The Factory Girl | Page 2

obscurity.
It was a beautiful evening in mid-summer, in the year 18. The brilliant
constellations had taken their seats in the blue vault of heaven, and
every star seemed to twinkle with joy, and to emit its rays like the
benign influence of the virtuous mind upon surrounding objects. The
zephyrs, rilled with the fragrance of nature's flower-garden, wafted
their rich perfume in a sweet murmur, save which, with the gentle
rolling of the pellucid stream, silence reigned. The earth was clothed in
her richest garments, and dame Nature seemed to smile with

satisfaction at the faithful accom plishment of her work, and the beauty
of each object which her pencil had touched, or her magic wand
animated. Then Solitude lent her charm, and Devotion her power to the
virtuous mind.
On such an evening as this, at a short distance from a small, yet
beautiful village of the "Granite State," upon the banks of a stream
tributary to the noble river that washes the western boundary of that
State, might have been seen, apparently in deep and interesting, if not
anxious conversa tion, a lady and gentleman, whose appearance would
have particularly engaged your attention. They were both young, and
the lady at least was peculiarly beautiful and lovely.
"When shall you return, Calliste?" inquired the gentleman. "That is
uncertain," was the reply. "We shall miss you," continued the first
speaker, "but I hope we shall hear from you often." "Most certainly I
shall write," she replied. But we have traced their conversation far
enough to open to the minds of our readers the characters which we
have introduced; and as the companion of Calliste, at the present time,
permit us to introduce MARCUS HARTWELL, of whom the reader
will hear more as we proceed. Suffice it to say, that he was a very dear
friend of Calliste, and that they were about to part for a season.
Long did they converse, seated upon the mosscovered bank, beneath
the shade of a majestic elm, whose towering trunk had bid defiance to
the storms of many a rolling year, ere those beneath its boughs had
commenced the journey of life. The subject of their present
conversation will be readily guessed by our readers. Theirs, gentle
friends, were hearts swayed by reciprocal feelings by deep, pure,
fervent, and devoted affection. They had- not learned to trifle with the
brightest, sweetest, and purest feelings of which our nature is
susceptible. They had received this precious gift from the hand of
Virtue, and her kiss as the signet of her approval aroused confidence to
act in mutual harmony and they were happy. This, indeed, is the only
source to the fountain of happiness, and all the pranks of Cupid upon
hearts really unworthy to bear the gem of true affection, are but
impulses that lead to evil, rather than the attainment of lasting good.

There is an hour, in which the heart can truly realize the extent of its
attachment to any object when it can truly feel the worth of a soul
possessing feelings congenial to its own. There is a time that severs
kindred spirits, and plants their destiny in remote climes from each
other, to wander alone among strangers, with no friend to soothe the
aching head, or cheer the hour of sorrow and gloom, by a kind word
and an ever-welcome smile. Yes,
The parting hour, to kindred hearts,
Truly is ever fraught with pain;
For who can tell, when once we part,
If we shall ever meet again?
We love the endearing associations that cluster around Home, and from
the scenes of our child hood, hallowed by so many interesting names
and scenes all dear to our heart it is indeed hard to part; but there is one
association that binds us still stronger to its object, and that is true affec
tion. This, this, we say, draws the cords of the heart, and touches a
vibrating string, the music of which strikes upon the soul in tones
sorrowful, yet sweet, as in the low and hallowed cadence the last adieu
falls upon our anxious ear with a magic spell.
Such was the scene which we have introduced to our readers, and the
time and place were favorable to the parting, for a calm and holy
influence seemed to fall around them, as if angels were at their
devotions near, and the harmony of Nature, as exhibited in the material
universe, seemed also to render a tribute of praise to the Architect
Divine. But in the hearts of Marcus and Calliste, nothing but unfeigned
affection touched the strings; and though that passion so sacred, so holy
was mutual, yet, up to the present time, had it remained unconfessed.
From early years they had associated with each other, and that
attachment