this naturalness in 
 her character, renders her an object of much attention wherever she 
 goes; and makes her, at Washington and Saratoga, what your, 
 daughter would call a belle.” 
 
 **On these hints” the ardent imagination of young Hale acted. 
 Tt pictured his cousin as the embodyment of everything beautiful and 
 good. ‘*Gathering flowers,” said her mother’s letter; and he 
 doubted not that she loved nature in all her moods and manifesta- | 
 tions. He never gazed upon a scene—whether upon the mountain- | 
 top, when, ‘from peak to peak, the rattling craigs among, leaped the. 
 live thunder,” or by “‘ the low murmur of the tinkling rill’”—whether | 
 gathering the beautiful prairie flower of the West, or the splendid) 
 exotic of the South—that he did not wish her at his side, indeed 
 almost imagine her there. When he turned over the pages of the 
 poet and moralist, he never found a beautiful, or a sublime passage, 
 without wishing his cousin by him, that he might breathe its thrilling 
 music in her ear, and read in “her deep blue eye,” the raptures that 
 filled his own bosom. 
 
 His nature was peculiar—a blending, as it were, of the gentle 
 purity of the Hales, and the passion of his mother’s family. The. 
 latter was operative only in giving warmth and energy to his pur-| 
 poses an d attachments, except when under the influence of more than 
 ordinary excitement. Then it manifested itself only in excessive joy 
 or grief, never in anger. Hence there was a delicacy and sensitive- | 
 ness in his temperament, which often led him to shrink from close 
 contact with the hardier sex, and to long for the companionship and 
 sympathy of an intelligent female friend. Could he have found such 
 a one in his mother and sister, he would have been the happiest of | 
 mortals. But there was a cold heartlessness about them and their | 
 intimates, which shut up all the aveaues by which he chose to enter | 
 their hearts; aad hence this ideal intercourse with his cousin. She. 
 came, at length, ‘‘ all sainted and enshrined, to ke the idol’ of his 
 ** heart of hearts,” 
 
 “Tn silent ardor, worshipped there ; 
 And never mentioned but in prayer.” 
 
 Now, that cousin was to be cheated of her rights by his father. 
 He would have flown to her, but that he might assist her more effect: | 
 ually. On taking his resolution he penned a letter to Emma, of 
 which the following is an extract: 
 
 “‘ You will pardon the liberty a stranger takes in addressing you, 
 when you recs llect our near relationship, and the peculiar circum-| 
 stances in which we fiad ourselves placed by this act of my father’s. | 
 I think myself under obligations, as far as in my power, to furnish | 
 an equivalent fer your losses by my family. I can easily do this;| 
 for l have youth, health, some talent, and a heart that cares for your 
 interests and happiness ; and that mourns your misfortunes more than | 
 it does its own. 1a such a case, you must see that it will be my| 
 greatest pleasure to serve you as would a brother. 
 
 “Do write, and assure mé¢ that you will be perfectly at rest, let 
 what will occur on the arrival of my family at Boscawen. 
 
 ** May the Father of the fatherless bless you and keep you, my 
 dear cousin; and make you as happy as ! feel in my heart that you 
 deserve to be. Your friend and servant, 
 
 ‘Henry Hae.” 
 
 Orleans ; and entered one of the largest mercantile houses there, as 
 chief clerk. 
 
 4 
 C 
 C 
 « 
 2 
 
 CHAPTER IL. 
 
 How sweet to Emma were her cousin’s assurances of sympathy, 
 
 ‘and friendship ! _ Inexpressibly bitter to her had been the thought 
 
 that her nearest relatives were her enemies. “She had determined 
 not to accept her uncle’s formal offers of a home in fis house. With | 
 her cousin it was different. He had not been implicated in her 
 wrongs. In offering assistance, he maintained so much delicacy and 
 tenderness, that she teitit would be pleasant to trust him, to look to’ 
 him for advice; and, if she must, for pecuniary aid. 
 
 She had many zealous and true friends, among her neighbors. 
 
 Esquire Marshall and his wife, from the commencement of her trials, | jor brother, who 
 
 GE TE IN Te a, ea ee 
 
 se Cl Oe 
 
 ||that they ean board at home. 
 
 bad been like kind parents to her; and Catharine and Edward were 
 with her almost constantly, until her uncle’s letter was received. 
 Emma then determined on leaving her home; and, in compliance 
 with the solicitations of Mr. Marshall’s family, she accepted a home 
 in their family. And many others, in that and neighboring towns, 
 extended kind offers of assistance, in repelling the unjust encroach- 
 ments of her uncle. But she declined them all; and determined on 
 taxing the hospitalities of the Marshalls, only until she could decide 
 upon some eligible plan for her future course. 
 
 As far as possible, she meant to be only self-dependent. In this 
 she met sturdy epposition from all, and especially from Edward and 
 Catharine. When they found her inflexible, there was much debate 
 as to the means. Teaching was first proposed, as pleasantest and 
 most genteel. Butshe felt incompetent to teach a high school; and 
 the low wages, and brief seasons of employment for teachers of com- 
 mon schools, offered no inducements there. Others proposed getting 
 atrade. But she had many reasons for supposing that her health 
 would suffer by sedentary occupation. Besides, she was informed 
 by those who had essayed every means of economy, that sewing 
 could not be made a profitable employment. Hence she had only 
 domesticservitude, and a factory life to vibrate between; and, with- 
 out hesitating, she decided upon the latter. 
 
 Edward and Catharine heard this with dismay. They Anew nothing 
 of the occupations and character of the operatives in the Mills; but 
 their prejudices were against both. Emma had an opportunity of 
 judging correctly, during a visit at ——, Massachusetts. She saw 
 many things which, measured by her high and correct standard of 
 propriety,}were worthy of strong condemnation.) There were some 
 few—enough, however, to throw ashade over the whole class, in the 
 eyes of a superficial ebserver—for whose violations of courtesy, waste 
 of time, and other improprieties, no palliating circumstances could 
 be found; but everything in the motives and results, conspired to 
 make them most injurious and censurable. 
 
 The factory girl has no time for idle loiterings. She has clothes 
 that need repairing ; and books whose instructions she needs. True, 
 she is fatigued when she leaves the mill; but could she not rest more 
 effectually in her own room, while making an old dress ‘* look maist 
 as weel’s the new,” and engaged in pleasant talk with her chum, or 
 listening while she reads to her, as while standing in the door, yard, 
 or street? She is confined all day, and needs air. But could she not 
 find sufficient for a statioaary position at her window? If she needs 
 more and livelier exercise, let her take a brisk walk. If her occupa- 
 tion is so sedentary as to render an occasional frisk necessary, let her 
 go to the woods and pastures remote from a village and frolic there. 
 But when in society, let her be guided by the established rules of 
 society. Let her be cheerful, easy, and natural; but not boisterous 
 and hoydenish. 
 
 Emma was just in her general inferences drawn from particular 
 manifestations of character. She saw that factory operatives were 
 not a distinct caste—to others what the Paria is te a Bramin; but 
 that they felt as others felt, acted as others acted, Like others, 
 they had their failings and their virtues, their pains and their plea- 
 sures. And these were graduated, not by their situation as mill 
 operatives, but by natural temperament, habitual feeling, and such 
 other incidentals as are influential withothers. She sawsome, who, 
 in correctness of deportment, general intelligence, beauty, and grace 
 of manner, were surpassed only by these who had spent their lives 
 
 '|among books, and in the most refined society. These she respected 
 
 as much as though she had found them luxuriating on costly sofas, 
 surrounded by all the paraphernalia of learning and refinement, in- 
 
 stead of superinteading the operations of looms and spinning frames. 
 And even more, she honored them; for it was something, surely, to 
 On the-day that his family left Charleston, Henry repaired to New | 
 
 relinquish the society of loved ones at home, to subject themselves to 
 
 the inconvenience of companionship with strangers, lor the sake of 
 
 securing ampler means of mental cultivation for themselves or for a 
 » 
 
 | darling brother. 
 
 And, in nine cases out of ten, I think, where we find such ladies in 
 the mills, upon inquiry, they will be found to be orphans, er daugh- 
 ters of respectable country farmers and mechanics, who have every 
 means of comfortable subsistance, but who cannot command money 
 for the purchase of books, and such privileges, as their daughters 
 covet. Hence they repair to the mills; and by working there six 
 months, and exercising proper economy in dress meanwhile, they 
 
 can attend school as long, and evena year, if schools are so een 
 They work again, perhaps a year, an 
 
 ied, it e ister 
 then again enter school, accompanied, it may be, by a younger sis 
 
 se improvement is as cear to them as their own. 
 
 , .. ”" 
 
“ 
 
 Sal 
 10 THE NEW WORLD. Emma Hate. 
 
 gE r 
 Some object to this course, on the ground that it calls out energies | would have retired, and vented rai ee se ae a in a flood of 
 jrit of ind dence, unfavorable to the softness and delicacy tears; but she knew not where to find her room. ere was some- 
 and e spirit of indepen "= cout Gaak veaieee Ak ‘thing so rough and uncourteeus in Mrs. Wells’ manner that she 
 of the female character. I must concede that 1t does in too many) thing g : ‘ or we 
 instances. er fj ctenes Beate her speak again, and accordingly made her way 
 j attended a public celebration at ——, in the |, 0acx to the table. 
 ee viel a i had been chosen among the A universal titter went round the quien a eOh en cio 
 females, jointly with the males. One of the committee madeherself | gracious reply to Emma. It had only partially subsi ed on her o x 
 most unnecessarily conspicuous throughout the day. She crowded | They all looked up when she re-entered ; and with all her unsuspect- 
 from one seat, and from one table te another. She had loud words for ing confidence in the world, she could not interpret the ironical 
 every one who came near her, and a loud laugh for every occurrence. | smiles that sat on every face. 
 Still she was an intelligent, amiable lady, the wife of a professional, How little did Mrs. Wells calculate on the results of those unfeel- 
 gentleman in highstanding ; and, since her removal to , she had ing words of hers! Their spirit was contagious; and if they had 
 moved inthe best societythere. She attracted the attention of a lady been dictated by courtesy it would have been equally so. But she 
 at my side. ; had been harassed to death almost by a combination of unlucky cir- 
 <‘ See Mrs. L.” said she, touching my arm with her parasol ; “how cumstances. Her butcher disappointed her, and her milk-man left 
 bold and unfeminine her manner is! Trust me, if we might trace sour milk. Therefore the girls, instead of sitting down to steak and 
 her back to her girlhood, we should find that she has been a factory | puddings, as they anticipated, found only pork, bread, &e., and, as 
 girl.” | Mrs. Wells expected, there was a general buzz of dissatisfaction. 
 My friend knew that I too had been a factory girl; and she cher- ‘This, of course, added to her chagrin; and hence her unkindness to 
 ished no contempt for the occupations of factory life, any farther than || Emma. 
 they were deleterious in tarnishing that modest reserve which she | This does not excuse her, however. 
 justly considered the jewel of our sex.. She was correct in her con-|| with suck a family, she met many harassing cares and perplexities, 
 jectures respecting Mrs. L.; but how far in imputing her peculiarity ||’tis true; and it needed much fortitude and patience to meet them 
 to her situation as a factory girl, I am unable to decide. One thing | properly. These she might have commanded, at length, by a rigid 
 is certain—it did not grow out of it as an unavoidable result. To course of discipline for her irritable habits of feeling. And how 
 this, any one acquainted with factory life will bear me witness. |much happier it would have rendered her situation! She would 
 2 cy eee have offered pleasant and polite apologies for any failure on her part, 
 CHAPTER IV. | and these would have been pleasantly and politely received. Per- 
 Emma returned a grateful answer to her cousin’s generous offer.) haps not, however, by just such boarders as were hers at the time 
 She said nothing to him about her plans; but in one week after, on || Emma entered the family. But she would not have had such board- 
 
 the day of the arrival of her uncle’s family at Boscawen, she entered | ers ifshe had managed correctly. 
 a mill at Lowell. 
 
 In her situation as a widow, 
 
 || I think there is hardly an instance in which the hostess does not 
 Never before had she felt ss wretched as on that night after com-|| give tone to the general feeling of her household. If she is cheerful 
 mencing work. ‘And such is my life to be!” exclaimed she, as || and benevolent, attentive to the sick and the stranger, she will soon 
 ske threw herself ona seat and looked about her. “ One bitter struggle | find herself surrounded by the cheerful and the benevolent ; by those 
 with poverty and heart-sick loneliness—the sooner it were over the who love her next to their own mothers, and who will make almost 
 better.” | any sacrifice for her comfort. If vacawcies occur in such femilies, 
 
 It seemed as if her heart was bursting. She sobbed until her head | they are immediately filled by the intelligent and amiable, who, like 
 ached so violently that she could not sit up; and then she threwher- | Emma, were unfortunate in their first selection, who were longing 
 self upon her hard bed. How vividly, as she lay there, did the happy | for a more congenial element. Therefore the stranger, ualess she 
 
 days of her childhood pass in review before her! Father—mother—| has some influential friend among the operatives, is almost invariably 
 pleasant companions—all the loved hauntsof a happy home—had_| 
 
 under the necessity of accepting a home in some of the inferior 
 
 these eyer been hers? Yes; and, oh, whata fearful contrast! /houses. These houses are every way respectable ; and one must see 
 
 She was most unfortunate in having ne acquaintances at Lowell.|| the difference between them and the best regulated houses, to under- 
 A neighbor accompanied her, and assisted her in getting situations 
 
 | stand it. 
 
 in the mill and boardiag house. Had she divulged a part of her sad | I have had an opportunity to do this, and to trace the contrast to 
 history to the superintendent, his sympathies would have been enlisted || its fountain-head—the mistresses of the families. Several years since, 
 in her favor 5 but, as it was, he only thought of her as a genteel, on my way to Boston, I spent a Sabbath at Lowell. As I had never 
 modest looking girl, too delicate to be very useful; and as one on|/pe9s in town before, [had no acquaintances there with the exception 
 whom he would confer a favor by etving employment. To her Over | of two ladies who went from our town—both of them mill girls. One 
 seers, her hostess, her new companions in the house and mill, she || of them, Ann Murray, was the daughter of a respectable farmer who 
 was not the orphan and accomplished daughter of Albert Hale; but lived just out of our village. He cared more, however, for the ac- 
 an unassuming, uninitiated, and consequently, rather an awkward || quisition of dollars and cents than for intellectual acquirements ; and 
 erauger: || $0 his daughter’s education was neglected. She grew up a pretty, 
 
 The girl who was chosen to teach her to weave, had forgotten her || warm-hearted, and rather graceful girl, but a sad romp. When she 
 
 own feelings when a learner, or she did not think it important to do | left home for Lowell, the last places she visited were the avenue 
 by others as she would have others do by her. 
 
 4 She received Emma | where she had rolled her hoop, jumped her rope, and rode stick- 
 with a very bad grace, spoke to her only once t 
 
 é é or several hours, and horses; the orchard where she had swang; and the meadow-brock 
 then it was so roughly that it brought tears to Emma’s eyes. How where she angled with her brothers. 
 
 longingly she looked about her for some known face ! How her heart | | : daturd - ly: and found her i 
 yearned for the soothing influences of kind looks and words! But || ad peng meet nerve tin Vol A Boog Fo 
 the long, long forenoon passed away, and she met them uot. |/sitting-room with ae, Peed at ae cer teas. 
 She had some difficulty in fiading her boarding place, and was late || ing, and spre sont 3 Be sdeet Wok rot mpegs FE 
 there. She entered a dining-room where more than twenty girls| ii, Re ee rs i a ; 
 : 2.) her lover; but effectually prevented by a gay young creature, who 
 were already seated. All looked up when she entered, and stared || hould dread aloud ft he lad 
 at her in such 2 manner as to bring the blood to her cheeks and tears | ponpet ered 3 m ai rip ries 7 a Pe ‘ ils re 4 hi atom 
 to her eyes. They then recommenced eating without giviug her paoeet eye d ae rm: d heii tars il t mula eS Rat 
 - = 5 : 3 
 further notice, except in an occasional glance. She heard the ano ante. y aera eae aoe 
 
 . 4 * B ae | } De ie <t - ; POA 55 , 
 
 ting of kitchen utensils in an adjoining room, and entered. | Frank sprang oi cag hibe en bk ah age ; yiseoned =i 8 
 ‘Dinner is in that way,” said Mrs. Wells, her hostess, as she || euly» eae a acd Rey ly shag hed 
 : - aad > Sa a S. Ss; Cx etess, as P s ro the 
 
 pointed toward the dining-room. |The lady attempted to escape from room, but Frank, although 
 
 /a slight creature, defeated her purpose by her superior agility ; and 
 | at last, succeeded in capturing the letter. The owner called Ann to 
 ie rescue. She flew to the spot. Others were drawn into the con- 
 ‘test, utterly regardless of the presence of a stranger—so accustomed 
 were they toit; and in a few moments the room was a scene of the 
 
 | most utter confusion I ever witnessed except among children. In 
 
 **But Ido not find room there, madam.” 
 
 “ > ¢ fed l l re | ¥ 
 There’s room enough fora dozen. Go to the back side of the 
 
 farther table, and crowd your way down to the foot, and you'll find | 
 room.” 
 
 Emma felt that she could not eat if she went to the table. She 
 
Emma Hate. 
 
 the midst of it, Mrs. Flint, the lady of the house, entered. She came i] 
 
 THE NEW WORLD. dl 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 in laughing; and her presence only gave 2 new impetus to their mirth. Emma at length made her way to a vacaseer ntiaibiincs sBidk we 
 “4B e 
 
 Two ladies sat near me, who were not engaged in the sport. The 
 following conversation passed between them. 
 
 ** Mother Fiiat has broken out in a new spot.” 
 
 **T should think she had. If she had happened to be in one of her 
 cross fits, she would have turned them all out doors.” 
 
 “Yes, if cross looks and cross words could do it. It takes more 
 than one like her to frighten me. She don’t praise and blame, 
 laugh and scold, from principle, because the case happens to require 
 it; but it is just as she happens to be in humor.” 
 
 “Yes; just see her laugh and clap her hands. If something hap- 
 pens to go wrong in the kitchen, in five minutes we shall see her 
 play on quite another key. See, Ann! she has got the letter, and is 
 bout giving it to Susan with a speech. Hear her! She is mimicking 
 Mr. Allen’s preaching.” 
 
 ‘*T never saw such a mimic in my life. I don’t mind this, but she 
 takes us off, too; and mother Flint, and all; and I won’t indulge 
 her in laughing at her, if I can help it.” 
 
 But she could not, nor could I, heartily as I disapproved mimicry, 
 when she changed her attitude and tone to those of an odd preacher 
 who held forth one year in our town. Her likeness was a perfect one. 
 She delivered the letter. Some one called her “‘grandma’am,” and 
 in an instant she was seated, and talking with just the tone and man- 
 ner of a lady of eighty. This, too, caused much mirth; and none 
 were more vehement in its manifestations than Mrs. Flint. All 
 laughed. Witty words fell from every lip. 
 
 Isat a few moments; but tired of such confusion, especially as it 
 oecurred when the mind longed to settle into an appropriate serious- 
 ness for the Sabbath, I interrupted Ann, by begging her to accom- 
 pany me to the house of my friend Alice. 
 
 What a different scene opened before me there! There were as 
 many girls; but the most perfect stillness and decorum were pre- 
 served among them. They all rose on my entrance, and Alice | 
 introduced me to them collectively. Ann forgot, as she said, to 
 introduce me at Mrs. Flint’s. 
 
 Alice, and several cthers, had their Bibles and Sabbath-school 
 books. They had evidently been rehearsing their lesson, while others 
 listened tothem. I feltas if in a new world. The dress of the girls | 
 —so neat and genteel ; their faces so expressive of serious, but cheer. 
 
 condition of the food woould have precluded the possibility of eating, 
 even if she had been hungry. Several girls had already left the table. 
 In their disappointment with regard to their dinner, they scattered 
 bits of potatoe, bread, and meat, all about; piled up those potato es 
 they chose to think unfit to eat ; left pieces of crust on the table, in 
 their plates, and in their halfemptied cups of tea; and sprinkled 
 everything with gravy. Those who remained at table, were eating 
 with a most rapacious geediness, ever and anon saying some unkind 
 thing which was intended for Mrs. Wells’ ear. 
 
 “To-day, we have pork, bread, and potatoes ; to-morrow, I sup- 
 pose, we shall have potatoes, bread, and pork,” said one. 
 
 “Yes; and next day, swine’s flesh, staff of life, and pratees, by 
 way of variety,” answered another, as she threw on her bonnet to 
 leave the room. 
 
 *‘T should like some water, if the water-man didn’t neglect to 
 come,” said one, who looked as if capable of better things. She 
 spoke to a girl at her side, but it was evidently intended for Mrs. 
 Wells. She came in, in a few moments, looking miserably fatigued 
 and harassed. She poured out some water, without speaking; and 
 it was received in sullen silence. 
 
 ‘J will thank you for some water, Mrs. Wells,” said Emma, 
 extending her glass. 
 
 ‘* Hem,” said the girl who called for the water; and “ Ahem! 
 echoed several others, as they left the room. 
 
 Emma was.excessively shocked at their low vulgarity and ill-hu- 
 |mor. She pitied Mrs. Wells, unkindly as she had treated her, for 
 she saw that she had much to induce peevishness. Mrs. Wells 
 appeared to understand her feelings; and touching a magnet she 
 became amagnet. Better feelings stirred in her heart; and, as all 
 |had now left the dining room, she went out and returned witha plate 
 of bread and some sauce. Trifling as this attention to her comfort 
 was, it gave Emma more pleasure than can be conceived by those 
 who have not been inthe same situation. 
 
 Mrs. Wells took a seat at the table near her. 
 
 ‘«* How do you like—”’ she began; but she was interrupted by one 
 of her boarders, who had just returned from her chamber. 
 
 ‘**T should like to know where my linen handkerchief is. I put it 
 in the wash last week, and this is just the way——” 
 
 “« Just the way what ?” engrily retorted Mrs. Wells. 
 
 ful feeling ; their style of manner—so gentle and lady-like, were | 
 
 “ Just the way my things go. A pair of stockings three weeks 
 
 totally unlike those of the girls at Mrs. Flint’s; and I was wondering ago, a handkerchief last week, and I suppose it will be a dress this 
 at the contrast, when Alice left the room, and returned with a digni- ll week.” 
 
 fied, sweet-looking lady of fifty. She introduced her to me as Mrs. | “You are at liberty to leave my house at any time, if you are 
 Abbot. | dissatiefied with boarding, food, or anything else,” said Ms Wells, 
 
 ** Mother we call her,’’ said Alice, ‘* not because it is customary, 
 
 but because we love the name, and love to apply it to one who is! 
 
 like a mother to us.” 
 
 Poor Alice’s eyes filled as she said this. She hadnomother. She 
 was one of the daughters of our physician. His wife was a con- 
 sumptive for several years. Extraordinary expenses attending her 
 illness, and others growing out of his attempts to educate two sons 
 
 for his profession, and to fit his daughters for teachers, rendered it | 
 
 necessary that he should be assisted in their discharge by his children 
 
 To this end, Alice, and two others, whe were then visiting their | 
 
 friends, were working in the mill. They had already been very 
 successfully engaged in teaching primary schools; but their present 
 object was to fit themselves for teachers in a high school about being 
 established atthe West ; and in which a brother, residiag there, had 
 some considerable interest. 
 
 Mrs. Abbot received me with all the politeness and hospitality | 
 
 which belong to the most refined society. She urged me to spend 
 the night and followiag Sabbath with them. I gladly consented, and 
 Ann left me. 
 
 Mrs. Abbot remained with us; and by her cheerfulness and fine 
 conversational powers, contributed materially to our enjoyment. 
 Unlike that at Mrs. Flint’s, the conversation here was general. All 
 sustained very respectable parts; and Alice afterwards informed me 
 that ten of the number had been engaged in teaching. I do not 
 think it often the case, that so many well-educated girls meet in one 
 
 family. But there are many houses, which, in their system, and high | 
 
 tone of moral feeling, are not inferior to Mrs. Abbot’s. And I fear 
 that there are too many hike Mrs. Flint’s; of whose inmates the 
 general motto is— 
 
 ** Mirth! admit me of thy crew.” 
 
 |slamming the door after her as she left the dining-room. 
 
 | With asad heart Emma returned to her afternoon’s toil. Every- 
 thing in her situation seemed dark and appalling. Most bitterly did 
 ||she regret not complying with the solicitations of her friends, and 
 || thus saving herself from the severe trials which she foresaw in uncon- 
 " genial associates, utter destitution of the little elegancies to which 
 | she had been accustomed, incessant labor, and consequent fatigue. 
 Butit is too late now, thought she, as she took her place beside her 
 unsocial mill companion. 
 
 Miss Conner was even more morose than during the forenoon ; for 
 “her work happened to go worse. Emma changed her position often $ 
 | but go where she might, she was still in Miss Connor’s way. On this 
 | subject she gave no very delicate hints; and, at last, she bluntly told 
 Emma that she wished she would sit down, out of her way, until she 
 
 ‘put her work in better order. 
 If the mistaken girl had summoned sufficient patience to give Em- 
 ‘ma afew directions about the simplest parts of her work, she would 
 not only have given to her the employment for which she longed to 
 divert her thoughts from disagreable channels, but she would have 
 ‘won for herself much needed assistance. But she had, long since, 
 ‘determined that she would never have another pupil. She was 
 vexed at the defeat her overseer had put upon her; and inwardly 
 determined that neither he nor Emma should be at all benefitted by 
 | her services. She did, however, teach her how to stop and start a 
 | loom, and change shuttles, during the afternoon. 
 | Just before “bell-time,” after it had become so dusky, that even 
 ‘the initiated could scarcely see, she left her work in Emma's care, 
 for the purpose of washing. Emma was busy at one loom ; and, in 
 the mean time, an “ overshot”—to use a technical—was weaviag 
 lon the other. It was no worse than Miss Conner had allowed to pass 
 
many times, with a little combing, shrinking, and flowering. Bat 
 now she was impatient—her work had troubled her so much; and 
 had 80 recently been put insuch nice order. Besides, she wished her 
 Overseer and Emma to understand how muchit troubled her to teach 
 her. So she slammed her loom, threw her shuttle into a box with 
 tremendous force, loosened her cloth very much, drew it from the 
 temples, and tore it down an inch or two farther than was necessary, 
 to give it an appearance as ruinous as possible. 
 
 To poor Emma’s alarmed enquiries as to the mischief she had 
 wrought, she vouchsafed no reply. Emma was already worn out 
 with the excitement of the day, and, retiring to a window, she burst 
 into tears. In the general hurry of preparation to leave the mill, she 
 was unobserved ; else many about her, who had left her unnoticed, 
 while they supposed her happy, would have offered their sympathies, 
 mow that she was sorrowful. 
 
 She went to the table, because she had nowhere else togoto. But 
 she could not eat; and, leaving the table, she asked Mrs. Wells to 
 conduct her to her room. 
 
