"I know such things are said of them, deacon, but I do not think they are true. I have never seen but one factory girl, and that was my cousin Esther, who visited us last summer. I do not believe there is a better girl in the world than she is; and I cannot think she would be so contented and cheerful among such a set of wretches as some folks think factory girls must be. There may be wicked girls there; but among so many, there must be some who are good; and when I go there, I shall try to keep out of the way of bad company, and I do not doubt that cousin Esther can introduce me to girls who are as good as any with whom I have a.s.sociated. If she cannot I will have no companion but her, and spend the little leisure I shall have in solitude, for I am determined to go."

"But supposing, Susan, that all the girls there were as good, and sensible, and pleasant as yourself--yet there are many other things to be considered. You have not thought how hard it will seem to be boxed up fourteen hours in a day, among a parcel of clattering looms, or whirling spindles, whose constant din is of itself enough to drive a girl out of her wits; and then you will have no fresh air to breathe, and as likely as not come home in a year or two with a consumption, and wishing you had staid where you would have had less money and better health. I have also heard that the boarding women do not give the girls food which is fit to eat, nor half enough of the mean stuff they do allow them, and it is contrary to all reason to suppose that folks can work, and have their health, without victuals to eat."

"I have thought of all these things, deacon, but they do not move me. I know the noise of the mills must be unpleasant at first, but I shall get used to that; and as to my health, I know that I have as good a const.i.tution to begin with as any girl could wish, and no predisposition to consumption, nor any of those diseases which a factory life might otherwise bring upon me. I do not expect all the comforts which are common to country farmers; but I am not afraid of starving, for cousin Esther said, that she had an excellent boarding place, and plenty to eat, and drink, and that which was good enough for anybody. But if they do not give us good meat, I will eat vegetables alone, and when we have bad b.u.t.ter, I will eat my bread without it."

"Well," said the deacon, "if your health is preserved, you may lose some of your limbs. I have heard a great many stories about girls who had their hands torn off by the machinery, or mangled so that they could never use them again; and a hand is not a thing to be despised, nor easily dispensed with. And then, how should you like to be ordered about, and scolded at, by a cross overseer?"

"I know there is danger," replied Susan, "among so much machinery, but those who meet with accidents are but a small number, in proportion to the whole, and if I am careful I need not fear any injury. I do not believe the stories we hear about bad overseers, for such men would not be placed over so many girls; and if I have a cross one, I will give no reason to find fault; and if he finds fault without reason, I will leave him, and work for some one else.--You know that I must do something, and I have made up my mind what it shall be."

"You are a good child, Susan," and the deacon looked very kind when he told her so, "and you are a courageous, n.o.ble-minded girl. I am not afraid that _you_ will learn to steal, and lie, and swear, and neglect your Bible and the meeting-house; but lest anything unpleasant should happen, I will make you this offer: I will let your mother live upon the farm, and pay me what little she can, till your brother James is old enough to take it at the halves; and if you will come here, and help my wife about the house and dairy, I will give you 4_s._ 6_d._ a-week, and you shall be treated as a daughter--perhaps you may one day be one."

The deacon looked rather sly at her, and Susan blushed; for Henry Rand, the deacon's youngest son, had been her playmate in childhood, her friend at school, and her constant attendant at all the parties and evening meetings. Her young friends all spoke of him as her lover, and even the old people had talked of it as a very fitting match, as Susan, besides good sense, good humor, and some beauty, had the health, strength and activity which are always reckoned among the qualifications for a farmer's wife.

Susan knew of this; but of late, domestic trouble had kept her at home, and she knew not what his present feelings were. Still she felt that they must not influence her plans and resolutions. Delicacy forbade that she should come and be an inmate of his father's house, and her very affection for him had prompted the desire that she should be as independent as possible of all favors from him, or his father; and also the earnest desire that they might one day clear themselves of debt. So she thanked the deacon for his offer, but declined accepting it, and arose to take leave.

