The Factory Girl | Page 6

those
friends be loved, whom she had left behind. And one, in particular, we
may rest assured was not forgotten and our readers will not fail at once
to recog nize the object of our reference. No! the heart of woman clings
with wonderful tenacity to the object of its choice, and alas! too often
though not in this case is that object unworthy of the deep, ardent and
lasting affection, which exists in the heart of the fair one, and whose
flame cannot be extinguished by the floods of adversity, or even the
betrayal of its sacred trust. She loves him still
E'en though his heart unworthy prove,
To bear the sacred trust of love,
Still in her breast shall live, a name
That tells affection's hallowed flame!
Yes, woman's love shall constant shine,
And shed around a light benign;
This can dispel the darkest gloom,
And cheer our pathway to the tomb.
Did we truly realize how sacred are the af fections, methinks few
indeed would dare to trifle with a flame, which, when once aroused to
action, loses its light only in the grave! We should at tach more value to
a gem, than which, in its purity, earth can boast none of greater value,

or more transcendent beauty and excellence a gift of Heaven to
humanity, to bind in sacred relations the human family together.
Calliste had been but a short time engaged in her new employment,
when she received a pack age of letters from home; and if any thing can
cause the heart to leap for joy, when at a distant residence, and among
strangers, it is to hear from HOME. How eagerly do we read every
word that is from the pen of those near and dear to us those whom we
know feel interested in our welfare. How eagerly do we receive
whatever intel ligence is contained in the affectionate epistle, and those
precepts, which we know are for our good! But there was one letter in
the package, which, perhaps, she read with as much interest, at least, as
any of the others, and we need not tell who it was from. When on the
page we can read what we trust to be the feelings of a kindred heart, we
perhaps take unusual interest in the perusal; at least, this we will
venture to say was the case with Calliste. She read, and was happy.
And here we leave the subject of our narrative for a time, to attend to
her daily duties, while we turn to other scenes and characters.
Meanwhile, we re mark, that happiness dwells alone in a contented
mind. We have intimated already that Calliste was happy; and this
condition presupposes con tentment. No one can enjoy the full amount
of happiness which is attainable by mortals, until they believe
themselves as well off as others; and this is the foundation of
contentment. The mind that is ever seeking for novelty, and when
engaged in any enterprise, is not contented to persevere, but wishes for
some other object to which to turn the attention, will seldom make
much proficiency in any thing; but the individual who, after having
chosen his profession, is contented steadily to pursue it, will not only
make advancement, and reap the reward of his labors in the end, but
will enjoy real happiness, be his lot cast in the palace or the humble
cottage.
CHAPTER III.
How happy is the Farmer's lot,
Who finds a home, tho' in a cot,

Where Virtue and Contentment reign,
And Providence rewards his pains!
SURROUNDED by the Granite Hills of New Hampshire, in a beautiful
valley, through which a small stream found its circuitous way, as its
waters danced merrily over the bright pebbly track which it had chosen,
arose the humble cottage of Mr. Barton. Its weather-beaten walls,
externally had acquired a leaden hue, but its romantic location was such,
as would lead the poet, or the painter, to select a residence there, in
preference to the splendid mansion of the crowded city. The for
est-shade, and the meadow, the hill's lofty elevation, and the beauties of
the valley, enriched the scenery, and made it attractive to the admirer of
nature. Here were nature's works in all their grandeur, beauty, and
unrivalled magnificence such as are admirably calculated to impress the
mind with an accurate idea of the truly beautious and sublime, and to
draw it in the connection of its relations, from " Nature, up to Nature's
God."
And the infinite museum of Nature, also, ever open to the curious,
presented wonder upon wonder, to charm the eye, and to demand
attention. The colors of every flower presented the work of an
unrivalled pencil, the imitation of which, even to a tolerably correct
extent, would be