 ** Show her the way to the north attic,” said she to her little girl. |! 
 
 She obeyed; and Emma was left to herself in a small room con- 
 taining three beds, one light stand, a dozen trunks and bandboxes, 
 some stationed at the walls for seats, some under the beds, and 
 others on a shelf. Lines were suspended about the room. Oa these 
 were thrown, in utter confusion, caps, collars, aprons, hose, hand-| 
 kerchiefs, &c. &c. On the stand were implements of needle-work, 
 two or three books and papers, together with fragments of apples, | 
 nuts, and lemon peeling. The beds were low and carelessly arranged. 
 Za short, everything about the room indieated a total want of neatness 
 and taste. Here was another trial for Emma, and no wonder that 
 her spirits sunk within her. 
 
 She at length fell into an uneasy slumber, from which she was 
 startled by the noisy entrance of a half dozen girls. There wasno 
 light in the room, and in the darkness of twilight she was unob- 
 served. 
 
 “I wonder where that new boarder will be stowed away !” said one 
 of the girls. 
 
 “Oh, in this room, I dare say. 
 piedsquare inch. I don’t like her appearance, she puts on such airs!” 
 
 **Yes; did you ever? How she appeared at dinner and supper! 
 
 just as if the victuals were not fit to eat, or we not fit to eat with!” | 
 
 **She did not complain more thaa the rest did, I think,” said a | 
 timid looking girl, who had hitherto been silent. 
 
 ** Well, what right had she, pray?’ Just come here.” 
 
 ** Did you notice how extravagant she dresses. A go!d chain—or 
 it may be only washed ; a miniature—of her feller, doubtless.” 
 
 “She caught her chain on a chair, and it drew out her miniature. 
 It was ofa lady,” said the timid girl. She blushed, and looked as if| 
 she expected to incur a forfeiture of her head, or something else quite 
 
 THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 Fe ee ee ee ee 
 
 We have sometimes an unoccu- 
 
 ‘tages attending every plan of life upon which she could fix. 
 
 > 
 
 Enma Hate. 
 
 * Pretty well!” exclaimed one, “in our bed, Sophia! ’Tis just 
 what we might have expected.” 
 
 Under such distressing circumstances, Emma knew not how to 
 act. She offered afew words of apology, and burst into tears. 
 
 “‘Ta, you needn’t make such a fuss about it,” said the unfeeling 
 Martha; ‘‘I suppose Ann made a mistake about the beds. Iwishher 
 mother would ever see to such things. You can sleep here to-night, 
 jbut that isyour bed,” pointing to the farther corner of the garret. 
 
 ** And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part, 
 
 Some act by the delicate mind; 
 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart, 
 
 Already to sorrow resigned.” ; 
 says Cowper, in his ‘* Rose ;”’ and such is the pitiless part sometimes 
 acted among mill girls. And elsewhere, too. The same spirit 1s 
 sometimes manifested among school girls; seldom, however. We 
 ‘sometimes see it in neighborhoods, accompanied by malicious at- 
 ‘terapts to injure. But there its objects have family and friends to 
 protect them and to sympathize with them, and the darts hurled at 
 them fall harmless, or are Jess keenly felt if they wound. . 
 
 Not so with the stranger among mill girls; especially if her lot 
 is cast, as was Emma’s, in one of the lower order of houses. The 
 ‘“‘ master spirits” in such families, are those who are feared for their 
 unfeeling habits of scolding, ridiculing, and what is called among 
 them twitting. They are ill-natured girls—ill-natured at home, ill- 
 natured in the mill, and ill-natured in the boarding-house. They act, 
 almost constantly, with an utter disregard to good breeding. They — 
 scold their ,“* overseers” like very termagants, if their work happens 
 to trouble them; their hostess, if their meals are not just what they 
 expect, and if they are not always in readiness the moment they are 
 wanted; and the girls, if they do not always act in*perfect accord- 
 ance with their wishes. Such girls are miserable themselves, and. 
 the workers of incalculable misery to others. They are the pests of 
 factory society ; and for their malice, as regards its effects in harden- 
 ing their own hearts, and wringing others, they deserve unsparing 
 rebuke. 
 
 | 
 
 } 
 
 PAPDAN 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Emma went to sleep with the determination to bid adieu, on the 
 ‘morrow, to factory life. But she awoke in the morning, refreshed 
 by her slumbers; and after committing herself to God in prayer, she 
 felt a sweet confidence that all would yet be well; and that she should 
 |yet be a happy factory girl. She reflected that there were disadvan- 
 She 
 believed that her days of perfect happiness on earth were over, and 
 her eyes filled as she thought that her future life was to be one of 
 lonely struggle with poverty and toil. Butshe saw her, duty, and 
 resolutely determined on performing it, despite the thousand obsta- 
 cles in her way. She felt as if it were in her power to contribute, 
 ‘by her example and influence—by-and-by, when they might be ex- 
 
 as fearful, by her vindication. 
 
 “Well, I don’t care if it was. I don’t like her, and I don’t want! 
 to,” said a fair, bright eyed girl. | 
 form genteel, and she would have been beautiful, but that ill-nature 
 had stamped its impress on every feature. 
 the very top of the fashion!” pursued she. ‘For my part, I like to 
 see girls dress according to their work ; and when I see a factory 
 girl so fincified off, I always know that’she is no better than she 
 should be. Youremember Adelaide Murray, don’t you? Well, 
 she had just the haughty look that this girl has; and you know that 
 she was very bad. 
 boarders, for they draw such girls.” 
 
 ** Why, as to her dress,” said Enma’s defender, “ she was dressed 
 precisely as you are—wasn’t she, Martha? She wore a calico dress 
 and collar, and a black silk apron, without frills.’ She glanced at 
 Martha’s apron, with its double frill, as she spoke. 
 
 ** Well, mine are old and dirty, hers looked as if they had just 
 come out of a drawer; and—I don’t know; but somehow tHey gave 
 her a gay, proud look. And you needn't take her part, Miss Laura, 
 for I shall always hate her.” 
 
 Emmz’s feelings can be better imagined than described. 
 would have given some indications of her presence, but they com- 
 menced so abruptly, that she had not time to shake off her stupor, 
 
 before they had implicated themselves so far that she knew a discov-| 
 
 ery of her presence could answer no good end. Suddenly some 
 noise in another room attracted their attention, and they left the room. 
 She hastily rose, and undressed, in hopes of losing herself in sleep 
 
 Her complexion was delicate, her | 
 
 ‘* Her hair and. dress at || 
 
 I wish Mother Wells would dismiss her men|| 
 
 She | 
 
 erted—to a more healthy state of moral feeling in Mrs. Wells and her 
 boarders. 
 
 So strong was this hope, and so pleasing her anticipations of being 
 able to realize it, that they contributed, materially, toward removing 
 the sadness and reserve from her manner, which had been mistaken 
 for haughtiness. Her depertment resumed much of its accustomed 
 ease, dignity, and cheerfulness, which had been so much disturbed 
 by the nove:y and awkwardness of her situation ; and, when she en- 
 itered the dining room with a pleasant bow and smile, she met a 
 
 pleasant return from all but Martha, and a tew others. They read 
 
 rivalry in her sweetness and dignity, and in the gratified looks with 
 
 which those who were willing to be led, received her little attention; 
 
 ,and it aroused all the bitter feelings of their natures. They tossed 
 ‘their heads; nay, one of them went so far as to turn to the girl at 
 ‘her side, and mimic her “‘ good morning.” This inhuman act called 
 forth a grating, unfeeling laugh from a few sister spirits. The com- 
 
 ‘posure which Emma had attained by such a powerful mental effort, 
 ‘nearly fled before it. Tearscame to her eyes. They were observed 
 
 ‘by all, but she shrank from their mode of manifesting their disappro- 
 | bation. 
 
 One lady beside her whispered, ‘I wouldn’t mind what Martha 
 ‘says. She always hates those that are prettier than she is.”’ 
 
 | Another said, ‘*‘ Why, Martha! I should be ashamed.” 
 
 Others hazarded nothing but ‘contemptuous looks. To none of 
 ‘these did Emma give the approving look they seemed to expect when 
 they turned to her. But they respected her the more that it was 
 \\not conferred. Had it been, she would have assisted in generating 
 
 } 
 } 
 
 before their return. But she was not destined to be so fortunate. 
 They soon came back with a light. 
 
 and perpetuating feelings, that in twenty-four hours might have di. 
 irected their hostilities against herself. 
 
Ee te a ee i a ae. 
 
 Emma Hate. THE NEW WORLD. . iz 
 Hn yo hesanony a poet ~ more smoothly than on the preceding | a Yes, indeed, you may,”’ said Mrs. Wells, in reply to Emma’s offer 
 let r with a pleasant smile, and expressed || of assistance, “for I have just been thinking that I could cen Z 
 her regrets at giving her so much trouble. The most cutting reproof, |, my chair long enough to finish % ea ee 
 in coldness, could not have punished and humbled Miss Conner s0j|T h h ~ apace earenge: : PE IS B® See: 
 Smeatealiy: s | “a ought a great many times, when my boarders were sitting 
 FoR, hb doch. ee Pears jor standing around in idleness, that they might help me a little, and 
 Wag if i! ot of ene ts emi nak ae ot te ; : vadltien they would if they knew how it would relieve me. But some 
 this, so PEP MTOns.* ged. ry e blamed for Sr selfishness, and a great number of my boarders are of 
 Emma thanked her for the present kindness. ‘‘But pray do not ‘* Perhaps they are very much fatigued, or do not think to offer. I 
 reprove me in such amanner again,” said she. ‘If I do fail some-|/am notvery tired to-night, and can help you witheut any sactifies a3 
 times, I shall not do it inteationally; and Ihave trouble enough al-|| Others, as they left the dining-room, stopped to their Setiatanae . 
 a . : and, ia a few minutes, a task was completed that would have onuee 
 tt, et onner was moved by Emma’s words and manner. ; ‘pied Mrs. Wells—exhausted and spiritless as she was when Emma 
 thought yesterday that you were a proud, haughty girl,” said joined her—for hours, put her under the necessity of retiring late to 
 she. ‘* Bat after I went to bed last night, I was thinking about you;|/rest, and consequently nearly unfitted her for the next day’s toils. 
 and it seemed to me that you were only unhappy. Howsorry I was/||She had, moreover, a pleasant chat with some eight or ten of her 
 then that I treated you so! I loaged to see you and ask your forgive- || boarders,-and this was arare occurrence. 
 ness, Itis strange that I can allow myself to fly intosuch a passion|! A most unnatural feeling of hostility existed between them. It 
 with my work, it is so foolish. Besides, I almost always say some-| did not-often extend to unkind words; but there were no gratuitous 
 thing to somebody, that makes me miserable a great while. Bat if) attentions conferred among them. If Mrs. Wells seated them at 
 ‘you knew just how I was brought up, you would not wonder so || well-filled tables, it was well enough; yet, if she failed in one iota, 
 much. My mother is the most passionate woman [ever saw. I|/she met, as we have seen, ill-natured abuse. If she was sick or 
 suppose I inherit a part of my bad temper from her, but J think the | weary, it was not their part te attend to her comfort, and they, im 
 greater part of it comes from unkind treatment. She fed me ill,| their turns, met equal neglect from her. They only paid her for 
 clothed me ill, and treated me ill every way. She punished me most ||** bed and board;” and when these were supplied, her conscience 
 unmercifully for faults ever so trifling ; and, in treating me like a dog, | was at rest. 
 she sunk me lower than a dogin passion. Wehad enoughofevery-| This is a most unhappy condition: unhappy, alike, for hostess and 
 thing, my father was a pleasant man, and we might haye been a|| boarders; and I am by no means inclined to believe it-a commor. 
 happy family, but for what may be well called the curse of our|’ one, either from observation or report. 
 country, rum. Mother loved it betterthan she did any thing else in| But on this evening, Mrs. Wells told them of her toils and cares > 
 the world, and all thatfather could do, could not keep it from her. | and how she was wearied by them; and they pitied her. One of 
 
 I don’t often mention this, it makes me so unhappy. But you have 
 treated me well, andI wish you to know the cause of my uakindness 
 te you.” 
 
 Emma begged her to think no more about it, and from that hour, 
 their connexion was uninterruptedly pleasant to them both. 
 
 the girls told her how she had no maother; and, another how hers 
 || was very poor, and sick. Tears that filled the eyes of another, told 
 | that hers wa3 as sad a tale; but one that might not be revealed. 
 ||Mrs. Wells saw them. She realized} then, that she was surrounded 
 iby those whose trials were, at least, equal to her own. She felt a 
 
 Miss Cormer’s education was very defective. This she felt acutely. '|new and pleasing interest for their happiness springing up in her 
 She acknowledged to Emma the trouble it gave her, and “urged her! heart. She determined to bé to them a mother, pro tempore ; and 
 to correct her as often as she spoke improperly, and to give her all to soothe them, and atone to them, as far as possible, for friends and 
 the information she could while they were together; likewise, to | joys that were not. 
 cheek her if she fell intoa passion. Emma promised acheerful com- | 
 
 pliance. (| CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In his “Curiosities of Literature,’ D*Israeli says,—‘‘ We are) Tree months passed away; and Emma was a happy mill girl. 
 
 } o . . 
 scarcely aware how we may govern our thoughts by means of our|| There was none of the light-hearted joyousness of her early days ; 
 sensations. De Luc was subject to violent bursts of passion ; but he || but, in its stead, ‘a sober certainty of waking bliss,” in the proper 
 
 -ealmed the interior tumult by filling his mouth with sweets and com-|| discharge of all her duties, and in the love and confidence of all 
 
 fits. Mendelsohn, (the son of a poor rabbin in Germany, at length 
 
 the greatest philologist in Germany, and, the critics of Germany de- || 
 
 clared, their first luminous model of precision and elegance,) whose 
 
 feeble and too sensitive frame was often reduced to the last stage of, 
 
 suffering by intellectual exertion, when engaged ina point of difficul- 
 ty, would in an instant, contrive a perfect cessation from thinking, 
 by mechanically going to a window and counting the tiles upon the 
 roof of a neighbor’s house. Facts like these show how much art is 
 ‘concerned in the management of the mind.” 
 
 Now, when a mill girl finds her good-nature vanishiag before a 
 ** break-out,” a “* pick-out,” a “bad selvedge,” er any such ills to 
 
 which factory girls ar? heirs, she cannot, like Mendelsohn, leave her 
 
 work, and “count the tiles on a neighbor’s house,” she will not, 
 
 _surely, fill her mouth * with sweets and comfits ;” but there are many 
 
 ways in which she may employ art in the management of her mind 
 
 She may do as an old acquaintance of mine was accustomed to do, 
 
 when wader similar temptations. She invariably commenced singing, 
 
 and compelled herself to persevere so long as the provocation lasted, 
 
 however averse she might be to it. ‘Oh dear!” said she one day 
 
 to her light-hearted sister, who was helping her out of a misfortune, || 
 
 «1 know I shall lose my temper, my work has been so bad so long.” 
 “Keep singing, sister, keep singing!” said her sister, laughing. 
 She laughed, recommenced singing louder than ever, and, by this 
 
 simple means, aveided what she so justly dreaded, losing her temper. 
 
 And there ss a better, a safer refuge— 
 
 * A calm, a sure retreat— 
 *Tis found beneath the mercy seat.” 
 
 and happy is it for those who fly to it inall seasons of trial “and temp- 
 
 tation. 
 
 On passing through the kitchen at night, on her way to her own || half the unhappiness their sullenness occasio 
 room, Emma found Mrs. Weils just commencing the picking of seve-| not indulge themselves in its manifestations. 
 
 ral quarts of green currants. 
 
 ~~ - 
 
 || who knew her. 
 
 “See!” said a friend to me, as we stood at the window watching 
 || the girls as they passed from their work. ‘‘See; there are two of 
 || the aristocracy, doubtless.” She pointed, as she spoke, to two noble 
 ‘|and graceful girls, whose whole appearance indicated a superiority 
 ‘to the mass. And so it was with Emma; and she, to use the by no 
 |means inappropriate language of my friend, was “‘ one of the aris- 
 | tocracy.” 
 
 | Of course, this kind of distinction comes not to factory girls by 
 lwealth or honorable connexions. It is won, I may venture to say, 
 ||invariably, by intellectual and moral excellence. They are gov- 
 |erned, at all times, by high religious principle. They never deceive; 
 land, hence, it is sought and followed as a rule. Their hearts are 
 | full of sympathy and charity, for those who mourn, and those who 
 |jerr; and the sorrowing and repentant look to them for consolation 
 ||and encouragement. None ate so pcor, none 0 degraded that they 
 |do not take them to their hearts and call them sisters. To their 
 overseers they are always respectful; aud in this they differ :rone 
 ||too many mill operatives. 
 
 || A wrong idea prevails generally with regard to the relation 
 
 | between overseers and their girls. It is not one of tyranny on one 
 | hand, and timid servility on the other. With but few exceptions, 
 || the overseers are kind and pleasant. They are indulgent as far as 
 'they can be consistently with the duty they owe their employers 5 
 and they often suffer as much from their inability to comply with 
 || the wishes of their girls for temporary release, as the girls them- 
 || selves do from loss of pleasant recreation or needful rest. 
 i I have had the confidence of several overseers; and I know that 
 Jif the peevish class of girls to whom I have before alluded, realized 
 ns them, they would 
 If they could not be 
 \ spared whenever they pleased, they would not answer—“‘ You 
 
14 THE NEW WORLD. Emuma Hate.- 
 2 a 
 always let A, B, and C, go just when they wantte;” or, “I shall||objections were overruled, however; and cordial assents were at 
 leave ia a fortnight. I'll go home, and then I can go when and |length yielded by all but Martha and one other. They left; and 
 where I please.” If their overseers failed in their first attempts to) their places were filled by other and better girls. il 
 repair their machinery, they would not put oa sour looks, slam every | The condition of the family was improved beyond conception, 
 moveable thing that came in their way, scold them, or sit down and) by these arrangements. Before Mrs. Wells removed to Lowell, she 
 fold their hands in sullen silence. had for many years been a respectable member of a church in her 
 How can a lady degrade herself by such exhibitions? Does she native town. But she neglected to connect herself with the church. 
 think that Mr. A. loses the feelings of a man; and that she is under |at Lowell; and, as her cares increased, end the ‘love within her 
 no obligations to treat him as such, because he happens to be her | grew cold,” she became a thoroughly worldly woman, regardless of 
 overseer? Does sh2 forget that no situation in life can free us from, | her responsibilities as the head of such a family, and of everything 
 the obligations of the great moral law: ‘“‘ Whatsoever ye would that unconnected with worldly gain. Under the blessed influences of the 
 others should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.” sanctuary, old feelings revived. And while she mourned her past 
 
 Never lay aside | delinquencies, she resolved to walk hereafter in newness of life, 
 
 } 
 
 Sisters, be just to yourselves, und to your sex. y 
 real politeness of feeling and deportmeat, which springs from an “worthy of the vocation by which she was called.” 
 observance of the law just quoted. You need no boarding-schoel | ‘“How Mrs. Wells has altered!’ said Jane Hoit, to @ party of 
 disciplines, no manual of politeness to teach you this. If it is net, boarders who had met in her room. ‘She is as pleasant as @ 
 already easy and habitual, render it so by pausing before every word | lamb.” 
 or action of doubtful morality, and asking if you would wish others | ‘‘ Yes; and how dignified her manner is! 
 to say or do the same to you, under similar circumstances. Do this) nothing agreeable about her.” 
 for the sake of honor and virtue among factory girls. Do it forthe, ‘Oh she appears like another woman. You know she seldom 
 sake of your own duty and happiness. used to smile; now sue always looks pleasant and happy, and she 
 “‘ Courtesy,’ says Miss Sedgwick, “is like sunshine. We can is so motherly!” 
 
 scarcely have too much of either.’ And would that it were more | ‘Yes; how goodsbe is to us all, now! and how happy she makes 
 
 T used to think she had 
 
 general in allcommunities. Especially is it needed among mill girls ; | 
 for there, no ties of kindred, no considerations of self interest induce | 
 mutual kindness and mutual forbearance. 
 
 By courtesy, I do not) | 
 
 jus! Even Polly Clay is improving under her influence, and that of 
 ‘the dear Emma. I leve that g'rl with all my heart; and I do think 
 that if there is a Christian in the world, she is one. She works in 
 
 mean a studied artificial style of politeness, which exhibits itself, a very quiet way; but Ido believe she is doing more good than 
 only on extraordinary occasions, in bows, courtesies, apologies and almost anybody in Lowell. And how we all treated her when she 
 compliments, paid in ‘‘good set terms.’ It is delicate and respect- | first came here! I always blush when I think of it. [talked with 
 ful attertion to the comfort and interests of his girls, in the overseer ;| her, and told her how unhappy it made me. She kissed my cheek, 
 it is a careful regard for his feelings, and for vhe happiness and suc- jand talked so sweetly to me, that ] felt a thousand times more 
 cess in the labors of each other, in the girls. If A meets a misfor- | grieved than before, and cried like a child.” 
 tune, it brings B, C, and D, to her assistance. If she is afflicted, it | ‘‘Whatdid she say?” 
 leads them to lessen her sorrows by sharing them with her. If she | ‘A great deal that I cannot repeat, although the substance of it is: 
 is wronged, it prompts them te defend her. And if she is prosper- in my heart. Among the rest she said we should not have done so, 
 ous and happy, it makes a part of their happiness consist in rejoicing | if we had been taught its sinfulness as she was by her mother.” 
 with her. In the boarding-house it binds them together like a band “‘Yes; that is the way she always manages to make it appear 
 of sisters inlove. It is this that leads the well to attend to the sick; thatshe is no better than Polly Clay,eyen, only as she has had better 
 the strong to the weak; and the “pure in heart” to the wanderer advantages. I like her for this ; but I do believe that she was nat- 
 from virtue and peace. It breathes grace into every action. jurally good. She ought to be a minister’s wife, and have money to 
 When Emma went to Mrs. Wells, it was, “ Pass the bread,” or do good with, instead of being a poor factory girl.” 
 *‘T want the bread,” or, at best, ‘““Won’t you pass the bread?” | ‘I don’t know—she manages to do us all good here; the girls im 
 Habitual courtesy led her to use different forms of expression. the mill say that she isalways helping them, or cheering them, whem 
 These were, in a short time, adopted by others; and their use of | they are sick or homesick. And then her Sabbath school class= 
 unladylike commands, was superceded by the forms of good society. she is doing wonders with it—so Deacon Graves told Mrs. Wells. 
 They found it just as easy, and far pleasanter to say, ‘I will thank I don’t see how she could do more good anywhere than she does 
 you for the bread,” or, ‘‘ Please pass the bread.” Andif any vol | here.” 
 untary attentions were conferred on them at table, or elsewhese, || 
 they did not, as formerly, receive them in silence, but with a pleas- | 
 ant, ‘‘I thank you.” 
 
 { 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Ema kept up a correspondence with several friends at Bos- 
 
 eee yen; i d all that was passing there. A 
 These are not merely forms, affecting only the “outer man,” or, "> qnd, By ee oe ; 
 d . anid i letter received from Catherine Marshall ran as follows: 
 
 woman. They come up from grateful hearts ; and they seldom fail | ‘My dearest Emtau: Tai very oll tocnigih® ant ainee "yomare 
 + . wail 3 
 
 to reach the hearts of those to whom these civilities are extended. Phere Wick th i Py hiled Raia) wecide 
 They are ‘‘smiles upon the face of manners,” and sunshine upon bie A tciik Rees Baby Bg te ob 4 . in 
 I will e’en relieve myself by writing to you. Ol, dear! wouldn’t 
 
 the heart—warming up its generous affections, purifying it from). ; ; P 
 ae : aad sit Se eee ‘| give worlds, if they were mine, if I could take brother’s arm now, 
 noxious passions, and contributing to a rich harvest of peace and : : 
 and walk or run, if I pleased, to your pleasant little home, and find 
 
 love. 
 sae taicres ; : , ; you there, as in ‘the days o’ Jang syne;’ if I could walk, talk, and 
 wales soem areas Be aos peek oag OH Jt, Aa aR ee OM el 
 ilies , sha P / lachrymoee. He has gone out to walk alone, and there he is, bend- 
 . ing his steps to our favorite haunt, ‘Emma’s grove,’ I call it now.! 
 Mrs. Wells and many of her boarders had been ‘keepers at pe has just entered the third yearof his professional studies. Would 
 home” on the Sabbath. Those who attended occasionally were | that it were the third of its practice ; and I know of a dear, sweet 
 early deterred from attendauce by fatigue, slight cold, or head-ache, girl in the city of Lowell, who would be compelled to relinquish a 
 or by unfavorable weather. At the time this chapter opens, Mrs. || certain quixotic—pardon this epithet—enterprise of hers, and come: 
 
 Re fae : 
 
 ‘foge ar by seth esa: part of her family, were as constant in| gown to the sober realities of life, making or superintending the 
 eir attendance as their ministers, and members of different Sabbath! making of puddings, pies, et cetera. 
 
 schools. 1] % < i 
 
 Mrs. Wells was 
 
 as 
 
 enabled to attend thus constantly through the, you need not repeat, ‘You are deceiving yourself, dear Catharine ; 
 agency of Emma. She proposed to the girls assisting Mrs. Wells’; but I shall not allow you to deceive me.” Iam as happy as a bird at 
 by turns on Sabbath mornings, that she might be ready for the morn- | the thought that I shall one day see your beauty and goodness 
 ing services ; and that their dinner should consist of cold bread, , triumph over the vanity of yourcousin. Mother tells me that I must 
 pies, Xe., instead of meats and puddings, that she might attend the not indulge such feelings, and you tell me that I must not. So I 
 alternoon meeting. | suppose it must be naughty, and soI will forget that Eveline Hale is 
 
 in the world. Oh, dear! Ican’t. There she is gathering a rose 
 from your favorite tree. I shan’t try to be reconciled to it; so 
 
 when you write again, please say not one word about charity, for- 
 feed upen the wind. hese, giveness, and all such impracticable duties. Edward despises them: 
 
 . To the former of these proposals, all readily acceded. But a few 
 had strong objections to the latter; they paid for their board, and 
 wanted it; they were as hungry on the Sabbath as on any other 
 day, and did not wish to keep fast, or 
 
 || Now you need not shake your head and look grave about its. 
 
 j 
 
_——~- ———  - 
 
 . 
 Ema HAte. 
 
 all as much as! do; and in fact so do father and mother. 
 