"I shall think a great deal about you, when you are gone," said the deacon, "and will pray for you, too. I never used to think about the sailors, till my wife's brother visited us, who had led for many years a sea-faring life; and now I always pray for those who are exposed to the dangers of the great deep. And I will also pray for the poor factory girls who work so hard and suffer so much."

"Pray for me, deacon," replied Susan in a faltering voice, "that I may have strength to keep a good resolution."

She left the house with a sad heart; for the very success of her hopes and wishes had brought more vividly to mind the feeling that she was really to go and leave for many years her friends and home.

She was almost glad that she had not seen Henry; and while she was wondering what he would say and think, when told that she was going to Lowell, she heard approaching footsteps, and looking up, saw him coming towards her. The thought--no, the idea, for it had not time to form into a definite thought--flashed across her mind, that she must now arouse all her firmness, and not let Henry's persuasion shake her resolution to leave them all, and go to the factory.

But the very indifference with which he heard of her intention was of itself sufficient to arouse her energy. He appeared surprised, but otherwise wholly unconcerned, though he expressed a hope that she would be happy and prosperous, and that her health would not suffer from the change of occupation.

If he had told her that he loved her--if he had entreated her not to leave them, or to go with the promise of returning to be his future companion through life--she could have resisted it; for this she had resolved to do; and the happiness attending an act of self-sacrifice would have been her reward.

She had before known sorrow, and she had borne it patiently and cheerfully; and she knew that the life which was before her would have been rendered happier by the thought, that there was one who was deeply interested for her happiness, and who sympathized in all her trials.

When she parted from Henry it was with a sense of loneliness, of utter desolation, such as she had never before experienced. She had never before thought that he was dear to her, and that she had wished to carry in her far-off place of abode the reflection that she was dear to him.

She felt disappointed and mortified, but she blamed not him, neither did she blame herself; she did not know that any one had been to blame. Her young affections had gone forth as naturally and as involuntarily as the vapors rise to meet the sun. But the sun which had called them forth, had now gone down, and they were returning in cold drops to the heart-springs from which they had arisen; and Susan resolved that they should henceforth form a secret fount, whence every other feeling should derive new strength and vigor. She was now more firmly resolved that her future life should be wholly devoted to her kindred, and thought not of herself but as connected with them.

CHAPTER III.

It was with pain that Mrs. Miller heard of Susan's plan; but she did not oppose her. She felt that it must be so, that she must part with her for her own good and the benefit of the family; and Susan hastily made preparations for her departure.

She arranged everything in and about the house for her mother's convenience; and the evening before she left she spent in instructing Lydia how to take her place, as far as possible, and told her to be always cheerful with mother, and patient with the younger ones, and to write a long letter every two months (for she could not afford to hear oftener), and to be sure and not forget her for a single day.

Then she went to her own room; and when she had re-examined her trunk, bandbox, and basket, to see that all was right, and laid her riding-dress over the great armchair, she sat down by the window to meditate upon her change of life.

She thought, as she looked upon the s.p.a.cious, convenient chamber in which she was sitting, how hard it would be to have no place to which she could retire and be alone, and how difficult it would be to keep her things in order in the fourth part of a small apartment, and how possible it was that she might have unpleasant room-mates, and how probable that every day would call into exercise all her kindness and forbearance. And then she wondered if it would be possible for her to work so long, and save so much, as to render it possible that she might one day return to that chamber and call it her own. Sometimes she wished she had not undertaken it, that she had not let the deacon know that she hoped to be able to pay him; she feared that she had taken a burden upon herself which she could not bear, and sighed to think that her lot should be so different from that of most young girls.

She thought of the days when she was a little child; when she played with Henry at the brook, or picked berries with him on the hill; when her mother was always happy, and her father always kind; and she wished that the time could roll back, and she could again be a careless little girl.

She felt, as we sometimes do, when we shut our eyes and try to sleep, and get back into some pleasant dream, from which we have been too suddenly awakened. But the dream of youth was over, and before her was the sad waking reality of a life of toil, separation, and sorrow.

