The Factory Girl | Page 6

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 to paint the sunbeams. Here the bee roved from flower to flower, in pursuit of the dulcet morsel, and in his untiring industry, showed to man a lesson of value, and the golden-plumed humming-bird, darting with lightning-like rapidity, sported in happi ness, as he sipped the pearly dew-drop from its chalice. Here was an acceptable home to the devotional mind, in the rural retreat, than which, no place on earth offers more real beauties to our admiration.
Such was the location of the home of Calliste's early years. Here had the sunny days of child hood been passed, among the beauties of the va riegated expanse of Nature, and,