 “THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 Y I5 
 
 They have||my home subjected to such a reckless metamorphosis ; and I don’t 
 
 made maay advances by way of getting acquainted with uz, but we || know how you, all sensitive as you are, can bear it. 
 
 meet them all with coldness. The Smiths and Herberts call there. | 
 
 ‘*But, dear Emma, I woulda thousand times rather be the sufferer 
 
 *. They say they have wrongs enough of their own to attend to without ||as you are, than a partaker in the infliction of such wrongs. Per- 
 
 mn resenting yours. Perhaps they have; but if I had tea thousand | haps I am superstitious in this; but it seems to me that they will 
 others, this would be my greatest one, and I would not make one ||not be permitied by a just Providence to go unpunished. The fa- 
 
 effort to forgive it. 
 
 “‘T accidentally met your uncle, aunt and cousin at Mr. Hobert’s. | 
 ‘They urged me strongly to call on them—to call often—to make 
 their house 2 sort of second home. Miss Hale whispered in my ear 
 —‘ Now do call often, Miss Marshall. 
 ciety that I can relish at all. We were told at Concord, that we 
 should fied the friendship of your family a most desirable thing; that) 
 
 | 
 I am so lonely here—no by 
 
 plished young lady in Boscawen, except Miss Emma Hale. By the 
 way, what a ludicrous comparison! They told us that your brother 
 is one of the most talented and promising young men in the county ; 
 and that your family is one of the most respectable. So, I do assure 
 ‘you, Miss Marshall, we shall make it quite an object toget up an in- 
 timacy with your family.’ 
 
 “*T was very brusque, I know. 
 
 you, Miss Marshall, were reckoned the most beautiful and accom | 
 | 
 
 I bowed slightly, and then turned 
 
 away to:take leave of the Hoberts. Miss Hale blushed, but I did 
 not care. Her malicious thrust at you deserved it all. And I look 
 upon this whole affair of turning you out of doors, as most unjust 
 and contemptible. So does father ; and he does not hesitate to say so 
 -on all occasions. Perhaps your aunt and cousin were not a party in 
 this; but they are acting a part quite as dishonorable in their spiteful 
 insinuations against you. They seem to take the love all Boscawen 
 has for you, a3 so much hate for themselves; and, hence, they seize 
 every opportunity to place you in a disadvantageous position. 
 
 ‘* Miss Hale has been informed that it is supposed that brother will 
 marry you. She showed much disappointment and vexation; and 
 they say she never mentions you since, without a toss of her ugly 
 head and a curl of her ugly lip. Now, Ido not ‘set down aught in 
 malice,’ for she is positively ug'y—diminutive to dwarlishness in sta- 
 ture, unco’ in form, sallow in hue, and affected in the extreme in her 
 manner—! cannot find one redeeming feature in her face, form, or 
 character. Oh, I have no patience! And this same lady wishes to} 
 get up an intimacy with our family, because, forsooth, she has heard 
 that it is one of the most respectable in town; because brother is 
 lented, and Iam handsome! Out upon such pretensions, fouaded 
 on such consideration! I detest them, and all who cherish them, 
 ‘must heartily. £h bien! there is no use of scolding, else I would 
 scoid all night. 
 
 «* Yhave some beautiful pressed flowers for you. They are natives 
 ef the ‘Far West,’ and were sent me by sister Jane. She was correct 
 in her conjectures when she said—‘I fear they will lose half their 
 value, ntw your friend Emma is not there to admire and share them 
 I shall retain them for you. 
 
 vill go to Boston in three or four weeks; andremember you 
 ‘ised to come home with him. ‘Jo triumphe!? I am 
 the thought! Ishall write a bit for him to leave 
 own; and he will call for youon his return. Now 
 me, dear Emma, for it will almost break my heart 
 
 Your own, Kats.” 
 communication fixed Emma’s determina- 
 tion not to go to Boscawems_ The subjoined is an extract: 
 
 «Your aunt and cousin seem to delight in removing every vestige | 
 of your taste in the house, yard, and garden, The pretty little pond 
 which your father planned with sémuch care, has been destroyed | 
 ‘by turning the brook from the garden, What desecration! It was 
 the prettiest brook I ever saw—so full af its Hogarthian wiadings— 
 -and then its miniature cascades—how they reminded me of Cowper’s 
 
 * Rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and chiming‘as they tall 
 
 Upon loose pebbles,’ 
 and of a thousand other delightful things! 
 with dirt, and placed a huge mound for flowels on the site of the| 
 pond! °Tis vastly too high—flowers will never |grow on it, except 
 near the base; and, besides, it is not half so elpgant in its outline | 
 as thoze of yours that they levelled to form this 
 They have removed the trellis about the door, an 
 -to scrambling over the side of the house. And still 
 they have had the house painted a very pale green. 
 
 They have filled its bed 
 
 versal verdict of taste is in favor of white for cottages; and what (she 
 th and Van- ||She 
 dal spirit of extermination? I know I should feel wretchedly to see }|society was inval 
 
 could indace them to make such changes but a sort of 
 
 ~ 
 
 ore barbarous, | Ei 
 Tow, the uni-||tainiag but one bed. 
 
 || therless, you know, my beloved friend, are God’s peculiar care ; and 
 
 [ feel that he regards wrongs done them, with much stronger disap- 
 probation than those inSicted on others; and that He will, in this 
 ease, order all things for y-ur good. I hope that you too have this 
 trust, and that it will console you now when yeu so much need its 
 soothing influences. 
 
 “J have been below, talking with mother of the past. And now 
 is our favorite hour. I have sat here musing uatil recent eceur- 
 rences seem like a dream. I almost expect ta see your light dress 
 through the shrubbery, or your handkerchief waving for me to join 
 you, or to hear your voice break out upon the stillnessin laughter or 
 song. When I turn from such dreams, the reality is ten-fold heart- 
 sickening ; and even the thought that I am soon to meet you, fails to 
 lift the sadness that has settled down upon my spirits like a dark 
 pall. 
 
 ‘‘ Mother says—* Tell the dear girl that I think of her every hour, 
 and that I pray for her happiness with that of my own children. Beg 
 her not to disappoint us.’ Father will deliver his messages in pro- 
 pria persone. 1 should doubtless have ‘some most pretty things to 
 say’ from Edward, but he has called at Captain Parker’s. Report 
 says he is partial to Maria, but I do not believe it. 
 
 «© Next Friday we meet—remember, dear Emma. 
 
 Till then, yours as ever, Bite. 
 
 Emma was affected beyond description by the contents of this let 
 ter. Every expression of regret for past joys met an answerfng 
 pang in her heart. Shesaw the yard, the garden, brook and pond— 
 she heard her father’s manly voice of advice—her mother’s soft 
 words of endearment—Catharine’s ringing laugh and Edward’s gen- 
 tle tones; and she felt, even as bitterly as at the moment she left 
 Boscawen, that they were lost to her forever. From the sorrow as- 
 sociated with the memory of her parents, she sought not to wean 
 herself. She clung to itas if it were a part of themselves. But not 
 so with others. She would have forgotten 
 
 ** The woodbime and the rose, 
 That o’er her early wanderings threw 
 The fragrance of repose.” 
 She would have given less of her thoughts to those dear friends who, 
 by sharing all her bitter trials and pleasant pastimes, 
 ** Made the course of childheod’s ways 
 
 A journey of delight.” 
 
 She wept and prayed in vain. She retired with a weight of sadness 
 at her heart, which prevented repose ; and rose the next morning 
 unrefreshed, nervous, and miserable. 
 
 Her misfortunes were known to Mrs. Wells and her family. They 
 seemed to regard her asa delicate flower, which had been trampled 
 upon and bruised until it was nearly destroyed in everthing but its 
 fragrance, and did everything in their power to shield her from fur- 
 ther suffering. There was an abrupt officiousness in the inquiries 
 and sympathetic expressions of some, from which Emma would have 
 shrunk painfully, but for a just appreciation of the kindness of their 
 motives. Others were more delicate and more effectual in their 
 ministries. Theirs was ‘the meed of love’s kind words,” of those 
 noiseless little attentions that are neither needed nor offered in mo- 
 ments of happiness. One of them flung her arms around her waist, 
 and tenderly kissed her cheek en passant. Another brought her 
 only a rose—a beautiful one, just sent her from Chelmsford—and 
 placed it in Emma’s bosom. She could eat no breakfast ; and a lady 
 who sat near her silently left the table, and returning with a slice of 
 cake, she laid it upon Emma’s plate. 
 
 “‘ Now, dear Emma, you must eat that,” said she. ‘*’Tissome 
 my mother sent me—a nondescript, nameless sort, which I would dub 
 ‘ Harrison Cake,’ but that this name has already been appropriated. 
 Perhaps ‘Farmer’s Cake’ would do, for it is shortened with cream, 
 
 sweetened with maple sugar, and spiced with carraway.” , 
 The cake was nice, but its chief value to Emma laid in the kind- 
 
 '|ness that offered it. 
 
 Emma had removed to a pleasant room on the second floor con- 
 Her room-mate was a lovely girl—one whom 
 found, and to whom she became strongly attached, in the mill. 
 was induced to go to Mrs. Wells’ by her love for Emma, and her 
 uable to her. Her miad hed acquired a strength, 
 
 EN 
 
16 THE NEW WORLD: Emma Hare. 
 and her manners a polish, rather unusual in country girls in any sta-|/a husband. You would make me the happiest of men. Will you 
 tion, by advantages similar to those enjoyed by Emma, except that not, my Emma?’® : 
 they were conferred by a sister, whose husband had recently in- | A “clap of thunder in a cloudless sky,” would not have startled 
 volved himself in bankiuptcy, by injudicious pecuniary management ||Emma more ; and all her other sufferings were instantly lost in the 
 To her Emmz revealed every thought, as she would have done to @,| consciousness that she must inflict pain on a noble heart, that she- 
 siste?, and she met sympathy and affection as warm and sincere as a /|loved just as she would have loved a brother. She saw that he 
 sister could have offered. They were inseparable. They worked |trembled, and his voice was almost inaudible from emotion. 
 side by side in the mill, sat together at table, and always walked) She burst into tears and wept like a child. Mr. Adams would 
 arm-in-arm to and from their work. They attended the same meet-'| have taken her to his heart and soothed her to rest, but her manner 
 ing—were both teachers in the same Sabbath sehool, aad their | of receiving his declaration forbade the hope that he might even do 
 classes occupied contiguous places. They went together to the ||this ; and he stood by her side in a miserable state of doubt and sus- 
 chambers of the sick. Both had been afflicted and somewhat simi-/| pense, forgetful that there were all about them witnesses to this” 
 Jarly. This constituted a strong tie. When melancholy, they found scene, until Emma’s friend, Alice Gordon, approached. 
 in each other’s society ‘* What has happened, Mr. Adams?” saidshe. ‘* Emma, are you 
 “The sad relief sick 2”? 
 That misery loves the fellowship of grief.” Mr. Adams did not take his eyes from a bit of paper he was tear- 
 No oné¢ knows as the factory gitl knows the value of such friend- jing in pieces. Emma only said, ‘ask him to let me go out.” 
 ship. No one feels as she feels the need of “something around which | Alice asked, obtained a mechanical “yes,” and accompanied 
 the heart may cling” and fix its tendrils; and I know from a long |Emma to the door. Emma put on her bonnet, and kissed Alice’s 
 and happy experience, that no one—be her station what it may—| cheek in silence; and then left her to conjecture the cause of her 
 finds more sincere, disinterested friends than she does. The fac-| ‘agitation. She repaired immediately to her room, fell on her knees 
 tory girl is not loved because she is great, because her family is rich’ and buried her face in her handkerchief. Long and earnestly she 
 and popular, because “not to know her argues oneself unknown,” | prayed for calmness under her accumulated trials, and for strength 
 not because she gives pleasant parties and wears splendid dresses ; and wisdom to bear her safely through them. 
 but because she is good and kind. We may often hear them say—|| And she found them at last. The struggle was great, but it 
 *«T love A because she is so like a sister to me;” or, ‘I shall al-|/ended in a corresponding cenquest. She rose with a quiet and 
 ways like B because she was the first one who came to me, and |ecleyation of feeling seldem experienced before; and repaired imme- 
 treated me kindly when I wasa stranger ;” or, ‘I do love C, she is||diately to the mill. She met Mr. Adarhs on the stairs. There was 
 so kind to those who want help--so intelligent, and such a peace-’|at first a trepidation in his manner, but it soon fled before the per- 
 maker.” fect calmness and self-control of Emma. She assured him with per- 
 Ihave a friend who was my playmate in infancy, and whom, in | fect candor, of her sisterly regard for him; ‘ and do not, my friend,” 
 after years, I followed to a factory in D——. She is now married to | said she, ‘add to my unhappiness by withdrawing your friendship, 
 one of the first men in the city of , and mistress of one of the | or by allowing my decision to disturb you at all.” 
 most splendid mansions there. A few months since I visited her.|| « [¢ ghall not. It is sufficient for me to possess the friendship of 
 She was as intelligent and beautiful as ever—the very child of na- such a girl. So, hereafter, Iam your own brother George. Prove 
 ture and simplicity. She had in her husband, her little daughter, || that you are my own sister Emma,” he added smiling, ‘‘ by telling. 
 and in the elegancies and comforts of home, all that one could de- |me what disturbed you so much this morning.” 
 mre." But J think that part of my life spent inthe factory itshap-  jzmma had Catherine’s last letter in her reticule. She gave it to. 
 piest portion,” said she, as we were comparing the present and past. | vy, Adams, and went to her work with a light heart and a happy 
 
 ** There was such an entire freedom from ali care! andI had such face. She wondered, now, that she could be so distressed by Cathe-- 
 good friends. HewlIdid love them, and how they loved me! J] | rine’s communications. 
 
 have never known friendships like them anywhere else; andI am | “‘ With such friends as you, my Alice, Mr. Adams, Mrs. Wells,’ 
 convinced that I never shall find them.” $ i 6 rf 
 
 She 1 wee8 : her boarders, and others, about me, what can I expect more ?” said 
 e looked down upon her daughter who was nestling in a rich | ‘she to Alice, after she had related all that had happened 
 s : 
 
 rug at her side ; and her eyes were filled with tears when she turned. . : 
 Pic. tee ‘| In the same room were two girls who had long cherished hopes 
 
 **T could not leave my little Eilen and my husband, and go back | 6 aos ibe BepOHE et Ms meen au ne longer mautngliy: 
 to the mill, and live,” continued she. “But I was as happy then, hes a and jealous, ahey sali the mail light-hearted, innocent 
 as mortals can be in any situation.” girls; and for a brief period were very intimate. But a long course 
 ; ‘of unhappy indulgences roused their feelings, rendered them irri- 
 ee table, and, under real or imaginary provocations, excessively mali- 
 
 CHAPTER 1X. cious. Their jealous fears received a new direction and a new’ 
 
 To her friends, Emma was indebted for all the happiness she. impetus, when they saw that Emma was becoming a favorite with 
 found under her first trials. She sought in vain for that resignation Mr. Adams, and from that time their intimacy was as strong as their 
 and trust in Heaver which always soothed her when thinking of the |alienation had been. They worked so far from Emma that they 
 death of her parents. She found it easy to trace this event to the |knew nothing about her, but that she was an exceedingly lovely 
 hand of Him ‘* who chasteneth for our profit,” and to believe it all |girl, and exceedingly beloved by all who knew her. Many were 
 just and merciful; but the wrongs inflicted by her uncle, she could their insinuations about her haughtiness, pride and vanity, from time 
 impute only to his injustice ; and she could command neither recon- to time, as new attentions paid to her by Mr. Adams, excited fresh 
 ciliation nor indifference to them. She repaired to the mill more |alarms. But their hostilities did not become open and decided, 
 dejected than she had been before since the day of her entrance, | until their jealousies received a confirmation from the scene just 
 described. 
 
 : Between Emma and her first overseer, Mr. Adams, there existed. “Well, they say Emma Hale has’ caught Adams at last,” said 
 the familiar intercourse of brother and sister. With a tact and kind- Laura, as she seated herself beside a girl who worked near her. 
 ness for which overseers are justly distinguished, he saw that she |< Now I hope she is satisfied, and she is evidently. See! Caroline. 
 was unhappy, and set himself about removing the cause, whatever | She is doubtless telling Alice all about it. Alice will not relish it; 
 it might be. He put her machinery in still better order ; and, when for I know she liked Adams, and I have thought lately that he liked 
 
 ne expedient failed, told her that she might have that day for rest, |her about as well as he did Emmz. I despise them both.” 
 
 ln, te : ae hay was affected by his kindness, she dared not)“ Why? You are not acquainted with them, are you ?” 
 “ Are vou eps nines ee | ‘No, and I don’t wish to be. To see them is enough for me. 
 a. ‘From what I heard of Emma, when she first came to Lowell, the 
 
 Her eyes filled, and she turned t i i 
 ; . 0 a window to co ; ‘ r i } T id'z 
 ind Ye fetiowed-her. conceal her emo- less respectable girls have to do with her the better. Iam afraid ske 
 
 ‘6 ew ‘is really a bad girl’? - 
 rey me what has happened, dear Emma; perhaps I can assist | Why, how you talk! Do you really suppose she is?” said 
 | Caroline, rising to see to her,work. Laura saw that her friend was 
 , except by a look that \attending to hers, and followed Caroline to her loom. 
 
 “Yes,” answered she. ‘I fear there is no mistake about it; it 
 
 © protect you—the right of ||came so correct tome. One of Mrs. Wells boarders told me. wher. 
 
 there. 
 
 She attempted to answer, but could not 
 told the gratitude she could not utter. 
 
 “* Oh, that you would give me a right t 
 
THE NEW WORLD. 1? 
 
 «Ewa Hate. 
 on NE etl iene one Ste mR tet Ath Masa 2a EDI ATM 
 
 Emma first went there, that all thought she went there to board in!/and judicious treatment. And surely Sarah would have been hap- 
 preference to other places, because Mrs. Wells had gentlemen pier afterward. Yet she did it not in malice prepense, but in love 
 boarders. I have never told this openly, but now I don’t care. |of fun and carelessness. ; 
 a Adams is too good a fellow to be caught by such a trapper.” Doreas incurred much enmity, and, of course, imbibed much, by 
 $ He eught to know it, hadn’t he?” se her excessive selfishness. For instance, in times of scarcity of woof, 
 Yes; but I would not be the one to tell him for the world.” when each girl was allowed her share, and required to wait her 
 “ Ner 1; but I know who would—Dorcas Holt. I would tell her) share, she took the most dishonest measures to secure an extra 
 about it. She loves to torment Adams, and hates Emma as bad as allowance. She returned to the mill before others did; and if she 
 ; you do ; for she says Adams tells Monroe to give her all No. 4 webs, ‘\found one tenth as much in another’s box, as she had concealed 
 : and you know they are the best. And Dorcas don’t care for any-) about her work, she did not hesitate to appropriate it to herself. 
 body. I never saw such a girl. She would as lief make all |She concealed it, not to hide her theft, for this was evinced by the 
 Lowell mad with her as not.” | fact that she never waited as others did, but that those half as 
 And so it was. Reckless in principle, violent in passion, regard-_ miserly as herself, might not get them from interest, and these as’ 
 less alike of the good and ill will of the world, she hesitated at no roguish as Sarah Elliot, to annoy her. 
 act that might have a tendency to make those she disliked as And perhaps Dorcas was thus selfish because she had received no 
 wretched as herself. Such characters are “few and far between,” | pecuniary benefits, expected none, and hence felt necessitated, and in- 
 in factory, as in other communities. They are generally rendered ‘| deed inclined to provide amply for herself. This does not vindicate her 
 thus degraded by misfortunes. Perhaps no mother guarded their |course ; but it may be that those whe so justly blamed her, would 
 infancy and childhood; but cruel and selfish guardians tasked them, ‘have done just so, if they had met “a change of cares.” Neither do 
 abused them, until all kindly feelings were driven out trom their |all these considerations lessen the evils of malice, ill-temper and covet 
 young hearts. Perhaps some natural deformity was laid upon them, ‘lousness. Yet they furnish high inducements to the more favore d,.to 
 
 in consequence of which they suffered the taunts and neglect of their 
 associates, and the lashings of their own pride, until bitter thoughts 
 took possession of their minds to the exclusion of all others. Per- 
 haps in an hour of severe temptation their reputation was sacri- 
 ficed ; and for theseorn of the world, they gave only scorn. 
 
 When we think of these things, we know not whether most to 
 despise or pity such beings. We feel involuntary emotions of dis- 
 gust. We would shun them as we would the poisoned arrow, were 
 we to act on purely selfish principles ; and we might pass them by 
 in our pride, if we did not know, ‘‘ who it is that maketh us to 
 differ.” 
 
 . g - i 
 ‘Ve high, exalted, virtuous dames, 
 
 Ty’d up in godly laces, 
 Before ye gie poor frailty names, 
 Suppose a change o’ cases—” 
 
 says Burns. And {we will ‘‘suppos? a change 0’ cases.” ‘ What 
 
 have we that we did not receive 2”? What happy and good impuls= 
 did we feel in childhood, which was not directly or indireetly the 
 result of kind deeds, or kind words from our parents, friends and 
 teachers? What high moral object have we accomplished—what 
 
 high moral purpose is stirring within us now, that owes not its 
 
 origin to moral teachings, falling on hearts prepared for their recep- 
 tion? Perhaps none. Then what should we have been, if we had 
 
 been left to ignorance, neglect and cruelty? Ah! even as Dorcas 
 
 Holt was, had not a miracle been interposed in our favor. Where 
 then is our plea for pride? It cannot be found. It is our part to 
 soothe, rather than to irritate such unfortunate beings. Probably 
 there is not one in the class, who might not ultimately be reclaimed, 
 if all were to exercise a proper degree of the charity which 
 “‘ thinketh no evil, which vaunteth not itself, and is not puffed up, 
 and which seeketh its neighbor’s good equally with its own.” 
 
 Probably Dorcas would not have growa more and still more 
 hardened in feeling and practice, if her habitual ebullitions of ill- 
 temper and malice, had been allowed to pass at their real value, 
 
 instead of being remembered and acted upon, as just causes of 
 But so it was, that she had scolded 
 her overseers, until they cared little whether her machinery operated 
 correctly or not. There was not a girl in the room, who was net in 
 
 malice and ill-temper in others. 
 
 some way a real afilictien to her. 
 
 ** Sall Eliot! if you don’t clear out with yourself!” said she to 
 Sarah Elliot, who upset her seat in passing through her aisle, while 
 on a frisk—and Sarah was just such a merciless wag, that she 
 
 repeated the rourd, again upset the seat, then looked round and 
 In her 
 anger at the first offence, which was wholly accidental, she slammed 
 her loom with her shuttle in a wrong position, aadybroke out nearly 
 She threw 
 her shutter on the floor with such violence as to break it, and this 
 She attracted the notice of almost every 
 
 laughed*to see Dorcas scold. But, alas for poor Dorcas! 
 
 one eighth of her warp. Her eyes flashed with anger. 
 
 added to her vexation. 
 girl in the room, but what cared she? Perhaps one half hour betore 
 
 this, she resolved that she would govern herself better, and deserve, 
 
 that she might receive some degree of respect; and had Sarah 
 
 turned, replaced the seat, apologized in a proper manner for her 
 
 offence, and avoided repeating it, how much of sin and degradation 
 
 7 
 
 tr 
 —. ia —- - 
 
 would it have spared poor Dorcas. She was angry in an instant, ‘tis, am insufficiency of incident to give a high zes 
 uld haye been but momentary under kind || are filled by conjectures, which become, ag 
 
 - irue ; but the feeling wo 
 
 treat those in whom they detect these vices, with pity and forbear- 
 ‘ance. We owe their exercise to ourselves and to others. Our own 
 hearts are made happier and better by them ; and others are incalcu- 
 lably benefitted. 
 
 ‘| So reasoned Emma, as a knowledge of the wrongs heaped upon 
 '|her by Laura, Mary, Doreas, and others who had been drawn into 
 '| their plot, reached her. 
 
 | 
 } 
 | 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THey had done their work. They hinted that Emma was @ dise 
 reputable character; and many unacquainted with her, though not 
 dispesed to be unnecessarily censorious, reported this for afact. Their 
 testimony was not to be controverted, surely ; and ina few days there 
 was scarcely a girl in that mill and contiguous ones, unacquainted with 
 Emma, who had not heard, and who did not believe, or fear, that 
 ‘Emnfa, to use a wicked and most significant phrase, was “ no better 
 than she should be.”” In vain her friends, and this class embraced 
 ‘all who knew her personally, opposed the tide that was setting im 
 ‘against her. Indeed, whenever they attempted it, they found them- 
 selves in the condition of one “beating the air;” for unsubstantial 
 as this element were the charges preferred against her. They: 
 ‘sought in vain, at first, to trace them to their starting point. No one 
 ‘eireulated them on their own responsibility, but with all it was— 
 
 | They say,” &e. 
 
 « Only think !” said one ; 
 ‘thought so much of, is, to say the best of her, 
 ought to be, in all conscience.” 
 | «What! Emma Hale? Oh! ! recollect. 
 ‘room, and is called one of the handsomest girls on the 
 tion.’ What has she done, pray ?” 
 | cP] die if I can find out. Ihave asked nearly a hundred if I have 
 
 one ; and they all say— why they say she is really a bad girl,’ or 
 something of that sort. One thing is plain enough—she is terribly 
 ‘proud, and she couldn’t expect to prosper ; for Paul says in the book. 
 of Revelations, ‘Pride goeth before destruction ; and a haughty spl- 
 rit before a fall.” 
 
 “ Pshaw! there is no such a passage in Revelations. As to this 
 fuss, I have no doubt that it all sprang from envy, and is kept alive 
 by her votaries. Ihave knowa just such instances in our mill. Fac- 
 tory girls are fond of excitement in any shape.” 
 