When she left home the next morning, it was the first time she had ever parted from her friends. The day was delightful, and the scenery beautiful; a stage-ride was of itself a novelty to her, and her companions pleasant and sociable; but she felt very sad, and when she retired at night to sleep in a hotel, she burst into tears.

Those who see the factory girls in Lowell, little think of the sighs and heart-aches which must attend a young girl's entrance upon a life of toil and privation, among strangers.

To Susan, the first entrance into a factory boarding-house seemed something dreadful. The rooms looked strange and comfortless, and the women cold and heartless; and when she sat down to the supper-table, where, among more than twenty girls, all but one were strangers, she could not eat a mouthful. She went with Esther to their sleeping apartment, and, after arranging her clothes and baggage, she went to bed, but not to sleep.

The next morning she went into the mill; and at first, the sight of so many bands, and wheels, and springs, in constant motion was very frightful. She felt afraid to touch the loom, and she was almost sure that she could never learn to weave; the harness puzzled and the reed perplexed her; the shuttle flew out, and made a new b.u.mp upon her head; and the first time she tried to spring the lathe, she broke out a quarter of the treads. It seemed as if the girls all stared at her, and the overseers watched every motion, and the day appeared as long as a month had been at home. But at last it was night; and O, how glad was Susan to be released! She felt weary and wretched, and retired to rest without taking a mouthful of refreshment. There was a dull pain in her head, and a sharp pain in her ankles; every bone was aching, and there was in her ears a strange noise, as of crickets, frogs, and jews-harps, all mingling together, and she felt gloomy and sick at heart. "But it won't seem so always," said she to herself; and with this truly philosophical reflection, she turned her head upon a hard pillow, and went to sleep.

Susan was right, it did not seem so always. Every succeeding day seemed shorter and pleasanter than the last; and when she was accustomed to the work, and had become interested in it, the hours seemed shorter, and the days, weeks, and months flew more swiftly by than they had ever done before. She was healthy, active, and ambitious, and was soon able to earn even as much as her cousin, who had been a weaver several years.

Wages were then much higher than they are now; and Susan had the pleasure of devoting the avails of her labor to a n.o.ble and cherished purpose. There was a definite aim before her, and she never lost sight of the object for which she left her home, and was happy in the prospect of fulfilling that design. And it needed all this hope of success, and all her strength of resolution, to enable her to bear up against the wearing influences of a life of unvarying toil. Though the days seemed shorter than at first, yet there was a tiresome monotony about them.

Every morning the bells pealed forth the same clangor, and every night brought the same feeling of fatigue. But Susan felt, as all factory girls feel, that she could bear it for a while. There are few who look upon factory labor as a pursuit for life. It is but a temporary vocation; and most of the girls resolve to quit the mill when some favorite design is accomplished. Money is their object--not for itself, but for what it can perform; and pay-days are the landmarks which cheer all hearts, by a.s.suring them of their progress to the wished-for goal.

Susan was always very happy when she enclosed the quarterly sum to Deacon Rand, although it was hardly won, and earned by the deprivation of many little comforts, and pretty articles of dress, which her companions could procure. But the thought of home, and the future happy days which she might enjoy in it, was the talisman which ever cheered and strengthened her.

She also formed strong friendships among her factory companions, and became attached to her pastor, and their place of worship. After the first two years she had also the pleasure of her sister's society, and in a year or two more, another came. She did not wish them to come while very young. She thought it better that their bodies should be strengthened, and their minds educated in their country home; and she also wished, that in their early girlhood they should enjoy the same pleasures which had once made her own life a very happy one.

And she was happy now; happy in the success of her n.o.ble exertions, the affection and grat.i.tude of her relatives, the esteem of her acquaintances, and the approbation of conscience. Only once was she really disquieted. It was when her sister wrote that Henry Rand was married to one of their old school-mates. For a moment the color fled from her cheek, and a quick pang went through her heart. It was but for a moment; and then she sat down and wrote to the newly-married couple a letter, which touched their hearts by its simple fervent wishes for their happiness, and a.s.surances of sincere friendship.