 And it is true that factory girls do love excitement. There ismuck 
 in the menotonous tenor of the lives of most of them every way cal- 
 culated to generate and strengthen this passion. Of course, just such 
 fits of listlessness and ennui come over one when a factory girl, as 
 are felt in every other situation. Perhaps their work requires little 
 of their attention and labor. They are tired ef talking, and cannot 
 find asubject upoa which they can fix their thoughts and be interested. 
 When under such visitations at home they can relieve themselves by 
 walking, making a few calls, taking a new book, or a new piece of 
 jwork. In the mill they can do no such thing, and hence, allow 
 
 themselves to gather amusement from events which, in other situa-- 
 tions, would fail to attract the least notice. Ifa marriage or death 
 ‘oecursin their midst—if Miss A is praised, or Miss B censured—it 
 
 | Miss C is engaged, and Miss D almost—and if there happens to be 
 t tothe affair, the chinks 
 
 they are passed round, 
 
 ‘they say this Emma Hale, they have all 
 no better than she: 
 
 She works in Adams” 
 * Corpora-- 
 
————eoSt—“‘i‘ SC : ~ 
 
 1s THE NEW WORLD. Emma Hate. 
 matters of sober fact, and without intentional falseheod on the part || zeal and tenderness of her friends, ina consciousness of integrity, and 
 of any one- 7 _atrustin Heaven. ‘There infused a dignity and sweet endurance 
 
 Bat this species of excitement is not the panacea. This is formed |into her manner, which were @ thousand times more effectual in 
 in the sportiveness of some young witch who will not be sad herself,|| counteracting the atterapts of her enemies, than loud extenuations and 
 or sée others so, if she cam prevent it. From the dulness of the day,/||invectives could have been. 
 ot some other cause, she finds heaviness gathering upon her Spirits. | 
 She looks about her, and reads the same in the dull eyes and sluggish! CHAPTER XI. 
 movements of all around. She sees some standing at their windows,!| «1 po not believe one word of this scandal about Emma Hale,” 
 some picking the by no means redundant leaves from their plints, | said Abby Mason, on her return from a call ona friend in Mr. Adams’ 
 eee | = ‘ elie hl ; : ae: 
 some few talking, some engaged w ith their work, and others w alk- ‘room. ‘Cousin Maria works near her, and she says she is the best 
 ing or sitting about inidleness. With all these isthe same acisesomaaaee| creature she ever saw in her life ; and that she loves her as she does 
 listlessness of manner. _ her sisters. Maria actually shed tears when she was telling me what 
 “ This will never do,” says Fanny. As she hastily puts her work in | Emma had suffered, and how patiently she had borne it all She says 
 > 2 
 such order that she can be absent from it some time with safety, one, she has shed more tears than she would have caused for worlds ; but 
 at all aecustomed to observe hes movements, would know what to | has not appeared to be indignant for one moment. They heve traced 
 ee Her hes cage bee a fresh ea : igh ts cheeks the stories to three girls—Dorcas, Laura, and Mary, I think are “ee 
 Fun plays in every feature, and lurks in every dimple. She is never'| | <nowsit: yet w i inst them 
 Pp any Bf ¥ a8 u very aimp si re. | Bames. Emma knows it; yet when the girls all turned agal 3 : 
 at a loss what to do; for everything she does, amuses. She strips’ | and the superintendent threatened to discharge them, she intercede 
 the leaves from a green bough she has had hanging from her win- || for them as if they had been her best friends. She feared it would 
 dow ; makes a stick of it,-and stealthily runs up behind one who site|| make them worse to treat them with such severity ; and, besides, 
 leaning her head on her hand, “ chewing the eud of sweet and bitter! she could not bear that any one should suffer on her account. She 
 
 fancies.” All are watching Fanny but her victim. She is uncon- "even cried when she found that her efforts were likely to be unsuc- 
 
 scious of her approach, until she is aroused from her reverie by a | aa 
 hearty application of Fanny’s rod. She starts, laughs, and runs ||... ni 
 Fanny follows as seriously as if it were alla matter of duty and ne-|| . 1 ie A ae gee what affected her so rant otek Pee? 
 cessity. She is often retarded in her progress by some arm as! = TOR RL gone SUS, ents Bee et ee Bt, Ue ae 
 tions h i hevGay? Babiohe” ke Wades Be techie ae obj betlde her || S004 a tear before since she went there—she has seemed too hardened. 
 
 i 3 ri | 3 ; 5 - 
 i swild diade’? perliatacict Witeoterakl® aioe resid aes orii| As soon as she became sufficiently calm, she went to Emma and at 
 didi tid i cra 4 FA ; h 3 Fiza Die A Fr h |tenapted to ask her forgiveness. She could only say a few words, 
 as gD a naatha Tesi ale ae re “4 Baa gdh, For however, and Emma could not speak ; but she took her hand, and 
 ae tiiad frisk q nic hom sha oh: St Rael lglalneaSarw ii °T | they both cried together. Maria says she and a good many others 
 
 ’ : 2 | joined them; but theirs were tears of pleasure. Even Mr. Adams 
 She takes a cord and ties a girl fast to her loom, in spite of strong | 
 
 ; “ bk 2 could not bear it, and left the room. 
 resistance. She makes a “rag baby” of her haudkerchief and|| «Dorcas was taken sick last night ; and Emma, and her friend Alice, 
 bits of cloth; and while a neighbor is busy with one loom, she 
 
 Suste : called to see her this morning at breakfast time. A girl who boards 
 ties it to some part of the other that is constantly in motion; and || with Dorcas says, that Emma gave her some medicine, bathed her 
 when the owner turns about, the puppet is swinging or dancing before || head, and arranged her bed to make her more comfortable. Dorcas 
 her. ° ‘ ‘was very much affected by her kindness. ‘IfI had always. been 
 F Perhaps she retaliates on Fanny by stopping her looms and carry- | treated so kindly, I should not have been what I am now,’ said she. 
 ing her shuttles to the farther corner of the room 3 and while she is} | ‘But I have no right to complain, for I have been treated as well as 
 in quest of them, by filling her alley with her own and her neighbor’s|! T deserved.’ : 
 
 Seats. Others are drawa In 5 and those not actually engaged, look |, ‘And from what Maria says, I suppose she has been very mischie- 
 oa and ‘augh. They are interrupted at length, it may be, by the|| yous. But she says they are all going to be as kind and pleasant as 
 entrance of visitors, or of their first overseer. They do not fear him. | they can to her now; and not mind it if she does get angry. She 
 ‘They would not hesitate to tell him all about it. But it is understood |!ias no mother or home ; and pérhaps she has had trouble enough to 
 that he shall not witness such sports. He has no objections to them, spoil the best disposition. As Maria says, there is something dread- 
 and he has reasons for none. Their work may be somewhat neg-!! ful in the thought that in neglecting or abusing her, they might be 
 ay wi the time, yet not much ; for there are non-participants all’ wronging one whose mother loved her as well as ours do us, and who 
 aalinr tx aiiaiay serious girls, who ever and anon pay the || agw Jooks down from her heme in Heaven and pities her poor daugh- 
 ||ter. As for Emma Hale, I believe as Maria says, that ‘she is one of 
 
 And all feel better after such recreations. They give their nerves||the best girls in the world!’ Iam sure I never despised myself so 
 and their whole system a healthy spring. Nor are their good effects| much as I do now, when I recollect how I too helped to swell the 
 lost oa the moral nature. The girls all love each other better ; fee} || current against her. I never will say anything against one again, 
 more like a band of sisters, from the pleasures and helps they receive || unless I know they are guilty, and feel it my duty to expose them—so 
 and confer. All love Fanny, A, B, and C, because they broke up the! |help me God.” The tears which started to her eyes as she spoke, 
 
 j 
 
 0 y Ssiy f) a | ; } 1 j 
 monotony that was so oppressive to them. Fanny, A, B, und ©, love || and the faithfulness with which she kept her resolution proved her 
 all on the priaciple—‘* Love begets love.” | sincerity 
 
 Happy is it for factory girls when such innocent measures are in-|| A severe fit of sickness finished for Dorcas the work that Emma’s 
 —_— and when they can turn from them to serious and elevated || undeserved kindnezs began. ‘“ Old things passed away, and all things 
 thought and conversation. But alas, for them, when in their thirst||became new” to her. She seemed in a new world. Her heart was 
 
 for excitement, they seize upon the bitter waters of scandal and con- full of love to God, to his creatures, and everything he had made.’ 
 
 eet. for them, when the rod of a Dorcas, or a Laura, opens | Every flower and every shrub, every song of bird and rivulet, and 
 See aay nik wo Lani Git ot os “ every act of kindness conferred on her, spoke of the goodness of her 
 seattle tars : Pp Bt iat the intellect be re aed and invig- ‘Heavenly Father. Many times in a day, tears of gratitude filled her 
 ; : , the af cctions purified and directed by the Chris-} eyes; and—‘‘ Oh, my God, I thank thee!” was the constant language 
 “a oe as to the factory girl. Thrown, ina great measure, upon, | of her heart and lips. x 
 rere sith 1) oer ataltaibad e measly destitute of cares,!| Seldon are failings of such an inveterate character so sudd enly 
 pgttahal Gtieidi ues pin Bad maa Syd tae pleasing and and permanently eradicated. °Tis true, she met few provocations; 
 almost, and on whom re te shies ; “ sie sha “ of character,| | for she soon gained the love and respect of all about her. But she 
 eters aga ag ig Seaver bprised ) i an influence in some || met the same accidents with her work which had hitherto caused 
 aot guided by the saa rosy aor te i as faithfully, if she is her s9 much vexation. _ These failed to affect her at all, except when 
 cially fis Rats a “ be mr igion of Jesus? Espe-) they broug't recollections of past folly to grieve her. Toward 
 Wellfor her. if ikea: es Aen ion of Emma, what can she do? ‘Emma ker attachment was almost idolatrous. She was older by 
 wa “Mena, She can pass through the fiery ordeal 'some three or four years, and she appeared to feel for her all the 
 She aiflirea S(t CO ee | tenderness and solicitude of a mother; and subsequently, when 
 the rest of heaven. that she might es longed to pass at once to) Emma was taken ill, she removed to Mrs. Wells’, and would not 
 
 Set tea, am she might be far away from the trials of this||be indaced to {leave her bedside until assured that she was out of 
 ; all her sufferings she found soothing tendencies in the || danger. 
 
“Why,” said she to Mrs. Wells, ‘1 feel as if 1 could not live if||and he says you are not very sick, but unable to work. So, ther 
 Emma were to be taken away from me. But I knew I am selfish || will start for Lowell to-morrow morning, with the commands of Dr, 
 in this, for she is more fit for heaven than 2 world of sin like this.”|| Pierce, mother, and all Boscawen, up to my identical self, not to re- 
 
 Emma’s sicknees ended in a debility which forbade her return to||turn without you. We purposely allow you no chance to forbid his 
 the mill. She could leave her room, and walk some in the yard, but going; and as he goes expressly to bring you, you surely will not 
 day after day passed without bringing any accession to her strength |refuse. Ergo, you will be e’en obliged to come. Fie! wouldn’t 
 or appetite. Mrs. Wells and her boarders did everything in their come until you were obliged to ! 
 power to make her comfortable and happy. She felt grateful te|| ‘In four days you will be here. My heart flies every time I think 
 them and to Heaven for this kindness; but oh, how her heart yearned || f it, and I am sure I shall be happier than I ever was before in my 
 for the quiet ot her youthful home, and the care of her you:hful life. Mother is more quiet, but net a whit less pleased. She is putting 
 friends! Mrs. Wells prepared many nice little bits for her, but the | our gerden, yard, and house-plants in nice order, because ‘Emma is 
 sight and flavor of so much provision destroyed her relish forit. She '|so fond of flowers.’ Every child in the village has already heard 
 ; ° felt as if she could eat if she might sit down to 4 small table with a || that you are coming, and as early as it is in the day, they are bring- 
 
 few loved friends; but where could she go? | ing offerings for ‘ the dear, dear Emma.’ They have brought flow- 
 
 So sad is the condition of hundreds of our mill girls. And, alas! |ers until our vases are filled. One has brought some strawberries, 
 there are even darker pictures. The poor sickly widow drags out a |§to make sauce of for Emma,’ and Sarah Pierce says she is going to 
 wretched existenee there. Grief for her husband’s loss, anxiety foy get some for you every day while they last. Frank has just brought 
 her orphan ones, and her toils for their subsistence, are fast sapping your old canaries, and hung their cage close by the easy chair in the 
 
 , the fountains of her life away. She lies down to sorrow, and she | Sitting-room. He, of course, supposes that just the best seat will be 
 rises to sorrow. Every night her pillow is drenched by her tears. ., given to you. I have nearly cried several times at these artless tes- 
 and every day witnesses her strurgles to bear herself up a little | tumonies of their love for you, and I know they will affect you. 
 longer before she lies down to die. Perhaps the only earthly solace | ‘Nor are these all. Old Mrs. Haines came in this morning, while 
 that ean reach one in such a situation—the sympathy of kind hearts— we were breakfasting, to ascertain whether it isa real fact that you 
 is denied her. Perhaps she has never told her trials to the happy are coming. Now, she says, she shall have an opportunity to do 
 young creatures about her ; and hence they regard her as a morose | something for one who has done everything for her. So she is pre: 
 woman—it may be, “A cross old maid.” But if the half were told | paring a panacea for you; I forget what she calls it, but it is made 
 them, their hearts would instinctively bleed for her. Bitterer tears up of mints and worts ‘ which no man could number.’ This, she is 
 would scald their cheeks thaa they ever shed for themselves; and positive, will cure you. é 
 they would endeavor to soothe, if they might not heal, her sorrows. Pe SS girl!’ said our good minister, last evening, when we told 
 
 And there are young girls, too, who, when well, spend every far- him of your sickness, ‘I hope she remembers, in all these afflictions, 
 thing for dress, without one thought of the “wet day” that might) ‘that, ‘whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.’ 
 
 come to them. Most wretched is their condition, if protracted ill- «We have planned several excursions, picnics, and 80 on, which 
 ness is laid upon them. ‘are to come off as soon as you are able to attend to them. As for 
 ‘And there are those, who, in sickness, haye no such kind friends to my own sell, I can ‘do nothing at all, jist,” but ‘whirl round like @ 
 yainister to them, as Emma had, and who suffer from, neglect. Per- | cat in the smoke,’ as old Aunt Baily says, lam 80 strangely excited. 
 haps they incurred this neglect by an injudicious course in health ; I am writing at father’s table. He sits at my side, reading the last 
 put their sufferings are none the less acute for this. \\* Cultivator,’ and I have startled him several times, since I began, by 
 Mueh of this kind of afiliction might be averted by a little sacrifice ® loud and long ‘ha! ha!’ He looks up, smiles, soy® ‘Whata 
 on the part of home friends. Oae should not be left to chronic dis- || mad-cap you are, Kate !’ or something of that sort, and then goes to 
 ease or premature death, which might be prevented! by a {slight ‘reading again. Well, who wouldn’t Jaugh ? Laughing don’t satisfy 
 expenditure of time or monty. If she has no parents, brothers, or. jme. I want to jump up and clap my hands. I wonder what father 
 sisters, let an uncle, aunt, or cousin, taxe her to their] care. ig | Would think—I will. There—I feel better, and as for father, he has 
 she has none of these, let some old neighbor do this. He may le laughed himself out of the room. . ‘i f 
 poor, but he can give her a cordial welcome to his little home.||. 4st t0P this rhodomontade, or I shall miss the mail. er 
 With quiet, plain fare, and kind attentions, she may soon be restored at Cambridge yet; I wish he was here. ¥ our own Kate. 
 to health and happiness; and then, if the consciousness of havirg | It would be useless to attempt a description of Emma’s — 
 done a good-act is not a sufficient reward, she will cheerfully add a ‘on reading this letter ; they were so conflicting. Love for her friends 
 
 pecuniary recompense. at Boscawen, and pleasure at the prospect of seeing them s0 s0on— 
 nate : ‘dread of meeting her uncle’s family—of having her troubles all re~ 
 CHAPTER (XI. | newed in seeing her home so changed, and in visiting old haunts— 
 
 Enama became nervous and dejected. This she knew would re«|| attachment to her Lowell friends, and regrets at the thought of leav~ 
 tard her recovery, but she struggled in vain against it. Everything | ing them—all struggled for the mastery. She sat an hour, just hke 
 was dark to her. Ifshe turned to the past, she could onlyjlsee what |a statue. She then went to her room, and threw herself on her bed, 
 she had lost; if to the present, what she was suffering ; if ‘to the fi-|/in a state of complete exhaustion, physical aad meatal. Her efforts 
 
 ture, long and distressing illness—perhaps death. ‘to regain composure were at length pattially successful; and she 
 “tT know I do wrong to repine, but I cannot help it,”/saidishe ‘0 | went below to apprise Mrs. Wells of her intentions. Her calmness 
 Alice, as they lay locked in each other's arms. lsoon fled before this lady’s agitation, and when the bell called the 
 
 «Qh, that it were not so far to my mountainfhome. I would | girls to dinner, she went to her room, and left Mrs. Welis to inform 
 take you there; and how happy we might be among the birds and || them ef her plans. Every vestige of Mrs. Wells’ accustomed cheer- 
 flowers! , With a daily wagon or horseback drive, with¥pleasant | fulness had vanished, and the change was immediately observed by 
 rambles through fields, pastures, and woods, with the strawberries | her boarders. 
 which my little Agnes would pick for you, and the glass of new milk | ce What has happened, Mrs. Wells ?” asked Alice; ‘(is Emma”— 
 
 which mother would give you morning and night, I do’think you “She is no worse ; but she has just received a letter from Bosca- 
 would soon be well,” said Arabel Vincent, on the following;morn- ‘wen. Marshall is coming down to-morrow, ‘0 carry her home with 
 ing, as she and Alice supported Emma in her little walk. ‘him, and I believe that we shall never see her more.” 
 
 Emma thought of the Marshalls, and longed to nestle down with | She spoke with difficulty, and left the room a6 soon as she con- 
 them. But she dreaded seeing her home. She received a letter cluded. A simultaneous burst of emotion followed this announce~ 
 from Catharine soon after she was taken ill. ‘This was still unan-'| ment. Not a dry eye could have been found in the room, and some 
 swered. She dreaded informing her of her sickness ; for she knew | sobbed as if their hearts were breaking. “—) 
 there would follow solicitations, which she would find it hard to re- | To Dorcas and Alice this intelligence was particularly afflicting. 
 
 sist, and with which she would not wish to comply. But the letter | Emma filled the very penetralia in the heart of each; and a feeling 
 
 must be answered; and she sat down with writing materials before | of utter loneliness came over them, which they could neither over- 
 
 : her. ‘come nor conceal. They went ;mmediately to-Emma’s room. She 
 « A letter for you, Emma! Now you will be glac, won’t you?” ‘had been endeavoring to gain that composure which she knew she 
 
 said Charles Wells, as he entered the sitting-room. It was fro:n would need for the struggle before her ; but she burst into tears af 
 Catharine. She wrote as follows: | soon as she saw them, and they wept in each other’s arms. Others 
 
 “My dearest Emm2-—Now, my sweet friend, youare ours. Father |followed—some entered ; others just went te the door, and them 
 
 saw a gentleman last evening, who has just returned from Lowell, || turned to their own rooms to weep alone. And there wert, 
 
 ———— Ee mC CS 
 
THE NEW WORLD. Emma Hare. 
 hose emotion was chiefly sympathetic. They ehed a few || * Yes, I thank you, sir.” it 
 then ate hearty dinners, and returned to the mills, thinking = “* Will you allow this lady to rest herself by a walk in your garden, - 
 ernately of Emma, and of the twenty-four pieces of cloth they! sir ?” asked Mr. Marshall. / 
 / would get that week. But the majority of them were sincerely sor- , * Certainly, certainly—come in ;” and he walked round to opens 
 rowfal. She had been kind to thera when they were strangers, or| the gate, as they drove up and alighted. 
 sick, or troubled! She was a poor orphan, sick and afflicted, and || “ These flowers, even this very root of flowers, were once tended 
 they pitied or. | by one as youngand fair as yourself, lady. But she lies there, now.” — 
 But most of all they sorrowed lest they should see her face no|| ty. pointed, as he spoke, toa neat little enclosure contiguous to the 
 more. There was something solemn to all, in the thoaght that they _ garden, in which were several graves, shaded by locusts and willews.’ 
 might never look upon her face again, until the trials of life and of), Emma’s heart was instantly touched by his manner. He saw this 
 death had passed, and they met in eternity. | and continued. Ours was the happiest family in M., in my first 
 To those who loved her “as a sister,” this was 4 harrowing wife’sday. My Clara as happy was as the birds she loved so well. 
 reflection. Emma herself felt a sort of presentiment that she should, She sang from morning till night, and her voice waslike the sweetest 
 never return, founded upon the state of her health. Her symptoms) music to us. But, perhaps I skall tire you, madam.” 
 were certainly somewhat alarming, and they were daily becoming,, He drew his hand across bis eyes, and darted off a tear that trem- 
 more so. She had failed mxch in strength in the last few days; and. bled on a lid. 
 
 " when she took leave of her minister, her pupils in the Sabbath school,,, « Oh,no,no! Please to tell me more!” said Emma. ; 
 her overseers, and friends, it was with the conviction that it was a | “ My first wife died just four yearsago. In two years, I married 
 final one. ‘again. I must not speak of that wife—she lies there now, beside 
 
 The factory girl only knows what a factory girl suffers in such Clara. In three months, Clara left home for a Lowell factory ; and 
 circumstances. The school girl weeps when she leaves the eom- in six months more, she came home a sad, pale, sickly creature, just 
 panions with whom she has been pleasantly associated one or two. ready todrop into the grave. She livedthree months. I believe the 
 terms ; but her emotion has not the intenseness and permanency of factory killed her; and when I think of this, and the cause of 
 the factory girls. And the reason is sufficiently obvious. She leaves) her going there, in the bitterness of my heart, I exclaim—‘ Would to 
 home only for a few weeks. She is happy in the pursuit of her stu- God,I had died for thee, my daughter !’ ” 
 dies; or if she is not, she does not seek happiness so much in her,; The old man’s whole frame shook, and his tears fell upon the 
 school-mates, as in the thought of geing home so soon. She has, flowers he was gathering for Emma. Mr. Marshall turned away to 
 few toils, few difficulties, and therefere asks little sympathy, and) conceal his emotions ; but Emma wept without restraint. 
 wants little. I speak comparatively. And, so, few or none love | ‘* Was yeur daughter’s name Clara Roberts ?” asked Emma at 
 her on the principle so finelg developed by Miss Sedgwick, in her |length. 
 
 “* Home ”— i «* Yes—did you know her then? What did you know of her ?”” 
 “We love every creature to whom we are kind.” | inquired the old man, grasping her hand. 
 
 But the mill is the mill-girl’s home. She stays a year—perhaps  “‘ Only that she was patient as a lamb in her sickness—that she 
 two years, and perhaps ten. And when she leaves finally, she may loved you, sir; and was beloved and lamented by all who knew 
 be going to a pleasant home, to as kind parents, brothers, and sis- her.” 
 ters as ever blessed mortal ; but she feels in her heart that she would) She had not known her until her sickness. Thea she watched by 
 rather stay just where she is, with just those friends forever. Her, her ; and learned from her moaxings in hersleep, that she left home 
 minister, her friends in the church, mills, and boarding-house, all on account of an unkind, designing mother-in-law. 
 say, “ We cannot do. without you ;” and she feels that she cannot —-'Th®y spent anhour with the good old gentleman ; visited his fruit- 
 do without them. True, this is not a universal feeling, but it is €X- | trees, the little cemetery, and a bridal rose-bush in full bloom, which 
 aes to i who act well their parts as operatives, boarders, and Clara brought from Lowell. 
 cow co hare il Emma, we will all be your sisters,’ said an 3 Woe late 08 the pecoud day, when they reached Mr. Marshall's. 
 affectionate young girl, on the-wight after Emma left, as am male net aN ge aes rile arith temo a air ait 
 up to Dorcas and Alice, and flung an arm round each and kissed| oi eas pes ecg or pawn ees = tla eget 
 
 : _ Mrs. Marshall met her with a mother’s tenderness. Catherine was 
 them. pare : : : 
 
 “« Do not say anything kind to me,” said Alice ipelking widens wild with delight. She cried and laughed, by turns, as she saw how 
 effort to eonceal sieiions which il aapent fide infectious. There. Bele ee ee ee ee ye fg meta oe a chins 
 waza cilenes of some ininutes, which was hick iid + Aaa would “ make her well.” Ervin told her of his English rabbits, his 
 
 : ee lees ae ee ee “€P incaged squirrel, and his little doves, that she must see as soon as it 
 sigh from Dereas. : : are ‘ 
 was morning ; and little Lavinia sat onan ottoman close by her side, 
 
 s , } , +E } . 
 : sa! don tthink, myself, that Emma has many years, or even months, | held her hand, and kept her eyes constantly on her face, until she 
 or this world. Ihave seea those who seemed ripe fer Heaven, tetired’to.her room 
 
 while yet very young ; and they are gathered there, as naturally as oe nee 
 the grain in harvest to store-houses. I believe Emma is one of this || CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 number.” 
 gid Dr. Pierce called before breakfast, on the following morning. He 
 
 hey: iene hg Ps tones were as solemn as the grave ; and, height. was shocked at the alteration in her appearance. By a powerful and 
 as their ellect was by the gloom of a late twilight hour, they|| ang most benevolent effort, he always talked the fastest, and appeared 
 
 Sent a thrill of apprehension io every heart. most at ease, when most apprehensive; for he knew the effect the 
 PP | least appearance of alarm in the physician has upon the weak nerves 
 CHAPTER XIII. of the invalid. 
 
 As Emma proceeded upon her journey, she found the sadness, ‘* Don’t you lace, Emma 2” said he. 
 caused by the recent parting; gradually yielding to Mr. Marshall's - Emma smiled, and shook her lead in reply. He pretended not to 
 efforts to divert her. They alighted at a parterre, and gathered be convinced, however, until he had encircled her waist with the 
 Strawberries ; at the plains of L , and B., and gathered wild flowers, biggest, ugliest rope he could fiad, to ascertain how far it would 
 for Emma’s and Catherine’s herbariums. In the pretty villages of expand by forced expiration. Then he said, as he tried her pulse— 
 Nashua, Manchester and Concord, they spent several hours ; visited “Well, you don’t lace; and there is another thing you don’t do. 
 the beautiful cemeteries of the two former places, and the legisla- | You don’t get exercise enough. Sluggish pulse, hands as cold as 
 ture, then in Session, in the latter. In the town of M., they came up, lead—this will neverdo. You may walk all of the time about your 
 eames garden, mar» SrEnckyas farm-heuse, in which an | work in the mill ; but there isno exercise about it, for body or mind 
 Petey be “so was at _ » training flowers. Mr. Marshall either. Factory girls are mistakenin this. They are careful to keep 
 What “Tie ea de AE their windows open, they work, and then they tell about their 
 Sika exe bie “ ip - Said Emma, as the gentleman (air and exercise. Why, five minutes walk after breakfast, in open 
 “ae stey ro \jair, would be worth more than all the exercise they can get in the 
 + Vesusineds a = — - Mr. Masha. son in a week. They want something that will set the blood to 
 Would you like a flower sa ey Pe ii i ween ‘galloping through their veins ; and if Thad the power, I would set 
 Bitenid’ 7 my young trend?” he added, turning to||every factory girl to walk, morning and noon, rain or shine, warm 
 | or cold, every moment she could spare from her meals. Instead of 
 
ir 
 
 ae 
 
 > 
 
 as 
 
 i 
 
 _ sbadly ventilated apartment—sometimes six, 
 
 -Eyoa Hate. 
 
 this, they eat, some of them, as if upon a wager ; swallow their food 
 before it ishalf masticated ; and then hurry to the mills to cleau their} 
 machinery or put their work in order. At least, this is what the| 
 werseers of Lowell tell me. They cannot board far from the mill ;) 
 would hinder them so much. Nonsense! ’Tis a pity they are not, 
 “obliged, all of them, to walk one half of a mile, ora mile, sinec a) 
 sproper regard for their health will not induce them to take time for! 
 “ And I don’t like this practice of stowing so many into one little | 
 and sometimes more, for| 
 aught I know—in a room that contains none too much air for healthy | 
 respiration of one! ’Tis horrid to think of it. Their beds are so near 
 the windows—ten to one—that they cannot have them cpen without) 
 the greatest danger of taking colds; and there they lie, for hours, | 
 breathing the same air that has been already breathed a hundred) 
 times; aad that is scarcely fitter for respiration than pure carbonie 
 
 acid gas. I don’t know who is to blame for this—whether ’tis the || 
 
 girls, the keepers of the boarding-houses, superintendents, agents or 
 proprietors; and I don’t care. 
 manity calls loudly for its removal. 
 “The girlslook healthier at Newburyport than at any other manu-| 
 facturing place I have ever visited; and I think it is owing to the 
 
 superiority of their boarding system. They have but one boarding- 
 
 house—that is one large house purposely for factory girls, if I recol- 
 
 « fect right. So the girla board at home, or with brother or sister, or 
 distant relative or friend, in small families—many of them walking 
 one half ofa mile. This is as it should be, ifindeed the system is 
 practicable in places so large as Lowell. 
 
 ‘* But I suppose I have lectured long enough. Emma, I am going 
 up this morning to see to my farm, four miles from here—you know 
 where it is, and what a pleasant drive it is. I have a new nonde- 
 script sort of carriage, somewhere between @ wagon and a cart. 
 You have seen it, and laughed at ita hundred times, Kate. Well, 
 
 Emma, I will take this, with my wife on the seat with me. Then I)! 
 
 shall put in a board for a seat, fixed in just such a way that it will 
 require all the skill of its occupaats to retain their seats. 
 be for you and Captain Bakex’s wife; she is just about as spleeny as 
 youare. 
 
 «‘T shan’t give you much medicine. Catharine you may administer} 
 a. cold shower bath every morning atfour. Your breakfast bell rings’ 
 at seven, Mrs. Marshall. Well, Emma, you will have time to put 
 yourself and your room in order before that time. After breakfast 
 you may take a horseback, cart, or wagon drive ; go to work in the 
 
 garden, or make a round of calls, as you please. Next week you! 
 may rake hay awhile every forenoon. I like a good old rule of our} 
 fathers’ — 
 
 ‘ After dinner, sit a while, 
 After supper, walk a mile ! 
 <«‘T must not task you too far; after dinner you may even sleep al 
 while. Kate and Sarah have walks enough planned to occupy you| 
 after tea these two months. “Tis seven; and my wife waits. I will) 
 call for you at ten, Emma.” 
 Catharine asked permission to accompany them ; and obtained on| 
 eondition that she would sit on the bottom, or side of the carriage. 
 
 ‘Mamma, I want to ptt on a clean frock this morning ;” said 
 Attelia Lang ; ‘for just see how Carlo dirtied this one with his feer, 
 and you know you promised me that I should carry this bunch of | 
 flowers to Emma, this morning, when I went to school. Seeif they 
 ain’tpretty, mamma. I got this sprig of chamomile, because its sen-| 
 timent is so good forEmma. “Tis ‘ bloom in sctrow, energy to act 
 in adversity, you know. This mignonette is ‘moral and intellec-| 
 tual beauty’ and see! I have got a poppy- One don’t like a poppy, 
 very well, unless they know its language. Emma does, for she taught | 
 it tame. Itis‘Consolation. Let the darkness of the past be forgot-| 
 ten inthe lightof hope.’ The roses, pinks, petunias, and columbines, 
 are all beautiful in sentimeat and everything. ‘How glad Emma! 
 will be—she is so fond of flowers.”’ 
 
 << Ma, please let me go early this morning,”? said Frank Pierce. 
 
 97 
 
 ‘YT want to carry this piece of schorle to Emma. I remember we | : ; 
 | ened in New England, the gentlemen take their daughters, and their 
 
 looked, but couldn’t find any befere she went away.” 
 “ And, ma, let me tarry my doll to her. 
 
 may,” said little Margaret. 
 
 | 
 
 _ “Tsay, mother, I want my shoes and stockings on this morning 
 before I goto school. All the boys and girls are going to see 
 
 THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 ‘its preservation. || 
 
 There is blame somewhere, and hu-|| 
 
 This will |. 
 
 | said the kind and busy Mrs. Cuttis. 
 
 ' required, or the impulse seized him. 
 
 evident that he liked his cart-rides best, 
 
 Tll div it to her if ]) daughters’ visiters to the field to m 
 
 ‘'classes and medioerists, 
 
 _——— aT 
 
 21 
 
 “‘T shan’t stop,” said his mother, who was pouring her s+cond pot 
 of cream into a mammoth churn. “It is Friday, and! have got to 
 
 || churn, iron, and bake to day, and lots of mending to do. “L~ill 
 
 ,take me all day to-morrow to do my business. I wish the factories 
 -were all burnt down, then Susa would be obliged to stay at home 
 and help me. John, let them peas alone ; you are scattering them 
 vall over the floor.” 
 
 “You told me to shell them, I guess,” 
 
 “I don’t care if I did. I tell you now to let them alone. Here, 
 Mary, take. the broom and sweep. I should be ashamed enough if 
 |anybody was to call.” 
 
 ‘© T don’t blame Susa for going to the factory, youscold so. I'd go 
 ‘if I was a girl,” said Johan. 
 | Mrs. Hanson caught her rod, but John evaded its app lication by 
 leaping from the house. 
 | A pale, sickly-looking girl came ap from the cellar with a large 
 pan full of milk. She set it down with others, and then herself in @ 
 ‘chair almost breathless with fatigue. 
 | ‘* Mother, I wouldn’t keep so many cows, and be obliged to work 
 so hard,” said she. ‘ Poor father killed himself working so hard on 
 the land, and we shall kill ourselves working in the house. [can’t 
 bear this pain in my sides much longer. 
 «Why, child, what can we do? We only make a living now. [ 
 ‘must make butter and cheese to sell, to buy my necessaries with. 
 You must have a new cloak next fall, and I»am sure I must have @ 
 winter dress. Then there must be a web of sheeting and a new sel, 
 lif Lean possibly get it, with the cloth we sell; and’”—— 
 | «© But, mother, let Mary and [ go to the factory with Susan. She 
 says she can gét good places for us there, where we shall not be 
 ‘obliged to work so hard, and where we can make more. Then you 
 ‘can make less butter, cheese and cloth. You will have a small family 
 ‘and can sell produce. And, mother, I must have time and money to 
 goto school. I cannot grow up so ignorant.” 
 | She rose in her earnestness, and stood close by her mother’s side, 
 
 | 
 
 _with her tearful eyes fixed on her face. 
 
 «* Hannah, how much you de look like your father ! Well, I don’t 
 know about it--I’ll think of it, and perhaps--I guess——your father 
 ‘did kill himself with hard work, I think, and you look terrible pale 
 ‘this morning, Hannah. I guess we will plan it some way so that we 
 can all have an easier time of it. Here, Sam, you may come and 
 _put your shoes on, if you want to call at Squire ai, 2 You 
 ask Mrs. Marshall if she will lend me her largest cheese hoop. Mine 
 Mary, set down your broom a minute, and run 
 
 gave out yesterday. 
 get some rennet for this cheese, and you may 
 
 to the cow-house and 
 get some tansy too.” 
 
 ‘TI must cll and see Emma this morning, much as we haye to do,’”” 
 ‘‘ Sarah Pierce says ske looks 
 ‘more like her mother than ever, now she is out of health. Little 
 ‘did her mother think what the poor child had got to endure ! I shall 
 always love her for her mother’s sake, if for nothing else.” 
 So Emma’s room was thronged from the time the pupils came ev 
 ‘masse, till the doctor drove up to the door to carry her out. 
 
 To render his equipage as uncque as possible, the doctor put his 
 farm harness upon his horses, aud filled the back part of his cart 
 with scythes, rakes, and other implements of haying and reaping. 
 Had any one accused the worthy gentlemen of vanity in this, he 
 ‘would have repelled the charge most certainly. But was he not 
 vain? He was a man of sound learaing and judgment, of wealth and 
 benevolence of heart. By these his reputation was established. He 
 had no need of fine clothes, polite bows, smart speeches, or splendid 
 equipage, to secure for him respect and patronage. Of this he was 
 proudly conscious ; so he went witli a hole in his coat sleeve, and in 
 the summer, in tow pants. He wore a slouched palm-leaf hat, or 2 
 tarpaulin, sheep-skin slippers, or cowhide boots, just as the weather 
 He took his family to ride in @ 
 It was immaterial to him, he said, but it was very 
 
 buggy or cart. 
 He was just one of that 
 
 sort of men which draws from a Marryatt something like this: 
 ‘‘Tn the village of , one of the pleasantest and most enlight- 
 
 , or rake hay, as the case may 
 ‘be; to the barn to husk corn, or look at the pigs, and carry them ¢o 
 ride in horse-carts. This is practiced not only among the lower 
 hut among the elite of the village—the pro- 
 
 “Emma Hale, and I want to show her this half-dollar that uncle}, fessionals.” 
 
 Joe give me,” shouted a sturdy little fellow, whom his mother and 
 everybody else called Sam. 
 
 sd 
 
 The doctor’s motives in the present instance, were a kind cesire 
 ‘to amuse Emma and his pession for oddity ; his purpose was to ap- 
 
* THE NEW 
 
 - 
 
 WORLD. 
 
 pear as ludicrous as possible. He was partially defeated in the| 
 
 atter. 
 While he was examining Mr. Marshalls grapes, and Emma ex- 
 changing civilities with some young friends who had just come up 
 to the door, Catharine beckoned to two or three others as wild as 
 herself, and they ranto the yard. They returned ina few minutes 
 ith branches of elm, spruce, larch, asparagus, and rose, and with 
 these hung the whole exterior of the cart, the farming implements, 
 and much of the harness. 
 
 the doctor, extending his hand to assist her in mounting. 
 
 How wildly did Emma’s heart beat! There was the brother of 
 her sainted father, and she had been told that he strongly resembled 
 her father in form and feature. She longed to fly to his arms; but 
 
 er heart sickened at recollections of his injustice to her, and with 
 a deep sigh she answered the “good morning” of her light-hearted 
 friends. 
 
 Eveline was leaning on the arm of a tall, noble looking young 
 man, a stranger. The doctor bowed coldly to the party, when they 
 met, but his salutation was unnoticed, except by the stranger, for 
 their eyes were riveted on Emma’s face. 
 
 “That is their son, I suppose; I heard that they expected him last 
 evening,” said the doctor. 
 
 “Emma, how much he looks like you! Did you look at him? 
 Was that what made him blush so finely ? or, think you, it was that 
 he might look just as pretty as he could any way? Why, how pale 
 youare! Are you faint, dear Emma2” 
 
 “Not much; but I hope I shall not meet them again while I am 
 at Boscawen.” 
 
 “You must, unavoidably, meet them often,” said the doctor. 
 ** You must nerve yourself for this, at first. Let there be no shrink- 
 ing, Emma, and you will soon learn to meet them with indifference.”| 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 **So that is the beauty of Boscawen !” said Eveline, with a sneer. | 
 
 “* Which one? the lady in black: can this be—can this be Esq. 
 Mershall’s visiter 2” inquired Mr. Hale. 
 
 “*Yes, Isuppoze so. Did you think her pretty, Henry 2?” 
 
 ““Yes, very beautiful; but how pale! Who was that healthy, 
 happy looking creature at her feet? She is deautiful.” 
 
 ‘She is Esq. Marshall’s daughter—one of the greatest hoydens in 
 Christendom. For my part, I have no patience with those fiery | 
 red complexions ; they make their owners look so much like ‘bux- 
 om, bonnie, sousie”’ Irish lasses.” 
 
 “Then I think her companio,’s may suit you. She looks sufii- 
 ciently delicate, certainly.” 
 
 ‘And I suppose she set you to thinking about lilies 
 and all such romantie things. 
 don’t she to you, mother ?” 
 
 “Yes, extremely so; I have no patience.” 
 
 “‘And there was such an unpardonable di 
 delicacy in the way she mounted the cart—fo 
 brother—and she reclined on her seat so languis 
 as if she had been queen of the United States 
 Oh dear, father! I do wish you Wo 
 aad move somewhere—to the w 
 where.” 
 
 “You forget Edward Marsh 
 ** You know he finishes h 
 knew 2 
 
 “Yes; andI su 
 ill at this time.» 
 
 Henry started at the name of Emma: ‘ 
 This pale girl was not our cousin, was she ?” 
 
 “Well, I suppose it was the very 
 mistake,’ as tolks here say. But 
 youso, Henry >?” 
 
 *“* Why then did you write meé—wh 
 that you knew nothing about my cousin? that she went o 
 where, you knew nothing about where? Oh father, moth 
 line, how could you deceive me so?” ; : 
 
 “ ; al 
 
 La! do you think we are going to spend our time and thoughts 
 
 in writing and talking about yell fae ix]? ; 
 Eveline. g a Lowell factory girl?” exclaimed | 
 
 Her parents were gl.d that her 
 of answering on their part. The 
 the reproying, Sorrowful looks of 
 
 , bridal roses, 
 But she looks effeminate to me; 
 
 splay of affectation of | 
 hingly! *Twas just 
 on a golden throne, | 
 uld sell or give this farm away, | 
 est, or anywhere, I don’t care | 
 
 all, my dear Eva,” said her mother. 
 is studies in just three months ; then ‘you| 
 
 ppose Emma knew, too, and so managed to grow 
 
 Emma! what Emma? 
 
 identical Emma Hale, ‘and no 
 What if it was? What excites || 
 evening || 
 ff some- 
 
 er, Eve. | 
 
 y did yon tell me last 
 
 ready reply preeluded the necessity | 
 
 y both averted their faces to ayoid 
 their son, ‘ 
 
 “‘ There are your uncle, aunt, and cousin coming, Emma,” said||and Emma wasstill the polar star of all his exertions. He at leng 
 
 it was a literal cart, || 
 
 | Eveline a hint ; 
 
 A conviction of the whole truth rushed upon Henry at once. 
 |cousin had been driven from her home to toil in a factory ; and 1 
 health, it might be, her life, would fall @ Sacrifice. The thought o 
 this, and of the deception of his family, nearly overpowered him. — 
 
 As soon as Henry amassed a sufficient sum, he wrote to his family 
 to ascertain the situation of his cousin, that he might transmit funds 
 toher. He wrote repeatedly, and the answer invariably came, 
 ‘they knew nothing about her. Week after week, and month aft er 
 month passed away without any intelligence; and he still teiled on, 
 
 determined on going to Boscawen, as soon as he gained a sufficient 
 sum to defray the expenses of his journey, and provide for his cousin, 
 To this end, he redoubled his exertions. He made several invest. 
 ments with his employers, which proved exceedingly lucky, and 
 when he left New Orleans for Boseawen, he took with him a pret 
 little fortune. ? 
 The simultaneous arrival of Henry and Emma, gave the Hales no 
 little uneasiness. After a mutual consultation, they resolved to pre- 
 vent an interview between them, and all knowledge, on Henry’s part, 
 of her being at Boscawen, by leaving town immediately, under pre- 
 tence of visiting friends in different parts of Vermont. The next 
 day was fixed upon for their departure. Henry suspected some sin- 
 ister design in this, and determining to ascertain Emma’s residenee, 
 he took his hat for the purpose of walking out, that he might find | 
 some one who could satisfy him. His family seemed to suspect his — 
 designs; and, although they had just instructed the maid not te 
 admit visiters, if any came, on account of their hurry of prepare- 
 tion, they proposed accompanying him. As we have already seen, 
 Eveline defeated their purpose. They had discussed Emma very ' 
 freely in his presence, but it was as “that lady,” or ‘Esq. Mar- | 
 shall’s visiter.” ‘ | 
 Henry remonstrated against leaving home so soon, to no purpose.’ 
 | Every arrangement had been made to this end. 
 “And so you must defer paying your civilities to the factory girl 
 
 until after our return,” said Eveline, with a bitter laugh. 
 
 Henry turned away in undisguised eontempt, and left the room. 
 
 “You had better follow him, Mr. Hale,” said his wife. ‘He 
 seems bewitched about this girl, and will manage to see her after 
 her return from her ride, if possible, I am convinced.” 
 
 ““Yes, father, take him to posting books that are alread 
 to looking over old accounts, or any such a thing.” 
 
 “Take him all over the farm, explain all improvements, made and 
 planned, and ask his advice about them, if you de not want vs 
 said Mrs. Hale. 
 
 ‘He won’t be compelled to give up his whims,” replied Mr. Hale. 
 | “So we can only turn him from them, by holding up some ether 
 rattle. I will take him to my study now. After dinner, you must. 
 amuse him two or three hours with your plants, paintings, drawing: 
 jand music, Eveline. Then I will manage him, till ’tis too late to 
 make a call. Wefwill be ready for an early start to-morow.” 
 
 y posted, 
 
 - 
 
 | It was night, and Henry had been held in “ durance vile” all day. 
 “Now, Henry, Eveline will amuse you in the sitting room, while I 
 go out togive my men some instructions.” 
 
 ‘‘No, sir,” said Henry, turning from a window where he 
 been standing some minutes in silence 3 “IT want a solitary walk.” 
 “Eveline will be glad to accompany you.” o 
 “No, sir, it is not necessary. I prefer being alone,” answered 
 Henry, as he left the roem. 
 
 He walked toward Esq. Marshall’s, as Mr. 
 
 Hale saw. He gave 
 she caught her bonnet and followed him. 
 
 A Ha, Henry!” she exclaimed, as she came up with him and took. 
 his. arm. She laughed at his evident vexation. « And so, my 
 Quixote, you were for stealing a march on us, and when I had 
 been Waiting impatiently, an hour for father to release you, that F 
 might have a compagnon in a ramble. Don’t your conscience con- 
 demn you?” . 
 
 Her sickly attempt at playfulness was lost upon her brother. He 
 
 saw through it all, and would have shaken her from him in utter 
 disgust, but that she was his sister, He felt a pity for her, and a 
 Sorrow tor her frailties, which ensured for her that forbearance to 
 which her worth gave her no claims. He sighed heavily, and — 
 walked on in silence, until they reached Esq. Marshall’s, . 
 
 “6g : . Fs a : * j 
 ; oe one is sick here,” said Eveline. “Dr. Pierce is at the - 
 window, and Dr. Chamberlain’s Carriage is at the door.” 
 
 Henry thought fof Emma, of her pate de 
 : : I . athly countenance, and 
 a faintness seized him, which ciepiie Ge zcame "ap o 
 
 : \| tinued Eveline. 
 
 ce by a . ® ¥ 
 here is Mrs. Smith Coming out. Fil ask her about it,” , 
 
 con~ 
 “Mrs. Smith, who is sick at Esq. Marshall’s 1? ae 
 
THE NEW 
 
 WORLD. 23 
 
 The poor, dear Emma. The factory has killed her. Oh, if| 
 u could see her as she lays there, as beautiful as an angel, but | 
 pale, cold, and still almost as death, your very heart would ache! 
 for her. Her room is fall of neighbors; they are weeping and) 
 alking about ; poor Catharine is hanging over her, and crying as | 
 her heart would break ; the doctors are bathing her temples with | 
 her, and letting blood; but she knows nothing about it.” 
 " Mrs. Smith’s own emotions prevented her observing Heary’s until | 
 is sister spoke. | 
 «Why, Henry, how you shake! Are you sick?” said she.’ 
 oy could net answer. | 
 You are very pale, sir. Here is my house; will you walk in?” 
 $aMe Sui eet ae | 
 He could only bow an assent. He entered—threw himself on a 
 eat, exhausted by his emotions. Eveline was excessively fright-, 
 
 her and mother were here. Let us go home now: 
 k, Henry? Mrs. Smith, what is the matter with Emma 
 
 _ She has a fit, a terrible one, of some kind, I suppose. 
 taken very suddenly about an hour ago. 
 what they think of her ; but we all know what to infer from their) 
 Jooksand manner. There will bea happy, happy meeting in hea. 
 _ ven this night; but, oh, how w | 
 dreadful. Poor, poor girl! she looks just as her mother 
 hour that she died. You will excuse me, I must go back.” 
 Henry started op. | 
 «s J shall accompany you, madam.” | 
 _ No, no, Henry! go home with me, first,” said Eveline, clingiag) 
 tohim. “Ican’t go alone. Oh! I wish I had not come.” | 
 ‘First call with me to see our cousin. 1 shall stop but a few | 
 moments.” 
 “‘T am glad you are going to call, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, as they, 
 crossed the street. “ Every body wi 
 mes was in to Mr. Marshall’s this afternoon, sir; 
 
 can’t you! 
 
 2? 
 
 oe 
 «© What is the matter, Henry? Are you sick, too? 
 a 
 
 | 
 She was) 
 The doctors don’t tell) 
 
 did the} 
 
 | 
 
 g and some one who, 
 _ Was in at the same time mentioned you, Mr. Hale, supposing that 
 you too had wronged her. Her eyes filled with tears, and she to 
 them you were kind aad good as a brother to her, and that she, res-| 
 pected and loved you as a brother.” face | 
 When they entered the sick room, those who were standing near | 
 the bed-side, with the exception of Dr. Pierce and Catharine, moved | 
 back, to give the cousins an opportunity to approach. As Mrs. 
 Smith said, she did lay there, -** as beautiful as an angel, but as pale, 
 cold, and still as death.’ How harrowing to Henry was the con-| 
 viction that that was the work of his father! It was too much for, 
 his sensitive nature. A convulsive shudder ran through his frame, ) 
 the color left his face, a faintnesscame over him, and he would have, 
 fallen had he not been supported to the sofa. 
 “Poor young ran!” said Dr. Pierce to Mr. Marshall. ‘‘ He feels’ 
 as I should feel in his place, and I respect and love him for it.” 
 He was relieved, at last, by a flood of tears. | 
 __ Eveline was distressed, partly in remorse and partly in apprehen-| 
 sion of something dreadful, she scarcely knew what. 
 Henry, and as soon as he was sufficiently composed, begged him to | 
 aecompany her home. | 
 
 | 
 mores | 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 | 
 Mr. anp Mrs. Hae were siocked when they heard 
 -of Emma. 
 effect could not stifle, accused them of being accessary to her sufter- 
 ings, and most willingly would Mr. Hale have exchanged his present | 
 affluence for beggary, even if he might thereby secure the peace of 
 conscious integrity. 
 “TI can’t sleep,” said he, starting up before it was yet light. “1 
 can no more sleep, than if my pillow were of thorns.” 
 “You have been groaning and talking of horrible things in your) 
 sleep,” said Eveline, crying ; “ and Henry walking his floor all night, 
 T believe.” i | 
 “7 slept a few moments, at intervals, just long enough to dream| 
 of my brother, or of Emma’s dying before me, accusing me of | 
 injustice. I am going out to find some one of whom I can inquire! 
 about her.” SED actey | 
 Oh, father ! do wait until it is a little lighter. The lamp burns <0 | 
 dim, and it isso gloomy here! Henry has gone,I suppose. 1 heard | 
 him go out a short time since.” | 
 Eveline was too nervous and timid to rest in her own apartment, | 
 after what she had seen and felt, and accordingly a sofa was placed | 
 in her mother’s room for her. 
 ‘Oh, mother! if Emmi does die now, I never can forgive myself, 
 erat I have said and done,” said Eveline, after her father left the! 
 ae talk about that, child; ’tis of no use. 
 ie t would be of some use to me, if I could 
 forgives us all. I have tought 
 have seen her as I saw her, so mild, innocent, and death-like, 
 would feel asI do. Iecare nothing about Edward Marshall, this! 
 place, fine clothes, or aaything. If I can see her well, *tis all J) 
 Ta Mrs Smith sai¢, ‘The factory has killed her.” Oh, how this 
 as Tung in my ears!” 
 “La, you are = thin 
 ices ea a ae Gli aa Fer my part, I shall thin 
 
 the situation | 
 
 ” 
 
 hear her say that she 
 
 k rothiag 
 
 Oh, I wish|| 
 
 e should feel! to see her die so—’tis || 
 
 | afflictions. 
 
 il think the better of you for it. | 
 
 1d || 
 
 She clung to ' 
 
 Their consciences, ia a voice that all their efforts to that |! 
 
 ‘\as he stood there and gazed upon hi 
 
 || Henry. 
 
 {| 
 1} 
 fi 
 
 about her ail night; and if you could || 
 you), 
 
 _ ** This is pretty much what I said to Henry when we were com- 
 ing home last night. ‘Sister,’ said he, ‘be careful what feelings 
 you cherish toward one who has never injured you: one whose 
 | pure spirit will soon pass to the Father of the fatherless, and whose 
 \bedy will lie there.” He looked up to Heaven, and then pointed to 
 the cemetery as he spoke, and his voice was so solema, it seemed to 
 come from another world.” 
 | Mrs. Hale was not unaffected, but she determined on struggling 
 sturdily against emotions so new and annoying. What was Emma 
 toher? A niece, twas true, but a stranger; and one who had no 
 claims upon her on any ground. Whatif she had slandered her? 
 Twas nothing more than she did by others, and others by her ; and 
 ‘ail would die some day. How callous does the heart become under 
 a long indulgence cf selfishness! How difficult to recall benevolent 
 ‘feelings which have been banished from it for years! 
 | Mr. Hale found no lulling influences in objects around him. There 
 was the common where he and his brother had played in boyhoed, 
 and where his brother had so many times warded off the chastise- 
 ‘ment, he weuld otherwise have incurred from his companions, by 
 | his ill-natured wrongs. There, beneath the old elm, was the seat 
 where they had sat, and where he had so often been assisted by his 
 brother. in construing the leng and difficult lesson which, in his love 
 of play, or idleness, had been neglected ; and here the mound under 
 which that brother lay in death! He felt as if his spirit were hover- 
 \ing about the place, a witness to his guilt, and Emma’s consequent 
 He endeavored to shake off their impressions as the 
 effects of excitement and loss of sleep; but still they clung to him. 
 
 When he reached Mr. Marshall’s, he had seen no one of whom he 
 could inquire with regard to Emma. Mr. Marshall was in the yard, 
 ‘leaning against a tree with his arms folded upon his bosom. He 
 ‘looked thoughtful and sad. He did not observe Mr. Hale, and he 
 ‘made several attempts to inquire, but dread of hearing the answer 
 | deterred him. 
 “« How—how is your family, this morning, Esq. Marshall 2)’ said 
 ihe, at last. 
 «All well, sir, but Emma. She has been in a deep and quiet 
 sleep near two hours. From this we expect important results, but 
 eannot tell what they may be.” 
 | ‘Can I see her?” 
 | Your son has been there an hour. 
 _ Emma still slept. Catharine stood 
 side, holding a hand that rested on the bed-clothes. The noise made 
 by the entrance of Mr. Marshall and her uncle, awoke her. The 
 ‘eurtains concealed them from her; but she looked at her cousin, 
 and then at Catharine. Catharine saw that there was a great 
 ‘change ; she hoped a favorable one, until she recollected how inter- 
 vals of strength and consciousness often occur immediately before 
 ‘death. Emma extended her other hand to her. 
 | & My cousin—dear Catharine, what has happened ?” 
 «You have been very illa few hours, my sweet Emma ; but we 
 hope you are better now,” said Catharine, tenderly kissing her 
 cheek, on which a tear fell. 
 
 fenry did not speak, but he pressed her hand-in both his. He 
 
 felt that she was to be spared to him; but the transition from des- 
 ‘pair to the most lively hope, was so sudden that he felt as if under 
 the influence of a happy illusion, and he scarcely dared breathe 
 ‘lestit might be broken. A smile of perfect peace settled upon the 
 face of Emma, as her eyes rested alternately on Henry and Catha- 
 ‘rine. She still retained their hands, her eyes closed, and she was 
 again ina calm sleep. 
 