Susan had occasionally visited home, and she longed to go, never to leave it; but she conquered the desire, and remained in Lowell more than a year after the last dollar had been forwarded to Deacon Rand. And then, O, how happy was she when she entered her chamber the first evening after her arrival, and viewed its newly-painted wainscoting, and brightly-colored paper-hangings, and the new furniture with which she had decorated it; and she smiled as she thought of the sadness which had filled her heart the evening before she first went to Lowell.

She now always thinks of Lowell with pleasure, for Lydia is married here, and she intends to visit her occasionally, and even sometimes thinks of returning for a little while to the mills. Her brother James has married, and resides in one half of the house, which he has recently repaired; and Eliza, though still in the factory, is engaged to a wealthy young farmer.

Susan is with her mother, and younger brothers and sisters. People begin to think she will be an old maid, and she thinks herself that it will be so. The old deacon still calls her a good child, and prays every night and morning for the factory girls.

F. G. A.

SCENES ON THE MERRIMAC.

I have been but a slight traveller, and the beautiful rivers of our country have, with but one or two exceptions, rolled their bright waves before "the orbs of fancy" alone, and not to my visual senses. But the few specimens which have been favored me of river scenery, have been very happy in the influence they have exerted upon my mind, in favor of this feature of natural loveliness.

I do not wonder that the "stream of _his_ fathers" should be ever so favorite a theme with the poet, and that wherever he has sung its praise, the spot should henceforth be as cla.s.sic ground. Wherever some "gently rolling river" has whispered its soft murmurs to the recording muse, its name has been linked with his; and far as that name may extend, is the beauty of that inspiring streamlet appreciated.

Helicon and Castalia are more frequently referred to than Parna.s.sus,--and even the small streams of hilly Scotland, are renowned wherever the songs of her poet "are said or sung." "The banks and braes o' bonny Doon," are duly applauded in the drawing-rooms of America; and the Tweed, the "clear winding Devon," the "braes of Ayr," the "braes o'

Ballochmyle," and the "sweet Afton," so often the theme of his lays, for his "Mary's asleep by its murmuring stream," are names even here quite as familiar, perhaps more so, than our own broad and beauteous rivers.

Such is the hallowing power of Genius; and upon whatever spot she may cast her bright unfading mantle, there is forever stamped the impress of beauty.

"The Bard of Avon" is an honorary t.i.tle wherever our language is read; and though we may have few streams which have as yet been sacred to the muse, yet time will doubtless bring forth those whose genius shall make the Indian cognomens of our n.o.ble rivers' names a.s.sociated with all that is lofty in intellect and beautiful in poetry.

The Merrimac has already received the grateful tribute of praise from the muse of the New England poet; and well does it merit the encomiums which he has bestowed upon it. It is a beautiful river, from the time when its blue waters start on their joyous course, leaving "the smile of the Great Spirit," to wind through many a vale, and round many a hill, till they mingle

"With ocean's dark eternal tide."

I have said that I have seen but few rivers. No! never have I stood

"Where Hudson rolls his lordly flood; Seen sunrise rest, and sunset fade Along his frowning palisade; Looked down the Appalachian peak On Juniata's silver streak; Or seen along his valley gleam The Mohawk's softly winding stream; The setting sun, his axle red Quench darkly in Potomac's bed; And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;"--

but I still imagine that all their beauties are concentrated in the blue waters of the Merrimac--not as it appears here, where, almost beneath my factory window, its broad tide moves peacefully along; but where by "Salisbury's beach of shining sand," it rolls amidst far lovelier scenes, and with more rapid flow. Perhaps it is because it is _my_ river that I think it so beautiful--no matter if it is; there is a great source of gratification in the feeling of whatever is in any way connected with our _humble_ selves is on that account invested with some distinctive charm, and in some mysterious way rendered peculiarly lovely.