 Catharine was alarmed, and beckoned her father to the bedside. 
 Mr. Hale followed, and not the wealth of the Indies could. have 
 ‘atoned to the unhappy man for what he suffered im one half hour, 
 sneice. She opened her eyes 
 runcle. He instantly retreated, but not 
 She burst into a flood of tears, and it 
 that the emotions which shook her 
 The doctor entered at this moment. 
 and comprehended all at a 
 
 Yes, sir, you may walk in.” 
 ather head ; Henry was at her 
 
 again, and they fell upon he 
 ‘until he was recognized. 
 seemed to Catharine and Henry 
 ‘fragile frame, must destroy her. 
 ‘He looked at Emma, around the room, 
 | glance. 
 |” ceThis will never do,” exclaimed he. “ e 
 ‘perfectly calm. Emma, how do you do this morming, my dear 
 lhe continued, as he walked up to her and took her hand. “ Oh, 
 you are better, vastly better; but, my child, you must be careful. 
 Your uncle and cousin must leave you, and ina few days you shall 
 | return their call.” 
 Mr. Hale was leaving the roo 
 “and her eyes were fixed on him with such an expre 
 ‘tenderness, that he could not resist the impulse w 
 lherside. She extended her hand'to him. He pre 
 ‘and then hurried from the room, followed by Mr. 
 
 «Emma must be kept 
 29> 
 
 m. He turned to look at his niece, 
 ssion oi mournful 
 hich took bim te 
 ssed it in silences 
 Marshall and 
 
 e are to delineate. 
 
 tis the lights and shadows of factory life w 
 rt new sphere. 
 
 long with Emma in her 
 
 CHAFTER XVII. 
 <‘ How everything werks for good to US, and how happy we all are 
 \since we—since Emma’recovered!” said Eveline to her brother, as 
 lshe threw off her bonnet, after a twilight ramble with Emma, 
 
 Edward, Catharine, and other young friends. 
 Three moaths had passed away since the ev 
 | preceding chapter, and great changes have been wre 
 
 But’ 
 | ence we may notlinzer 
 
 ents recorded in the 
 ught in the little 
 
24 THE NEW 
 
 WORLD. - Heten Govip~ 
 
 community at Boscawen. é 
 restored. Edward had returned from Cambridge, “with his blash- | 
 ing honors thick upon him,” and had commenced his professional 
 duties in partnership with the good old Esq. Blake, one of the best 
 scholars and most talented attorney in the ceunty. But he was 
 now old, and he had for years been waiting for a young and vigorous 
 assistant ia the person of his favorite, Edward Marshall. 
 
 A beautiful English cottage was coming up on the pleasantest 
 part of Mr. Marshali’s farm; and all knew that this was for Edward! 
 
 Emma’s health was rapidly and perfectly | 
 
 **T never was so glad for anybody in my life, as I am for Emma,” | 
 said Mrs Smith to a little party gathered in her parlor. ‘She will) 
 be as happy as mortals can be; for she and Edward have always 
 loved each other.” , 
 
 “Yes; and all the Esquire’s folks are delighted; and, you—” 
 here the speaker lowered her voice—* they say Catharine is engaged 
 te Henry. He has bought Ladd and Freeman out, you know, and 
 "tis supposed he and Edward will be married at the same time.” 
 
 ** I could tell something that would prove this, if I pleased,” said 
 a third speaker. ‘*My husband has taken a job, and ’tis to build 
 a house just like Edward’s, just opposite, in Mr. Hale’s field. You 
 may guess what ’tis for; but, remember, I did not tell you.” 
 
 «I should think Mr. Hale’s folks would feel as if Providence was 
 rewarding them for their giving up Emma’s property to her, now 
 they have got nearly all they thought lost. 
 
 **Ishould think so too. How much better Mrs. Hale appears since 
 they got their property back; she was so ill-natured and passionate 
 before. Now she lives in good style, and has everything she wants, 
 sees a great deal of company, and this is just the kind of excitement 
 she wants to keep her in humor.” 
 
 _  Thave been thinking about that. I fear the poor woman knows | 
 little or nothing of the happiness religion gives; and so she is entirely | 
 dependent for her pleasures upon the things of this world, It is a! 
 pity her unhappiness, under her supposed misfortunes, did not lead 
 her to choose the better part, which can never be taken from her. 
 She will need this if she is rich. She cannot always live and enjoy 
 health, nor can her husband and children. And what’ can one do| 
 
 when they lose their best and dearest friends, without the comforts 
 of religion ?” | 
 
 | 
 
 “ They find little pleasure in the things of the world, Mrs. Smith, 
 at such times. Eveline appears to be really an altered girl since she 
 has become so intimate with Emma.” 
 
 “‘And TI rather think her brother’s partner has something to do! 
 with this; you know he is very pious. I saw them walking hand in | 
 hand in the garden last evening, with Edward and Emma, Henry || 
 aud Catharine. It is my opiniou they will all be married at the! 
 
 } 
 | 
 | 
 
 Same time.” } 
 And a fulfilment of these predictions has been wrought out. Em.-| 
 ma, to use the language of Mrs. Smith, is “as happy as mortals! 
 car be.” 
 **Come to me, dearest friend,” she wrote to Alice; ‘I long to| 
 show you my husband and my home. I do believe you will agree | 
 with me in this, that they are both all perfection. 
 
 ‘fT dare not trust myself to be so happy. It seems too much for 
 one lorg to enjoy in this world; and I often find myself dreading 
 that something may happen to Edward—that he may be ill, or taken 
 trom me by death. There is a world of suffering in the thought; 
 how then could I bear the reality? I pray my heavenly Father that! 
 I may need no more chastisements from his hand—that I make no 
 more idols only to ‘fiad them clay.’ 
 
 “* You ask me to describe Edward. You know my partiality, and 
 will not trust my portraiture, I fear. He is tall, and exquisitely gen- | 
 teel in form, and graceful in deportment, His forehead is the pret-| 
 tiest Lever saw—so fair, high, and full. His eyes—you must see 
 them te understand how they can be so beautiful. I don’t know, | 
 myself, what it is. Their color certainly is not uncommonly pretty; 
 but their expression is altogether different from any other eyes I ever! 
 saw. It goes to my heart with a thrill of delight that sometimes’ 
 becomes pain. His love and tenderness to me I will not describe. | 
 He is always doing or saying something to make me as happy as 1) 
 can be, and live. I am sometimes so aflected by his kindness that 1| 
 weep. He is coming now. He sees me, and quickens his step. I] 
 am just like a child; I always want to meet him in the yard, or at| 
 the door. Let me run. : 
 
 s There, dear Alice, Edward js gone. I met him in the hall; he! 
 caught me in his erms, and kissed me as if we had been parted days 
 instead of a few hours. ‘| 
 
 «ct = > Mi J AT 
 ‘He sends his warmest regards to you, and joins his entreaties || 
 
 be Se that he may have an early and a long visit from you. Do, | 
 ear Alice, come next week, and spend the remainder of the season! 
 
 with us. | 
 “ a ¥ > 
 
 a Remember me most affectionately to Mrs. Wells, Dorcas, Mr. 
 
 A i and others. I shall write to Mrs. W. and Dorcas next week. | 
 
 Till then, I am, as ever, theirs end yours. 
 
 A reply c f; ‘t “EmmMA MarsHaun.? | 
 d ame trom Alice, announcing that : 
 
 i tas rat In one mor , 
 
 be married to-Mr. Adams :-— § e month she would | 
 
 ae7y . 2 
 4 ee be married at my sister’s ; and it is decided that we stop | 
 oe scawen on our retura, and spend a few days with you. How) 
 me —_ Speak ae ' We ought to be the most grateful | 
 ‘ oeings; for our ferdest hones. onr i 8 1] 
 
 be even more than realized, ne Se Pea Mod 
 mi 
 
 ‘We are to reside at Lowell, at present, in the superintendent’s 
 house. Mr. Curtis has retired to his farm, in Springfield; and Mr. 
 Adams has been promoted to his place. 
 
 ** I have something to tell you of our friend Dorcas that will please 
 you; not because marriage is so pleasant, abstractedly considered, 
 but because ’tis so melancholy to be an orphan, destitute of home 
 and home friends, as you and I have been, and as Dorcas is now. 
 She went to her native town a few weeks since, to visit a distant 
 relative, and some old acquaintances there. Soon after her return, 
 she received a letter with an offer of marriage from a gentleman 
 there—a very worthy man, ’tis said—and she has accepted. Heisa 
 farmer ; and he will find in our friend a kind and faithful helpmeet. 
 She is constantly improving in mera! and intellectual graces; and is 
 as devoted as ever in her attachment to you and others. She sends: 
 much love to you, and will write to you soon.” 
 
 “Don’t you think, Emma,” said Catharine, as she seated herseHl 
 beside Emma to rest after a stroll, “don’t you think I am getting 
 metamorphosed into a sober, dignified matron, ‘ with musing eye 
 and even gait,’ I am so very graye ?” 
 
 ‘‘T think there is a great and a happy alteration in you, my dear 
 Catharine, since your engagement—especially since your marriage.” 
 
 ‘1 don’t feel at all as] used to. Iam happier than I ever was be- 
 fore—but so quiet and calmalways. Idon’t know whether to impute 
 this to my responsibilities as a wife and the mistress of a family, or to 
 the example of Henry. Eveline says, he andI have been exchanging . 
 habits, in part. Shesays Henry is as much more cheerful than he 
 used to be, as 1 am more serious than formerly. Be this as it may, 
 the change on my part is a fortunate one; for Henry, all stately as 
 he is, would be frightened to see me romp as I did one short year 
 2g0. He would love me just as well, he is so good and kind. But 
 he could not be so well satisfied with my character.” 
 
 Emma did not forget those frierds who had been so kind to her 
 in her adversity. She visited Mrs. Wells; and left valuable presents 
 in clothing and books, for herself and her children. She spent two- 
 days with Dorcas, on her way to the White Hills; aad found her 
 the happy wife of an intelligent, happy farmer. Her intercourse—- 
 
 | personal and epistolary—with Alice, continues to the present time. 
 
 We will now leave Emma. We do not know what lights may 
 hereafter play about her pathway, or what shadows may darken it; 
 but we hope, that, in all situations, she will be sustained by the same 
 
 || trust in Heaven, which soothed her darkest hour ; and that she will 
 
 ever be led by the same principles which have hitherto directed her. 
 
 HELEN GOULD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 “WHat could we do, when the loved hand that has cherished ug: 
 from infancy, relaxes its grasp on ours, and stiffens in death—when 
 the eye that has ever followed.us.in watchfulness, closes to its long 
 sleep, and the heart that loved us better than self, is fluttering to its 
 last rest—what could we do then; if we might not turn to Heaven ?? 
 said Helen Gould, as she took the offered arm of her cousin Maria. 
 “At such an hour, the heart turns loathingly from merely worldly 
 pleasures and casts itself at the feet of Jesus.” 
 
 ‘© And notin vain, my dear cousin, for it finds rest there ;” answered 
 Maria. 
 
 At the urgent and reiterated request of her cousin, Helen had at 
 last consented to leave her mother’s corpse, where she had long been 
 kneeling, and walk with her in the garden. When she lefi the 
 house, she felt a degree of strength and resignation which surprised 
 her, often as she had tested ‘‘ the worth of prayer.” 
 
 But they vanishod as soon as she entered the garden. There was 
 the summer house, where, in childhood, she had thrown herself on 
 the green turf at her mother’s feet, after a wild chase of a buterfly, or 
 frisk about the garden shrubbery with her kitten; and where her 
 mother had “kissed her finger to make it well,” when it had been 
 injured by the saucy thorns of her rose-tree. There, in the bright 
 morning hours of maturer years, they had sat when the perfume of a 
 thousand flowers filled the air, and the songs of a thousaxd birds. 
 floated on the ear. The one was no more joyous than the beund~ 
 
 ‘\ings of Helen’s spirits, and the other no sweeter than her dreams. 
 £ p ’ 
 
 And when the time came that afiliction threw her dark mantle: 
 about them, her heart never beat so lightly beneath its heavy folds,, 
 
 ;as when she had 
 
 ‘* Spent the hours of setting day 
 In humble, grateful prayer,” 
 in this little retreat, beside her mother. 
 
 All around her were the flowers her mother had planted. Now 
 she was laid low, pressed down by the cold hand of death; and, oh, 
 how Helen longed, in the wildness of her grief, to pillow her aching: 
 head with hers, to that sleep which knows no waking! “My God,. 
 have mercy! oh, have mercy!” she exclaimed, as she flung herself 
 on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. She wept there- 
 long, and as violently as a child. Maria sat down on the seat where. 
 she knelt; she laid her hand tenderly on her head; but she could not 
 ‘whisper peace, peace,” for she saw, and felt in her heart, that 
 “there was no peace” for the stricken girl. : 
 
 Esquire Gould, the father of Helen, began his public career under- 
 the most auspicious circumstances that fall to the lot of mortals. 
 
 o>, 
 
 i 
 
sceading in point of wealth, talent and influence. 
 
 light remained in the sitting-room ; and this was burning near an 
 
 Hexen, GovuLp. THE NEW 
 
 WORLD. 
 
 Wealthy, learned and taleated, beloved by alt for his sweetness of|| Day after day she deleceda ad orepialtas Ss = 
 
 disposition, he felt that he nee le j nl i 5 100 5 = 
 
 . Z Gea oO ty the love of the be autiful and \|chely isfe I Oo V I it h e€ cou d not wean t er in \ 
 
 a , - e Pay satisfaction fr Ww i t 10 y elt i 
 
 gifted Helen Bry ant, to make hir the happiest of men. He won) those spots in the ‘ean ; : : } ae shy d > 
 n use, yard and garaen, rendered peculiarly ea 
 
 this easily for himself; and on one of the loveliest evenings in June 
 of 1816, he led her to her new home, the stateliest in the town of L. | 
 
 Here, happy in the society of the accomplished, the good and the 
 gay, among whom she moved the brightest ; in the affection of the| 
 afflicted, to whom she was an angel of mercy; and thrice happy in 
 the love of ier husband and little daughter, Mrs. Gould passed the 
 first. twelve years of her wedded life. Then eame a cruel reverse 
 Intemperance, that deadliest of monsters, which so loves toslurk in 
 beds of fairest flowers, thence to spring upon its unwary, helpless, 
 victim, came upoa Esquire Gould, gath:red its ** snaky folds” fast 
 about him, and with its poisoned fangs tainted his whole being. 
 
 Extraordinary excitement attending the election of 1528, and his 
 ‘consequent disappointment in his expectations of promotion, were, 
 chiefly, *‘ the moving why” of his downfall. Jt was not so rapid as| 
 to startle by its impetuosity ; but fearfully sure and steady. Some | 
 remonstrated, others scorned, and yet others pitied ; his sensitive and 
 self-accusing spirit shrank alike from them all. 
 
 It was loag before Mrs. Gould suspected the cause of the change 
 she sawiahim. His hand became unsteady, his eye dull, and his 
 cheek pale and flushed by turns. She trembled for his health; and 
 with his hand clasped fondly in her own, and her tearful eyes raised 
 pleadingly to his face, she begged him to suspend his official labors, 
 and spare himself for her sake. At such moments, although he in- 
 wardly cursed himself for the woe he was bringing upon the loving 
 creature at his side, he often replied to her anxious pleadings, in 
 petulence and anger; then tore himself from her, and in another 
 and deeper cup he sought the Lethean draught which might wash 
 out his memories of the past, and prevent those forebodings of the 
 future wretchedness which almost crushed him beneath their weight. 
 Wretched, deluded man! to rush upon the very spear which he felt 
 had already “pierced his heart,” and left its wound to fester and 
 rankle there ! 
 
 Years passed by; and, meanwhile, Esquire Gould had been de- 
 Still he was above 
 mediocrity in them all; for he was, almost invariably, faithful in the 
 discharge of his public duties, generous in his impulses, and gentle- 
 manly in his general deportment. A naturally high sense of honor, 
 induced him to shut himself up in his office, whenever he became 
 go far intoxicated as to be unfit for business and society. There, 
 stretched upon a sofa, his brain fevered, every nerve racked with 
 agony, the miserable man often spent his evenings ; and repaired to 
 his house only when he was assured by the disappearance ef the 
 lights there, that his family had retired to rest. 
 
 One night, instead of retiring at her usual hour, Mrs. Gould sat 
 Jong after the rest of the farpily had retired totheirrooms. Only one 
 
 open window. Mrs. Gould put back the curtain to listen for the 
 footsteps of her husband; the air rushing in, extinguished her light ; 
 but still she sat there. The gloom of the apartment, and the deep 
 silence of night suited her state of feeling. Regrets for the past, and 
 dark fears for the future, filled her heart almost to bursting ; and she 
 even wished that the burden which seemed destroying her, might do 
 its work at once. 
 
 At last her husband came. His step, as he erossed the hall, was 
 jneavy and unsteady. At once, suspicions of the truth flashed upon 
 her ; and, breathless with suspense and dread, she sat until he entered. 
 The light of the hall lamp, which he carried, fell on his haggard face 
 ag he reeled into the reom, Mrs. Gould’s worst fears were more than 
 realized—her husband was a drunkard ! 
 
 She half rese, clasped her hand wildly to her forehead ; and, ut- 
 tering a suppressed shriek, she fell upon the sofa nearly senseless. 
 Had this terrible conviction of her husband’s guilt come upon her at 
 any other time, or in any other manner, she might have summoned 
 her piety and her natural fortitude to her aid; but, as it was, it gave 
 her whose system, physical and mental, such a shock as she neyer 
 afterward recovered. 
 
 She went about her duties ever after like one ina sad dream, from 
 which there was no hope or desire of awaking. Having no expecta- 
 tions of happiness for herself, she lived only for others. 
 
 In the career of Esquire Gould, this diseovery of his wife formed 
 asadepoch. His downward progress was fearfully accelerated by 
 it; and in less than two years he fell a victim to his own vice, Mrs. 
 Gould to the heart-breaking sorrows of a drunkard’s wife. 
 
 At this period our story opens. Every benevolent heart bled for 
 poor Helen. With all her father’s faults she “ loved him still,” but 
 her mother had been the very sun of her existence, and she was lost 
 to her for ever. sider? j 
 
 The estate was immense ; but the result of a superficial investiga- 
 tioa by the administratien, left no hope that a farthing would fall to 
 the orphan efter a liquidation of the debts. i 
 
 A 5ad reverse awaited Helen, and ef this she was fully conscious. 
 She had not been nurtured in idleness; bat of experimental self- 
 dependence she knew no more than a child, and she shrank with dis- 
 may from the struggles before her. There were none to whose kind 
 offices the ties of consanguinity gave her any claim, except the father 
 
 of Maria. : : nes : 
 
 He was agent of a small manufacturing establishment 10 the pleas- 
 aat village of Amoskeag in New Hampshire. Thither it was decided | 
 that Helen should accompany her cousin on her return. 
 
 There wasa melan- 
 
 — 
 
 Page . ir 
 “Brie rag conte with her mother’s memory. She feltas if her 
 eaking, yet she lingered about them. She laid her 
 head on the pillow on which her mother had breathed her last. She 
 sat hours as pale and motionless, nearly, as a statue, in her ae » chai 
 with the Bible she had so often wet with her tears clas omy in her 
 ee aon 44 her portrait opposite her bed ; and it os the last 
 onect ae ie a rested at night, and the first to which they 
 
 Mia gt piag oA she seem so in the immediate presence of her 
 
 a en surrounded by the flowers which her hands had 
 planted, watered and trained. Her spirit seemed hovering about her 
 
 there, filling the air with fragrance, and giving to her Fa i a 
 earthly sweetness and beauty. age eaigig 
 Fog ay time came when she must leave all these, for she felt that 
 
 not witness their sale and transfer to the possession ef an- 
 other. The carriage containing her wardrobe, her house plants the 
 family portraits and valued relics, had already gone ; that which was 
 te convey her and Maria was at the gate. Her kind and sympathiz- 
 sing heighbors, te whom she had endeared herself by her gentleness 
 and intelligence, flocked around her, and mingled their “tears and 
 sobs with hers. 4 
 
 It seemed to Helen that all the suffering she had ever endured was 
 concentrated in that last hour; and when she rose for the purpose of 
 leaving the house, she was utterly unable to stand, and sinking back 
 on the sofa, she again gave herself up to her emotions. 7 
 
 The attentions of her friends, although perfectly sincere and well- 
 meant, only added to her distress. BetweenJane Clement and Helen 
 there had existed a close iatimacy from childhood. Jane flung her 
 arms around her neck, and, ina voice scarcely audible from emotion, 
 declared that she knew she never could be happy again. The widow 
 Smith, who had been fed, clothed, and nursed in sickness by Helen 
 and h:r mother, said ina whisper to old Mrs. Lane, “I thought I 
 must look upon her dear face once more, and I longed to come into 
 this house again while it was the home of a Gould.” 
 
 - Her auditor groaned, ‘I have seen changes, and felt them too,” 
 sald she ; ‘‘ but never anything like this. I could have borne it my- 
 self, my course is so nearly finished ; but to see that poor child 
 The old lady stopped, overcome by her feelings. Maria made several 
 attempts to speak, to draw Helen away from this painful scene, but 
 her emotions choked her. At last Mr. Clement, the good clergyman 
 of L. laid his band tenderly on Helen’s head. 
 
 “My dear girl,” said he, “remember that “‘the Father of the 
 fatherless” is now peculiarly your friend and guide. He will be with 
 you and bless you; and he is better than a thousand earthly protectors. 
 We will part now, but it is only for alittle while. Next autumn I 
 will take Jane to visit you; and we will bring you to L. tospend the 
 wiater with us.” 
 
 He offered his arm and led her to the carriage, followed by his son, 
 who was to accompany them and Maria. Helen looked the good- 
 byes she could not speak. She drew her veil over her face, and sank 
 back into the carriage as it dreve away. 
 
 nn 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In two months Helen entered one of the mills at Amoskeag as an 
 operative. Her reasons, if not sufficiently obvious, may be found 
 in the following extract from a letter to Jane Clement : 
 
 “You ask me to tell you about my uncle’s family—how we pass 
 our time, and whether I am becoming my own happy self again. 
 
 “You must know that my uncle is a very shrewd, calculating man, 
 energetic, and full of benevolence withal. He is already wealthy ; 
 and is still rapidly accumulating property. They live in a very pretty, 
 genteel style, yet the most perfect order and economy pervade their 
 whole system of expenditure. This deseribes my aunt as a house- 
 keeper. As a wife, mother, friend, and neighbor, she is equally 
 faultless. In too many families the husband toils like a slave at 
 his counter, in his office, on his farm, or at his bench; the wife is 
 equally busy in superintending or performing household duties, while 
 the sons and daughters are allowed to luxuriate in comparative 
 idleness. ’ 
 
 “In this family it is not so. Every one does his or her part in bear- 
 ing the burden, and hence it rests lightly on all. They are aiming 
 to accomplish one object which is understood and approved by the 
 whole family ; and this is, to retire next season to & large and beau- 
 tiful farm that unele has recently purchased on the Merimac, a short 
 
 ride from this village. : 
 and uncle has given rooms to each of 
 
 The house is very capacious, 3 ) 
 my cousins. These they are to fit up according to their own tastes, 
 
 with the fruits of their own industry. They will present a curious 
 contrast when completed, for the tastes of the four are entirely dis 
 similar. ‘Thomas you have seen at L, and you recollect that he 
 graduated at Hanover, almost three years since. While at college, 
 he spent several months each year in teaching. Since his gradua- 
 tion, he has had charge ef the high school in this village ; aad, at 
 the same time, has been studying theology with Dr. Howe- He 1s 
 very serious, almost gloomy, in histemperament. He has hoe a. 
 lroom ina secluded corner of the house, which is rendered very cae 
 by the close contact of a large elm tree. He has already Pemapec 
 
 his pictures, his book-case, and his books. Among the former 1s his 
 
26 THE NEW WORLD. y  HeLen Gourp. | 
 ce ee ee a a ea a a ae a eA A a A a 
 Se ea a ee ES EE aE a aS SES SD ET STR  \- 2ST ENED FE 
 own portrait. It isa dark, gloomy piece. He sits ata table, study-|| mother, sister, brother, or home? There ie desolation in it; and, 
 ing by the ‘‘midnight lamp,” it seems from the dim and sickly light) when under its influence, I long to enter, at once, the home ‘that | 
 which fails on his pale face. He rests his elbow on the table, and) hath foundations.” You do not know, my beloved friend, the reason 4} 
 his head on one hand, while the other lies on the page he isreading '' you have for gratitude, and heaven grant that you never may leara by } 
 Such, his family say, has been his attitude and his occupation neaily an experience like mine. Alas, that the heart needs such severe~ 
 half of every night, when in tolerable health, since his childhood | lessons to teach it its duty! Alas, that its blessings cannot be duly 
 His scholarship is mere thorough, ’tis said, than any man’s in town, || appreciated until they take their flight ! And alas, that I am still se 
 except Dr. Horne’s. And he was a ‘bobbin boy,’ so ycleped, from) ungrateful for friends, health, returning cheerfulness, and the means 
 ten to sixteen, and an overseer from sixteen to eighteen, with only of conferring happiness on others less favored than myself! 
 occasional and brief intervals of attending school. His industry and |. ‘Maria went into the mill ostensibly for the purpose of complet- 
 talent were such, that he kept pace with the generality of those who, ing her library. I have since ascertained that it was a dernier resort 
 attended school constantly. His bockcase is a massy, dark struc- | of my good uncle’s, in the object of drawing me occasionally frem 
 ture, a fit tenement for the ponderous fomes with which it is nearly | my seclusion. He did not suppose, however, that it would induce 
 filled. me to become an operative; and for a long time, he strenuously ep- 
 ** You know all about my sweet Maria, and I scarcely need tell | posed my wishes. He ceuld give me no reason why I should net 
 
 you that her arrangements are all simplicity and elegance. She | toil as well as his daughters, and I at length overcame his opposi- 
 is eighteen. Six months of each year since she was fourteen,, 
 have been spent inthe mill, and the remainder of the time at schoo!) 
 in this and the neighboring towns. She has assisted her fathersome- | 
 what, in defrayiag her expenses; still she has sufficient left to furnish 
 her room with every thing desirable—paintings, maps, books, mine-| 
 rals, shells, ef cetera, and aherp. Her piano is destined for the sit-| 
 ting room. She is at present working for funds to complete her li-| 
 
 brary. Her room is one of the pleasantest in the house—literally |, 
 
 embosomed in rose trees, which throw their branches into her win-| 
 dows on opening them, and fill the room with fragrance. 
 «* Henry you have wever seen. His is a wild spirit. 
 
 Don Quix-| 
 
 ote, uncle calls him, andI agree with him that if he had lived in the || 
 
 days of chivalry, he would have been aknight-errant—a sert of Rich-| 
 ard Ceur de Lion. 
 indomitable, as is evinced by the elasticity with which they repel the | 
 various taming processes—uncle calis them—to which he hassubjected 
 him ; such as compelling him to toil in the mill whenhe would haye 
 been climbing mountains, and ranging forests in search of adventure; 
 and restricting him, in his readings, to scientific and religious works, | 
 
 when he would have been revelling in poetry and romance. His| 
 room is a most ludicrous ensemble. It is on the third floor, a sort of 
 garret; and he would not be induced to choose a better one. Ilis 
 
 portrait stands at the head of the room, dressed as a knight, and all 
 around the walls are trophies of his victories, he commands us to| 
 consider them, in the form of antlers, stuffed skins, horns, and numer- | 
 ous other grotesque imitations of the paraphernalia of olden time. 
 These were partly purchased, and partly obtained by himself in his 
 trips to the Lake and White Hills. His furniture is of the most obso-| 
 lete kind that could be obtained—such as was the style in the days 
 of our great-grandparents. Where he failed in procuring originals, 
 he has, obtained with great trouble and expense, what he humorously 
 calls, fac similes. 
 
 *‘ With that prudence and foresight which characterize all of un-| 
 cle’s plans, he has destined Heniry to the toils of a machinist. He is! 
 very ingenious ; has already drawn out some fine models of improve- | 
 ments, and will, doubtless, become a talented and useful man; when, 
 if he had been permitted to follow his own inclinations, as he would 
 have been by some equally wealthy, but less judicious father, he | 
 would have been ruined. 
 
 “Grace is thirteea—beautiful as a Hebe, inro2ent and sportive as 
 alamb. She will never be so stately as Maria; she will never love 
 books so well; but for everything beautiful innature, there is room in 
 her heart. She only wants birds and flowers in her room. To pro- 
 cure these and provide for their accommodation, she has been work- 
 ing like a bee during the last six months. She has already purchas- 
 ed two capacious and beautiful bird-cages, an abundance of flower-| 
 pots and stands, and now she is earning money to send to Boston for | 
 canary birds, and the choicest kinds of plants. 
 
 ** You will be surprised that one so young as Grace can make her-. 
 self useful insuch a sphére. There are many even younger than she 
 is. They are generaly what is technically called < spare hands.’ 
 They have no allotted task, but ge about the room, helping those, | 
 who, for any reason, need their assistance. 
 
 * And, ‘cousin Helen,’ said Grace to me to-day, ‘I would do this. 
 
 } 
 ' 
 
 if [had no pay atall, but just fer the pleasure of helping the girls when | 
 - Inever feel so happy || 
 
 their work goes bad, or they are tired, or sic! 
 as Ido when they look up and smile to see 
 them.’ 
 
 “*Tused to pity such little creatures when I saw them pass on their | 
 way to their work. But observation hasconvinced me that their situ. 
 ation is, generally speaking, very far from being unpleasant. Their 
 labors are not fatiguing ; and if they are good girls, they are loved and 
 petted, and kindly and judiciously advised by elder girls. 
 
 *“Of myself I have somewhat to say that will startle you. Iama 
 factory girl. I think my poverty affords a sufficient plea for this, but, 
 I fear you boats not; so I will tell you how it has happened. £.: 
 {ou recovlect in what a miserable state of feeling I wrote my 
 
 astietter to you. Ia spite of your kind remonstrances, the advice 
 of your father, and the entreaties of my friends here, I continued m 
 meiancholy indulgences even after I found that they were destro i ‘ 
 my health. ; Oh, may God forgive me! But thers were Retin, Ye 
 when I exulted ia the hope that my trials would soon end in the! 
 mere. a en mRW, at this moment, when I think of my mother, 1| 
 Bo oe with her. My mother—oh, my mother} How canI bear | 
 
 me coming to help| 
 
 His vivacity and daring romance are perfectly | 
 
 |dow seats are on a level with the ground, and there the girls have 
 
 | with some of the costliest articles, and buy a sofa and carpet for fa-_ 
 '|ther’s study, they would be so comfortable for him, and for mother, ~ 
 
 tion.» And he assures me now, that he heartily approves my course, 
 not so much from the benefit I may derive in a pecuniary point of © 
 /view, as fer the energy and perseverance it will be the means of fos= 
 
 tering in my character. 
 | ‘The effects that uncle foresaw were brought about. Ihad beem 
 ‘so accustomed to Maria’s society, that I could not endure its loss; _ 
 hence I called on her every day, sometimes twice a day, untill coms — 
 menced work. I became acquainted with, and attached to, manyef — 
 the girls who occupied the same room, particularly a Mrs. Lawton, 
 a1 interesting widow lady. I was never so happy as when I wes 
 | with them, talking with them, training their plants—of which they 
 have a great and splendid variety—and helping them. ss 
 ‘**So it was a fondness for factory girls, and factery occupations, — 
 that led me to become an operative. And I am convinced that the 
 same motives often lead to the same results with others. ‘I spe 
 what I do know, and testify what I have seen,’ when I assert that a 
 factory life at Amoskeag—and I have no reason te suppose that it 
 has any peculiar features—is not one of oppression and bondage. — 
 The operatives feel no sympathy, whatever, with those who talk, 
 | write, and lecture upon their privations and theirslavery. They are 
 a happy and an independent class. They are confixed, ’tis true ; but 
 this restriction is self-assumed, and can be thrown off at pleasure. — 
 But they do not wish to throw it off—and why should they? True, » 
 it is not a light thing to leave one’s home and home friends; but E 
 have heard many of them say, that the exquisite pleasure they enjoy 
 in meeting their friends, in sitting down once more ‘in the shadow ~ 
 of home,’ and in revisiting old and loved haunts, more than ceunter— 
 balances the pain of parting and absence. They cannot be excused — 
 at any time to spend their morning in making calls, or their after- ~ 
 noon in making the social visit. Nor do they wishit. They are — 
 satisfied, generally, with the good and intelligent society they findim : 
 the mills, and with the exercise that a short, brisk walk, at meal- 
 ‘ z 
 
 times, on the island, in the contiguous grove, or on the falls, affords. 
 
 * Oar room is a small one on the lower floor, commanding a view 
 of the river at the falls, and far below; of bridges, islands covered 
 with trees, and of farms and farm-houses in the distance. The win- — 
 
 plats of flowers, in addition to those in pots and boxes. They find — 
 ample leisure to attend to them. They talk, play, sometimes reada © 
 little—but ‘tell it not’-—and yet earn from one to three dollars per, 
 week, eaclusive of board. Have they not reason to be happy ? a 
 “But, methinks you will ask if there are no shadows to this pie- 
 ture. Alas! there are. I do not leve their delineation; yet I wilh 
 bring myself to the task in my next. - 
 ‘* Meanwhile I am yours, as ever. 
 
 | CHAPTER IIT. 
 
 ‘Oh! Ishould love to go and work with Helen,” exclaimed Jane 
 as she finished reading this letter to Ann Morey. a 
 “Oh, so should I! What rich and beautifuldresses we might buy, 
 earning three dollars a week ! ” 
 
 ‘“ What a fine library we might have! Oh, I want one that wi 
 oceupy the whole north end of our sitting room. Dr. Lane’s is 
 8. that. And I suppose I could earn such a one in a year or 
 wo. A 
 | ‘* Did you see that silk of Mrs. Hamilton’s 2? 
 not at home when she was in town. It was the most magnificent 
 thing lever saw. Of all things, I would most like a dress like that. 
 And, only think, Jane, I could get one in two months. [ will go, Ef 
 declare. I want anew bonnet, too. Fathersayshe can’t get me one 
 this season, he ‘as been buying so much land. I want somethin 
 di crent from whatI ever saw. I havea splendid conception of it — 
 lin my head, and I mean it shall exist in a more tangible shape ere 
 long. Will you go, Jane, if I will?” . 
 | I would like to go, certainly. I might fitup my room like Maria’s- ~ 
 Father can’tafford to doit, his salaryissosmall. Or I might dispensé 
 
 HELEN Goutp.” 
 
 1 
 
 Oh, no; you were 
 
 too, for that is her sitting room when I am et echool, or in my _ 
 room. ; Ry 
 oy 
 
 Yes,” answered Ann, evidently unconscious, in hey own bright | 
 speculations, of what Jane hid been saying. ‘Did you see Miss 
 
 the thought, dear Ja 
 peng it, Gear Jane, that I am never more to 5 i 
 ear her dear yoice ?. that Tew én ee eee her smile, to 
 
 Stearns when she stopped at Dr. Stearns? on her return to Vermont 
 from Lowell 2”? : ray ee ee 
 
gtEN GOULD. THE NEW 
 
 WORLD. 
 
 In what excellent taste she was dressed! She appeared pretty, 
 9; and you know, Jane, that Helen Gould would not work ina 
 ry if it wasn’t perfectiy genteel and respectable. Iwill go!” 
 
 «But Helen hints that there are shadows as wellas lights. Indeed | 
 ye seen a dark one in the case of Harriet Chase. De you, 
 
 Js, and rich bonnets, with which she would return to L. ina! 
 303 
 “Ann blushed as she answered in the affirmative. 
 
 y «She brought, instead, only a few articles of finery, a ruined repu- | 
 
 , and ruined kealth.”’ 
 
 she earned only very low wages, and these she spent as fast as 
 eared, for trifles in dress, that do not amount to much, and for con- || 
 fectionaty. Abby Harper says that almost every evening, warm or | 
 
 3. wet or dry, she was out shopping; and she never failed to | 
 1 with a2 paper of nuts, plums, candy, or lemons, or oranges or! 
 e such a thing, sometimes all. She ate them the last thing be-| 
 re going to bed, the first thing im the morning, and at short intervals || 
 allday. Abby says that confectionary was to her, at last, what the | 
 oxicating cup is to the drunkard; and when she became s0 sickly i| 
 that she could not venture out in an evening storm, she hired chil- | 
 n to go for her—no wonder, then, that she returned with ruined 
 alth. As for her reputation, Abby says she does not think that 
 he deserves half the scandal that was heaped upon her. She 
 she was extremely injudicious, and careless in her deportment, 
 times. She dressed very much, and was always playing off 
 yain freak, te draw the attention of her overseers, and of visit- 
 In the streets, she talked loud, laughed, ran, or jumped, just as 
 simpulse seized her. Such open and excessive levity rendered | 
 ple suspicious of the soundness ef her principles; and they 
 hed and criticised her closely, They put uncharitable construc- 
 as upon little acts, culpable only in being careless.” 
 “Uadoubtedly this was the case. I would like to hear her de-| 
 aded on one charge—that of visiting a shop kept by two gentlemen, 
 rerious for their libertinism. Did Abby mention this? 
 “ Yes; and she says that Harriet was wronged here, although she 
 yas to blame herself first, and chiefly. She did call at this shop 
 ften when out, with one or two others, gay and vain as her- 
 sif. She called at unseasonable hours. They praised her com- 
 plexion ; and, by way of adding to its beauty, they gave her a pink 
 cravat. ‘I'o show off her form to advantage, they gave her a mohair 
 shawl; and, ia compliment to her tiny hands—they called them— 
 they fitted to them a pair of gloves, which they said no other lady in 
 Lowell could wear. These she bore off, against their laughing and 
 idently insincere commands. She invariably showed her presents 
 he boarders, ar-l laughed at the mistake she was putting upon the 
 jhopkeepers: So Abby says it is evident that her motives were none 
 sther than love of excitement and vanity, whatever they might have been 
 had she been permitted to go on inthis career. But her health began 
 to failin consequence of evening exposures, and intemperance in the 
 use of confectionary. It began to be noised abroad that she was re- 
 ceiving presents from the Messrs. None, or at least few, knew 
 ader what circumstances, but all conjectured. To give her downward 
 rogress a2 accelerated motion, a girl, to whom she had long been 
 object of envy on account of her superior beauty and attractions, 
 nformed those shopkeepers how she had amused herself with them. 
 a the irritation of the moment, they retaliated on Harriet, by accusing 
 er of stealing those gloves, This charge was indastriously circu- 
 ted by this girl and others; and at the end of the next twenty-four 
 urs the reputation of a thief and prostitute was fastened on poor 
 ‘rriet. ‘This is Abby’s version of the whole affair, and doubtless it 
 correct. Abby did not board with her. She did not associate 
 ith her until her misfortunes. Then she vindicated her as far as 
 e could; took care of her while she was so sick, and restored her 
 her family.” 
 “ Pyor Harriet! how much she must have suffered! I pity her; 
 ut as she said whenfather and [ called to see her, yesterday, it must 
 e regarded as a just penalty, for leaving home agaixst the wishes of 
 er parents, when sie was so much needed there, and with the 
 bject only of buying fine clothes.” 
 
 Ann again blushed. 
 
 “ Perhaps so—undoubdtedly,” she answered. But, Jane, was 
 Harriet, are you, so superstitious as to believe that all this came upon 
 her as a sort of judgment? If she had left home under other eir- 
 cumstances, and with other motives, would she not have been equal- 
 unfortunate?” ; 
 “I think, my dear Ann, that her sufferings came upon her as 
 tural eoasequences of her vanity and disregard of duty. These 
 were impulsive in leading her to the factory, and these plunged her 
 
 lect how exultingly the poor girl talked of the rich silks, rich)! 
 
 | chasing the Gould estate. 
 h, well, she pursued such a reckless course! She was so idle I} 
 | possession in September. 
 
 SS eee 
 ¢ - ° = 
 eaewe unfortunate ? I am only echoing father in this,”” added Jane 
 smiling.‘ This is the view he would take of the subject,” ‘ 
 ; And it rie dace question, a Correct ene, so I will not co to th 
 |factory unti can find a bett ti P imation’ (ada 
 meat ter motive than my passion for fine 
 66 : } 7 
 ; That is right, Ann; and now let us take a walk in the garden 
 |1 want to go and see Helen’s garden, as I still love to call it. I shall 
 
 || write to her immediately ; and I must tell her about her dahlias 
 ? 
 
 |petunias, and mints.’ 
 ‘1 would like to know who this stranger is, that is about pur- 
 The administrator will only tell us that he 
 is a talented, handsome young bachelor, and that he hopes to take 
 Mrs. Lane can only infer from his letters 
 that he is a ‘Concordite,’ as his letters are mailed there. Now, how 
 nice it would be, Jane, if the administrator had a wife, and his wife 
 a sister! Then he would tell Mrs. Kelly, her sister would call in the 
 aid of some half dozen, by way of keeping the secret, you know; 
 and this half dozen would employ all L. as subs.” pis ‘ 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Two months passed by; and the changes they brought to Helen 
 fe be found in the following extracts from letters to her friend 
 ane: 
 
 : ‘“* And now, my dear Jane, I come to the shadows of my picture. 
 You ask if there are not many cast by ignorance; if there are not 
 many operatives who can neither write or read. That there are 
 many cases of ignorancs among so many young girls, cannot be 
 doubted ; yet I do not know one who is below mediocrity in educa- 
 tion. Maria’s observation has been extensive among them. She 
 
 | gays there are some that came from small, retired towns in this state 
 
 and in Vermont, who read and write poorly, and who have only the 
 rudiments of the most common branches of scienee-—arithmetic, ge- 
 ography, and grammar. There are some whose conversation evin- 
 
 ‘lees little knowledge of even these, and she presumes there may be 
 
 some who have never studied them at all; yet she does notknow an 
 instance. I agree with my uncle in this, that for the ignorant and 
 awkward, the factory isa good school. He says, some girls come 
 here whose only associates have been their wild and daring brothers 
 whose only occupation—aside from attending school two or three 
 months in the year—helping their mothers to make butter, cheese 
 cloth, maple sugar, puddings, and pies; perhaps assisting their fa- 
 thers in planting, and in making hay; and whose only amusements, 
 dancing to the music of the spinning-wheel, singirg to the measures 
 of the loom, swinging by the limbs of trees, roaming over hills and 
 mountains, through fields, pastures, and woods, regardless alike of 
 time, space, and fatigue. They have great strength, physical and 
 mental. They have much vivacity of intellect, and native grace of 
 manner, but these want shape and direction. Uncle says it is aston- 
 ishing how much such characters will improve in-one short year- 
 The roughness of their habits of feeling and deportment is worn 
 down by contact with the gentle and refined. The wild exuberance 
 of their spirits is subdued, but not destroyed, by their regrets for ab- 
 sent and dear ones at home. They learn dependence on God, from 
 their want of parental guidance and protection. They find other 
 books than ‘Morse’s. Geography,’ ‘Pike’s Arithmetic,’ * Murray’s 
 Grammar,’ old almanacs, and sermons, and acquire a new fondness 
 for reading. Some one who has studied Natural Philosophy, tells 
 them about the laws of gravitation, cohesion, &c.,, and their results 
 in the natural world. Just this opens, as it were, a newcreation be- 
 fore them. Clouds, dews, rains, the fall of leaves, and the flight of 
 birds, have for them a new and thrilling interest. They are told 
 something of the size, number, distanc2, and rapid movements of the 
 heavenly bodies. They leara to trace the boundaries of the most 
 beautiful constellations, and their imaginations instantly take fire. 
 They walk at evening, and the stars are their companions. They 
 ait by their windows at twilight, wtch their appearaace, one by one, 
 and seem to hear the music of their march. 
 
 ‘* And it is the same with other sciences. Maria says that with a 
 few general principles, and illustrations of these principles, they gath- 
 er inferences respecting everything around them, astenishing for their 
 strength and correctness. Hence come a just appreciation of the 
 beauty, wonder, and utility of all things in nature, and a higher, 
 purer worship for ‘ Him who made them such.’ 
 
 ‘* Do net understand me to mean that these remarks are universal 
 in their application. There are, doubtless, many who return home 
 nearly as ignorant and awkward as when they came. And, in some 
 instances, there may be a degeneracy, even. For instance, When @ 
 'girl comes here from school, who has studied science after science, 
 not from a love of study and desire for improvement, but because it 
 is customary to attend tothose branches. She leaves school with the 
 proud idea that her education is completed. She has no rhotive for 
 
 into the course that ruined her while there. Forgetful of the duties 
 she owed herself, her family, and her God, she squandered her time, 
 money, and the energies of a naturally active and powerful mind, in 
 low and degrading pursuits. She emphatically, ‘ sowed to the wind, 
 and reaped the whirlwind,’ as a legitimate result, a penalty—we may 
 say, Ann, a judgment. But had her parents been poor, and had she 
 
 study, and neglects books almost entirely. Her mind is occupied by 
 speculations upon earning money, buying and wearing fine clothes, 
 ‘and ultimately, getting a fine husband. She has no eyes for the pleas- 
 ant sights in nature, ne ears for the pleasant sounds ; no thoughts for 
 her duties as an intellectual, immortal being, no love of God, and 
 
 gone there for the holy purpose of ministering to them by denying 
 
 herself; or had her object been to clothe her mind with intelligence || 
 
 and virtue, or the accomplishment of any laudable object which we 
 may conceive, where would have been her motives for such a course! 
 
 and without an equal course of folly, how could she have been!: 
 
 hope of Heaven. For such a girl there are many temptations—espe- 
 cially in large mavufacturing towns—which she may not always re- 
 sist. Aud so your question, ‘ Are there not many shadows cast by 
 yice?’? must have’ an affirmative answer. 
 
 ‘‘ There are few here, however. I have seen none. 
 
 There have 
 
——— 
 
 o instances of theft since my uncle came here; one of cloth || 
 | weeps. 
 
 been tw ; a ‘ ; 
 from the mill, the other of money fiom atrank. Both were perpe- 
 
 trated by young, ignorant, and very indigent gitls, who were furnish- 
 ed, gratuitously, with funds sufficient to carry them home, and dis- 
 charged. 
 
 “* There have 
 tion of others, by scandal. The} aring 
 from my uncle and others ‘in high plaees.’ These, with the coun- | 
 teracting influences exerted by benevolent, influential! girls, generally 
 throw the unpleasant consequences of such attempts back upon their 
 originators. ‘ 
 
 “Death, poverty, and dis ] 
 where. There is one lady with whomI am acquainted, at whose, 
 tale of suffering mine hes shrunk into comparative insignificance. 
 She attracted my attention the first time I called with Maria. | 
 was in a room where there were about a dozen young girls, and one 
 
 been some vicious attempts at injuring the reputa- 
 
 lively t e had drawn them all into a frolic, except her. || nite ; 4 
 kively, regvaereerure he | © Whata long letter this! it has occupied my leisure hours for two 
 
 Maria ard I stood in the door unperceived sometime, watchingthem. | 
 My attention, at length, 
 occasionally, all around 
 
 some companions, and when the girls bowed their thanks, she an- | 
 swered with a smile of such sadness as I neverbefaresaw. Assoon | 
 
 as we entered, she fixed her eyes upon me with a mournful earnest- 
 ness, for which I could not account, watil I inquired of Maria. 
 
 «¢« She has heard of your misfortunes,’ answered Maria. 
 has herself been recently and heavily afflicted.’ 
 
 *‘ Maria introduced her to me as Mrs. Lawton. 
 pleasant day is it not? she asked, as she looked out from the win-| 
 dow where we were standing. 
 
 “© Yes; the air is very cvol and clear; the birds are singing, and | 
 the flowers blooming on every hand in the woods where we have 
 been walking.’ My eyes filled, for I thought of my mother. 
 
 “<< But, my young friend, I suppose they only remind you, as they, 
 do me, of eyes that saw them, of ears that heard them, and of hearis, 
 that loved them, which will see, hear, and feel them no more.’ 
 
 “‘T was unutterably affected by her words and manner ; and the 
 first time for many wecks, I shed te2rs, which were not all for myself. 
 She led me to speak of my trials; and wept with me, as I told her of 
 my mother. Then she talked of Heaven—of the happiness of the 
 departed there, and of ours, when, at last, we meet them where there 
 will be no more sorrow, pain, and death. 
 
 ““*No more death!’ she repeated, as she turned her eyes, now’ 
 lighted up by the christian’s hope, to me. ‘ Oh, how these words 
 thrill my heart-strings! for, to me, everything of suficring seems) 
 comprehended in that one fearful word—death! Poverty and toil, 
 I could have borne—I did bear them ; and still was happy so long as! 
 those I loved were about me.’ 
 
 ‘* She. was pale, and sadly emaciated. I enquired with regard to! 
 her health, and her answer confirmed my fears. 
 
 ““* A severe cough and pain in my side, are fast wearing me | 
 She made a strong effort to quell emotions that almost over- || 
 
 away.’ 
 came her, and continued—‘ I shall soon meet George and my sweet} 
 babes in Heaven; and this would give me no pangs, but for my little, 
 Margaret. ’Tis not a light afiliction to be separated from her as I, 
 am now, nor is it lightly felt. But when I think of leaving her for- 
 ever, it seems more thanI can bear.’ 
 
 **In answer to my inquiries, she informed me that she was board- 
 ing her daughter with an old friend, one mile out of the village. | 
 She visits her very often ; and gladly acceded to my proposal of accom- 
 panying her in her next visit. 
 
 “‘I learnt from my uncle that Mrs. Lawton is the daughter of a! 
 Baptist clergyman, long since deceased. After her marriage she 
 resided, until her husband’s death, in an adjoining town. Her hus- 
 band was a well-educated and very worthy farmer. He died of a. 
 lingering consumption, three month’s since. For five years he was 
 
 naable to labor ; and, meantime, his property was all spent in sup- | 
 port of his family. A son of four, died during his illness; and a | 
 
 daughter of two, was buried in the same grave. 
 “What are my trials, Jane, whea compared with those of Mrs. | 
 
 Lawton? 1 feel that they are light; and | sometimes almost forget, 
 
 them in my pity for hers. One’s heart instinctively bleeds for her;) 
 
 yet there is sunshine in her path, wort’ a thousand times more than | 
 
 the glitter of mere worldly prosperity. She would not, if she must. 
 lose this light, exchange her lot, although it be weded to toil, poverty, | 
 and disease, for all the pleasures of the worldling. Hence it appears | 
 that she is happier thaa thousands ive call happy, even though a poor, 
 sick, and care-worn factory operative. There is an expression of 
 
 mé¢lancholy resignation, and, sometimes, of rapture, in her whole | 
 
 couateaance, which seems unearthly in its loveliness. She is still| 
 young, and her complexion is as fair as that of infancy. It has the) 
 smoothness, the tranepareacy, and the heetic fush which belong to 
 the consumptive. Her manner js highly dignified and graceful, | 
 always quiet and restrained. Indeed, I do not think that her sor- | 
 rows, or her expectations of an early release from them, are ever} 
 absent from her heart; and the : | 
 christian exultation to her whole 
 most interesting person lever saw 
 much more a 
 
 appearance, which makes her the 
 : » my mother excepted. 
 t ease since I have given her assur 
 ter shall never wanta protector while I live. 
 “« Margaret isa sweet child. When as 
 answers —‘ Mamma first, and then Helen 
 “She reas to meet us with open arme 
 
 She seems | 
 
 ked who she loves best, she | 
 Gould.” We visit her often. | 
 , clings first to her mother | 
 
 THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 I 
 a a as 
 
 They meet, however, unsparing rebuke | 
 
 accelerate her death. Besides, she has no home to repair to; and 
 _no funds to support herself and Margaret. 
 ease throw their dark palls here, as else- situation ! 
 
 She |} 
 
 became rivetted to this lady. She walked, |/days, you will see. Of my other attachmen ~ 
 the room, to inspect the work of her frolic-| I will inform you in my next, as you request. 
 
 | 
 
 ‘She | Sbother ACR 
 ||mention him in your letters. 
 
 ‘ This is a very || 
 
 y give a blending of solemnity and i] 
 
 ances that her daugh. || 
 
 Heten Gou.p. 
 
 her repeatedly, then rushes to me. She sometimes almost 
 Her lip curls and her eyes fill with tears. She seems to 
 catch this spirit from her mother. She evidently understands that 
 she is unhappy ; forshe often lays her hand tenderly on her mother’s 
 cheek and says, ‘poor mamma! Alas! the poor child little knows 
 the loss that awaits her. 
 «We have urged Mrs. Lawton, to no purpose, to leave the mill. 
 She knows that nothing can stay the disease ; aud she believes that 
 medicines, sedentary habits, and want of occupation, would only 
 
 kisses 
 
 What a melancholy 
 ‘* Maria and I werk beside her. The girls are all very kind to her. 
 They 
 ‘Do all, and deem too little, all they can 
 T’ assuage the throbbings of the festered part, 
 And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart.’ 
 
 ts and my amusements, 
 
 CHAPTER. V. 
 | Many thanks to you dearest, for your favor; but in future, please 
 spare me this raillery about Mr. Graham. 
 
 «* You say—‘ Tell me candidly, Helen, why you have ceased to 
 Is it that he has ceased to bring yeu 
 flowers, to read to you, to listen while you play the piano, and to 
 talk poetry to you, while you ride or walk? My heart tells me 
 
 ‘|that this is not the case; for no one who has once enjoyed your 
 
 \society, would voluntarily relinquish it; and, surely, my Helen, you 
 would rot reject the friendship of such a man as Mr. Grahana must. 
 be. Tell me about this, and relieve my perplexity.’ 
 | ** You have imposed a delicate task on me, my dear Jane; but its 
 performance is due to your friendship and kind solicitude. 
 
 ‘*Mr. Graham has not ceased to bring me flowers. My vases are 
 
 filled now with beautiful ones frem his garden; and a blush rose, 
 _half-blown, and of rare loveliness, lies on my table. Now I cansee 
 
 just the roguish smile with which you would examine it, to ascertain 
 whether there isa bud, if you were at my side. You would find one 
 ‘by inspecting it closely—a little beauty, almost concealed by leaves. 
 
 || He gave it to me last evening, as I took his arm for a twilight ram- 
 
 ble, with a large party. Hishand trembled, I observed ; but turning. 
 to answer a lively sally of my uncle’s, 1 thought no more about it. 
 
 It was a delightful evening—so still and clear, and the airso sweet! 
 
 ‘A whippoorwill san 
 
 g his lay ona mound near which we passed. The 
 ‘ fire-flles danced’ in the dark shrubbery, the river sparkled in the 
 ‘moonlight; aad, as if to render the scene perfectly enchanting, a 
 ‘band from the distant village commenced playing ‘Home, sweet 
 jhome!’ We pausedthere, and stood in silence. Ilistened and gazed, 
 ‘Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till my heart 
 
 Reeled with its fullness.’ ; 
 | Mr. Graham was as silent as myself. He pressed my hand cleser 
 ‘in his; and J felt his arm, on which I leaned, tremble. He turned 
 to me, and I bent my eyes to my rose; then, for the first time, I saw 
 the bud; and you may be assured that thisdid not lessen my agita- 
 tion. He had offered me flowers many times, with regard to their 
 sentiment, but never before a ros2-bud. I started as at an electric 
 shock, and this redoubled my confusion. Mr. Graham clasped my 
 hand in both his, bent his head toward me, and said, ‘ Miss Gould— _ 
 my dear Helen—’ when he was interrupted by a ringing laugh from 
 cousia Henry’s lady. Oh, how it relieved me! It seemed to me 
 My heart beat, an@ 
 
 ‘that I could not bear that scene much longer. 
 
 | my limbs trembled so that I could scarcely stand. But Mr. Graham 
 
 did not appear to relish the intrusion ; and as they approached us he: 
 |turned into another path to avoid them. 
 
 ***Stop, ma cousin! please stop, Mr. Graham,’ said Henry. ‘ Har-. 
 riet proposes returning home, en masse, hoc est, le tout ensemble !” 
 
 ‘** Henry you are the most tiresome fellow I ever saw,’ said Har-- 
 riet, again laughing ‘ Positively, Miss Gould, he has done nothing 
 but talk Latin, French, and all manner of gibberish, make stump 
 speeches, which he called orarsons, or something of that sort, and 
 quote psetry at me, since we left the village. Let me stay at your 
 aide, for I want somebody who iz more companionable.’ 
 
 ‘“** Heu, heu, me miseras!’ exclaimed cousin, with another loud 
 Jaugh. ‘ Apropos, Harriet, ‘sed trahit invitam nova vis, aliudque 
 cupido ; mens alvud suadct. Video meliora, prolaque ; detiora sequor,” 
 continued he, as he walked quietly along behind Harriet. ; 
 «Now, Mr. Henry,’ said Harriet, ‘I don’t understand one word ;. 
 but that it was sufficiently provoking, your saucy looksdeclare. Now 
 hear me talk large. In the presence of Mr. Herbert Graham, and 
 | Miss Helen Gould, I positively and seriously, ay, and awfully declare, 
 that I will not take your arm again to-night, Mr. Heary Gould ; 
 unless, in the presence of these witnesses, you promise to act like 
 other folks’ 
 
 “‘ Henry dropped on one knee, took her hand, and, with mock. 
 solemnity, said—‘I promise’ She then took his arm, and they. 
 ‘ran off to join a party before us. 4 
 “««'That isthe way Henry dealt with me, until he, at length, induced” 
 
 'me to study French ard Latin,’ said Maria, who had joined us. ‘ And 
 
 that is the way he is keeping Harriet at school, term after term, when 
 
 she would prefer the work and play of the factery. She is studying : : F 
 ancient hiatory.and meothnlacec dh lee él ee 
 
ud 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 > 
 
 ’ _ F 
 Hexen Goutp. THE NEW WORLD. 29 
 | hsallusions. At its close, she intends entering the mill ; but instead |/the other ten; for whose education she is extremely anxious ‘She 
 
 | of this, she will commence a study of the languages, I predict.” || keeps them at schoel almost constantly. 
 ' «Then came another of those measured compliments for you, | 
 Jane, from my stately cousin Thomas. He seldem hazards one of}! 
 late, but when he and I are solus—uncle and Henry have rallied him 1] 
 so\unmercifully about his partiality to you. 
 
 «¢] think yoar friend, Miss Clement, excels any female I know, in. 
 
 : Her iacome does not allow 
 her to keep help; but, with the assistance her little girls render 
 when out of school, she takes good care of twenty boarders. 
 “‘During Mrs. Lawton’s illness, she retained the constant services 
 |of beth daughters. One of them watched by her bed-side, the other 
 jassisted Mrs. Houston, that she might have more time to devote to 
 ‘her. Her cares were like those ofa mother. Forgetful of her own 
 
 classical attainments,’ said he. 
 
 ° ° , iis * hl n= . ° 
 
 } ‘s* The principal of L academy divides the palm between her and | fatigues and pecuniary interests, she sought, by every means that the 
 |most benevolent tenderness could suggest, to soothe the Jast hours of 
 
 our cousin Helen,’ said Maria, peeping archly in his face. C 
 the sufferer. In this she was aided by her boarders. They are all 
 5, 
 
 . 
 
 “T presume I do not share the palm with you now, Jane; for, || : 
 while I am adding materially to my stock of general knowledge, by factory girls, subject to the confinement and fatigues of factory life; 
 yet, with the assistance of Mrs. Houston and her daughters, they took 
 
 a thorough, systematic course of reading, I only provide against a/ 
 retrograde movement in my knowledge of the languages, by reading , perfect care of Mrs. Lawton. I have called often, and at all hours in 
 a page or two, every day, in Virgil and Telemachus. || the day. I always found her carefully watched ; and everything 
 “‘ Maria, Grace, and I, have been out ef the mill three weeks; but ‘about her dress, bed, medicines, and whole room, in as perfect order 
 our time is very much occupied by society. My uncle’s family have asif she had been attended by one of the most aceomplished nurses. 
 yisiters from Connecticut, consisting of aunt’s brother, his wife, one | ‘*‘1 feel so grateful to them all!’ said she to me one day, her eyes 
 son and two daughters. They are highly intelligent and pleasing. filling with tears. ‘And I'pity them so, too! Ann sat up with me 
 Dr. Horne has his brother and his family from the south, with him |/last night. I had a restless night; and she was over me. constantly, 
 now ; and these accessaries to our society make it very interesting | adjusting my pillows, bathing my cold limbs and moistening my 
 at this time. throat. And, now, she must work hard all day without 2 moment’s 
 “Dr, Horne’s society and Sabbath school are to meet those of the, sleep.’ 
 Rev. Messrs. Abbot and Lawrence, of ~—, to-morrow, on anisland | “ Her physician was present, and inquired how the girls managed 
 jn the Merrimac, four miles from this place. By atrangement with ||to do so much for her, when they had so little time. She informed 
 the superintendent, such of the operatives as can be spared may ||him that three or four of them came to her room immediately after 
 unite with us; and a happy day it will be for them. \|breakfasting. While one made her bed, another bathed end dressed 
 “‘Tregret that Mrs. Lawton is not here to join us. She has been her, another put her room in order, and another prepared her refresh- 
 at Haverhill two weeks. with a distantrelative. She writesmethat ment. Every day, almost, some one of them came out, and spent a 
 her health and spirits are somewhat improved by the change ; but | few minutes, perhaps a few hours with her, the overseers kindly 
 that she does not anticipate permanent benefit. || allowing spare hands to attend to their work. 
 «© ] will defer closing this already lengthy letter until after our sail. _“* ‘ They can never know how much I thank them,’ continued she, 
 ‘But, oh! if the prayersI breathe for them, while they are about me, 
 
 “°Tis late; but the excitement of the day shuts out the pessi- || ot 
 ||are answered’— She paused, entirely overeome by the grateful 
 ‘emotions that filled her heart. 
 
 bility of sleep. 
 «* Would that you were with me now, my dear Jane. I long to | 
 
 | *T asked Dr. Holt if this kindness was a general feature ia the 
 
 character of factory boarding houses. 
 
 tell you all my happiness. I no longer feel alone in the world. There | 
 is an armon which I may hereafter lean for guidance and protection; 
 
 *<¢ Judging from my own observations in this place and in Lowell, 
 
 I may say, Yes. But I have witnessed exceptions—a few most hor- 
 
 one noble heart that is all my own. 
 “‘ Mr. Graham and I took the charge of eur respective classes’ ; 
 during the sail, and the exercises on the island. These over, |rible ones, in Lowell. One day a dirty, ragged little urchin eame 
 the company dispersed to ramble at pleasure about the grounds. Her- /lnto my office. 
 bert led me to the pleasantest part of the island, where the treeshad | ‘‘‘ Susan Greely is sick,’ said he, ‘ and she wants a 
 interlaced their branches, and formed a canopy impervious to the | ‘‘‘ He was about darting from the office. 
 <¢¢ Stop, my little sir,’ said I. ‘Who is Susan Greely ? and where 
 shall I find her ? 
 
 sun’s rays. While walking here, I know not how, he avowed his 
 deep love fer me, and L acknowledged my deep return. From that) y : ; : 
 ‘©¢ Oh! she is nothing but a factory girl that boards to our house. 
 I'll show you where she is. I was out in the yard to play, this morn- 
 
 4 
 doctor.’ 
 
 moment, the painful reserve which I had, for some time, felt in his 
 presence, was gone; and I looked up to him as ray dearest earthly 
 
 friend, my protector and my all. Yet, I love not you, my sweet |ing ; and she put up her window, and asked me to go up into her 
 friend, your reverend father, my uacle’s family, Mrs. Lawton, and|jroom. She looked just like the ghost I heard mother read about im 
 
 a novel, when we lived in great style in Boston; but I went up, and 
 she cried, and asked me to go and find a doctor. Mother don’t allow 
 me to be the factory girls’ waiter, as she calls it; for she says my 
 
 others, ‘less, that Ilove Herbert more.’ I cannot make you under- 
 stand me. I do not understand myself. 
 ‘J hope that this new treasure may not turn my heart from ‘ the 
 
 Giver of every good and every perfect gift.” Most deeply do I realize’ 
 that every blessing He bestows, must be valueless to me, unless He) 
 
 * sanctifies the gift.” May He keep us from sorrow and temptation.” 
 
 Wav av ava 
 
 Wau, 
 
 father was a great gentleman, and she wants me to be a great gentle- 
 man, by-and-by, and make a lady of her, just as she used to be.’ 
 
 “¢* Who was your father ? I asked. 
 
 ‘©¢ The little fellow drew himself up. ‘ He was Hon. Horace Ken- 
 dall, Esquire, of Boston, sit. He hid a bank, and a store, mother 
 
 A Vi. = 
 cs scayios : '\says; and lots and lots of money. Put he got cheated, and lost it all, 
 ‘*My beloved Jane—all is over; and my poor friend has gone to'| and then died himself. We lived ia Boston just as long as we could, 
 the rest of the grave. till mother had sold almost everything; then we came up here toget 
 “Those who have stood by many death-beds, say that they never) rich again, and then go back: to Boston and live in style again.’ 
 witnessed such a triumphant departure. That peculiar expression of, «* The little fellow led me immediately to Miss Greely’sroom. The 
 her countenance, which I have already attempted to describe to you, | entries and stairs over which we passed, were in perfect keeping 
 lost all its sadness, and became 4 Ssctap ae dete and joveis||with master Kendall’s appearance. Cloaks, shawls, handkerchiefs, 
 thie, oy. or oe ae to ae year raptures an ms of the | + ie: yor le ene ae = the oe on 
 edeemed in Heaven. They sparkled with 22 unearthly brilliancy in the balustrade, and on the stairs. The airt tuat had deen swept from 
 her uplifted eye; and they thrilled in every tone of her voice, as she | the boarders’ rooms into the passage, lay, a part of it in heaps, and 
 lay there and repeated—‘ To die is to go home—kome! Sorrow and ‘the rest scattered about the floor. 
 sighing shall flee away; and death shall be no more. Thanks, thanks — «** Miss Greely’s room presented a most pitiful aspect. It contained 
 be to Mew ‘ r eis porta my ie pv I pee if 1 three low, miserable looking beds, in such close contact as ae 
 were, indeed, ‘listening to the melting songs of other worlds. ''searcely room to pass between them. There was nota chair in tne 
 “She loved us ali to the last moment. She regarded us with just |room; but the girls’ trunks were their substitutes. The apartment 
 i stoic bch aunesion haing mig ean posed S| rebee te Bert ee cee ng abou, i wer oe 
 eel for loved ones, who are doomed to strugg.e On With the Ils OF \and ventuated. rticles of clothing were lying avout 1 :on~ 
 life. For herself, she had no fears—no misgivings; and she died, at fusion—on beds, lines, trunks, bandboxes, and the floor. And the 
 last, : ; | latter looked as if it had not been washed for months. 
 ‘Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch || ‘One's very heart aches at tales of suffering like Miss Greely's. She 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” , || was only sixteen—a lovely girl; aad her mother was a widow, poor 
 ‘She returned to A. immediately after the date of my last, in anand sickly. She entered the mill one montia previous, in her support. 
 apparently improved state of health. She was seized with a fit of; She had been failing more than two weeks, but she had net funds 
 coughing, attended with hemorrhage, the night after her return; and |to carry her home; besides, she was hoping all along, that she 
 from that time her decliae was fearfully rapid. |wonld be enabled to work again. Mrs. Kendall paid her no atten- 
 “<I never saw, ia any situation, so mach of self-sacrificing kind- |tion whatever. And when one of Miss Greely’s room-mates descriked 
 ness, as in Mrs. Liwton’s hostess—Mrs. Houston—and her boarders. || her poor appetite, and asked for something nice for her to eat, she 
 w idere t thing, the li i L. for the sick and||pertly answered, that what was good enough for her—was good 
 t was considered a great thing, the little I did at 5 pertly r , 2g g 
 poor. But it was nothing, comparatively. I had few fatigues at|/enough for a factory girl. ‘is 
 home; and might well incur them occasionally in my attentions to|)  “* The girls pitied her, but they were mostl yvery young ; and, +3 
 the sick. We had a full pantry and a fall purse ; I might well take |ing no adviser, they did not know what to do for her So they ic 
 trifles from them, to feed and clothe the poor. Not so with Mrs ||the worst thing they could do—purchased lemons, oranges, lige, nuts, 
 ston and her boarders. and rich cakes for her. a 
 Jouston i own!| Of course, she became worse; and for three days before I was 
 Jeea_), 
 
 | ealled_shehad left her bed only to have it atranged, afier the girls. 
 
 ry aie ee ee: en 
 
 04 
 
 t 
 
 t 
 
 ely dependent upon her 
 
 RY new Wr 
 
THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 Heten Govu.p. 
 
 4) | 
 ——_—— oo rOvn—“—“—“M"_O’OtE>R>OT™O>?*>*>O@M0M0S SSNS 
 
 left work at night, unt 
 call Master Kendall. ; 
 tomas of which had began to show themselves, when I called. A 
 <¢<T saw at a glaace, that Thad come too late ; and when, ina voice 
 scarcely audible, from emotion and physical suffering, she gave the 
 circumstances I haye just related—in answer to my questions—l felt || 
 a pity for her, her poor mother, regrets that I could not save her, 
 and indignation toward her unfeeling hostess, which almost unmanned 
 me. ; 
 “<I repaired immediately to Mrs. Kendall ; inno gentle terms, told 
 her Miss Greely’s condition, and reproved her eriminal neglect 
 She put on airs, which she meant should be very fine; and began) 
 excusing herself, by telling me how she had always been accustomed 
 to being waited upon, instead of waiting upon others. She had 
 
 A violent cold seized her in the act, the symp- || 
 
 || descriptions. y L 
 | other way, perhaps, by reporting her in two of her rounds, ene taken 
 ‘two orthree weeks previously to Helen’s marriage, and the other on 
 
 il she crawled to the window that morning, to || came wholly by her habit of interposing conjectures of her ewn, to 
 
 fill the vacuums left by her ignorance of some of the facts ef the case. 
 And she was, at the same time, definite and sententious in her 
 So our tale may be finished more briefly than in any 
 
 | the subsequent day. 
 
 “* Good afternoon, Mrs. Morey; good afternoon, Ann. Have you 
 
 heard the news ?” said she, as she ‘ just dropped in’ to Mr. Morey’s. 
 
 Mrs. Morey answered in the negative. 
 ** Well, you will be astonished. You knew that Helen Gould was 
 going to be married nextmenth. Well, Ann Clement is going to be 
 married to Mr. Thomas Gould at the same time. Would you have 
 ‘thought it? It will be a fine ou : 
 
 ‘How came it 
 
 always been told that factory girls had no feelings; thatthey didnot | ‘Can it be possible eS interrogated Mrs. Morey. 
 expect any attentions, or, at least, such as others had. | to be so secret so long a: k 
 
 <<<] impatiently interrupted her, by ordering a better room, anda|| ‘*Yes; it is vastly possible, T assure you. I have it on the author- 
 cleaner bed for my patient. I then went to the superintendent |/ity of a correspendent in Mr. Gould’s neighborhood. He did not intend 
 Ele wasa very benevolent man; and felt a truly paternal interest for|' being married so soon; but you know Mr. Lawrence, of the east 
 the comfort and improvement of his operatives. He went to the|| parish, has had an appointment to the West. Well, as true as yeu 
 mills, found a tender and skiliful nurse for the poor girl; and then live, Mr. Gould is to succeed him; so Jane will be nicely fixed near 
 
 followed me to Mrs. Kendall’s. home.” ; 
 **Oh, Iam * said Ann. 
 
 “© Fle was much shocked wher he saw Miss Greely. I had been) 
 telling her what he was doing for her; and when he entered her|; ‘And still more, and still better,” interrupted Miss Hunt. “* Mr. 
 room, she extended her hand to him and burst into tears. She was) Graham, Helen’s husband, that is to be, has bought the Gould estate. 
 still more affected, when her nurse bent over her, and arranged her||I declare! I can hardly credit my senses.” 
 Ann jumped up, and clapped her hands in real delight. Mrs. 
 
 pillows. She shook with emotion ; and the good Mr. Blake turned!) 
 away, to conceal the tears that ran down his cheeks. | Morey was equally pleased. 
 <*¢ We did all that skill and benevolence could do to save her, but); ‘* How pleasant it will * she began. 
 ia vain. In three days, Mr. Blake, Mrs. Kendall, her nurse, and ‘* They are coming up to Mr. Clements,” said Miss Hunt. “The 
 
 myself, followed the hearse which bore her to her heart-stricken|| Goulds, and some friends of theirs, who are making the tour of the 
 mother. , | United States, Dr. Horne’s family; consisting at this time of visiters 
 i *** Never, never did I see such ahouse asthat was! My heartsick- || frem somewhere, I have forgotten where; well, they are all coming ; 
 ens even now, when I think of that poor mother. Mrs. Kendall)|and I’ll tell you just what I guess. I guess they will come up here 
 suffered, as I did not suppose one so worldly and selfish, as she had||on Saturday ; be married by Dr. Horne, in the meeting house, on 
 been, could suffer. Alas! it was by a bitter lesson she learned that|)/ Sunday; and Monday, Mr. Clement and his wife will start with them 
 factory girls have feelings; and that responsibilities, most weighty||for the North. They are going by way of the lake, andthe White 
 aud fearful, devolve upon the keepers of factory boarding houses.’ | Mountains, to Saratoga and Niagara. What glorious times they 
 
 “*Oh, my dear Jane, are there not dark, dark shadows in the pic-|| will have! and it will be pleasant for us all.” 
 ture of factory life 2 | Now, mother, I must have my new dress,” said Ann, ‘‘ for yon 
 
 ‘* This tale will wring your heart as it did mine. But you willnot|| know ——” 
 regret that you have heard it. [tis good for us to know the condi-|| ‘But, positively, I must go. Folks don’t know anything abeut 
 tion—moral, physical, aad intellectual —of this portion of our sex.|'this. How glad Mrs. Smith will be! She has always said, that all 
 it is good for us to know something of their worth, their noble strug- | would come out well to Helen at last, she was so kind to the widow 
 gies with adverse circumstances, their temptations, and their suffer-,/and the fatherless. But, really—good afternoon, Mrs. Morey—good 
 ings. We may not be enabled to relieve the latter ; but Charity has'| afternoon, Miss Ann. You must call.” 
 
 a larger heart, when she weeps for others’ woes; and she finds her-| 
 selflooking about her for some burden that she may assist in bearing, | ‘* Always at home, and always busy with your work, reading, or 
 for some sorrow that she may alleviate, by her sympathy and love. _| flowers,” said Miss Hunt, as she and Ann Morey stopped at the yard 
 
 “°Tis past six. I must close this letter, and prepare myself for a|| where Caroline French was training her woodbine. 
 long walk, in less than a half hour; else I might finish my day in, ‘I don’t see how you can be contented. And I should think you 
 telling you some ‘ most pretty things,’ about Herbert and myself. '|would forget everything that is passing in the werld.”’ 
 
 “I shall write once more from this place. This will startle you, | ‘Oh, I read eight newspapers every week,” said Caroline, smiling. 
 my Jane; butitisevenso. I shall leave town for L, dearL.,the|| ‘Eight newspapers!” 
 
 Lake, and White Hills, on the first of next month, as the bride of | ‘‘ Yes; father takes one daily, and two weekly, p2pers.”’ 
 Herbert Graham. Oh, Jane!, this seems all like a dream to me. || Well, I don’t see, for my part, how you find time to read them 
 
 “* We shall be accompanied byfuacle’s family, Dr. Horne’s, an? all. By the way, which bride do you prefer ?”’ , 
 their visiters. And itis no sybilline wisdom which bids me hope | ‘Oh, are they not both beautiful, Caroline? and they are so good, 
 that we shall be joined by my beloved, and faithful friend, Jane. '|too!” said Aun. 
 
 ** It is not certain where we shall reside. Herbert will purchase | 
 a farm. Herbert is vibrating now, between two; one in this town, || 
 and onc—I do not know where. 
 
 “ My little Margaret is sitting on an ottoman, by my side. Her 
 back is turned; for she is making something pretty for me, whieh 
 she does not wish me to see, until it is completed. It is doubtless 
 a boquet. She exhibits great taste in selecting and arranging flow- || 
 ets. Her grief for her mother’s loss, was excessive at first; but she 
 is too light-hearted, she loves me and her new home too well, to 
 grieve long. Poor creature ! I pray Heaven that I may be assisted 
 ~ the discharge of my duties to her, and to others, by an almighty 
 
 Rm. 
 
 . ‘ We are waiting for you, dear coz,’ says my lively little Grace. 
 
 Farewell, for a little season, my dear Jane. 
 ‘*HELEN GOULD.” 
 
 trasted.” 
 
 “T heard Mr. Smith say, as he stood looking at them, last evening 
 —and you know he pretends great connoisseurship in such things— 
 weil, he said, ‘Mrs. Graham has most of the princess in her style.’”’ 
 
 ‘He was correct in this. There is a peculiarly energetic expres- 
 ||sion in her full eye, her lofty and broad forehead, and in that slight 
 |,compression of her lips, much of which she has gained in her season 
 | of trial. Still, this does not interfere with the strictest feminine soft- 
 jness. She looks asif made for a lofty sphere. There is a graceful 
 || dignity in everything she does; and when I looked at her last even- 
 ing, as she stood leaning on the arm of her husband, with her eyes 
 
 fixed on his fine face, as he talked with father,!I thous at her unequal- 
 \ledin everything. But aglance at thesweet little Jane, left me again 
 | wholly undecided as to a preference.” ' 
 ‘| “Yes; Mr. Smith said, ‘Jane is a lovely girl; sweet as a rose, 
 
 wee 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 "The east parish of L., like almost every other country village, had ‘pure as innocence itself.’ I always laugh at his extravagances.” 
 a8 gossip. Miss Hunt was not mischievously disposed ; but she was| ‘She is all simplicity,” said Caroline, “and as humble as if she 
 ene of that class described by Disraeli, in the annexed quotation: || Were not the loved of all hearts, and ‘ the observed of al! observers.’ 
 ; —— unhappy beings who wander from house to house, privi- | And this fits her for the station she is to fill.” 
 ge ele of society, to abstract the knowledge theycan-| ‘‘ Yes,” said Ann. ‘ They were dressed just right. Helen ought 
 the cestasflliers “i Lage they are tired, or to seek amusement at to wear a rich white satin, and a band of pearls on her plaited hair ; 
 mo Chel vehamn, Fraessp ey. clase of society which have aflixed and Jane ought te wear a simple white muslin, with a wreath of 
 not the best qualified t an‘that of getting rid of it; these are judges flowers among hei curls, and a rose on her bosom. What a little 
 depredations in the ar pac oe the nature and evil of their beauty Margaret is! I don’t wonder that they love her so.” 
 
 She went through the hehe ata of the studious.” | Some thought Mr. Henry Gould’s lady very handsome,” said 
 nary routine. She was tate at every occurrence out of the ordi-/ Miss Hunt. “ What witches they are! Take my word for it, they 
 such as courtships, and ae oe her developments of events, were made for each other; and will be married in less than two 
 sometimes incurred the¥i ‘SES, prepense or perpetrated. True, she ‘years. Some think he will move to this place, and take the charge 
 
 Jimputation of Stretching the truth ;> but it of the factory down there—but I don’t know.” 
 
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