Chapter III: Part 3

The sun shone brightly on this their first Sabbath morning together in their new home. The notes of birds, the rushing streams, the shooting grass was the voice of Spring. The cattle and flocks in the fold cast wistful glances to the pastures on the hillsides; every thing that had power of motion seemed to have come out to welcome the voice, and to be filled with tranquil happiness. It was surprising to see how perfectly all these persons united in their religious service as they met together in the library to thank God for their blessings. All idea of sect was lost or forgotten in the common feeling of thankfulness. Sheltered by the same roof, fed at the same table, and happy and contented in the same scene, they were led to acknowledge in their hearts that they had a common Father and one faith in Him. All those circumstances of going to different places, having different forms and different names, the rivalry of preachers, and the temporal success of their various churches, were absent, and in the fervor of their gratitude all causes of separation were forgotten, and every thing disuniting was merged in a common sense of dependence, as they confessed their sins and prayed for guidance and light from the one Source of all benefits.

Philip conducted the meeting, and the mother's heart was satisfied with seeing her son even in that humble pulpit. Forgetting himself, and making no special effort to be eloquent and fine, he extemporized a better sermon than he could have written, from the text, 'But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith.' Music, a kind of devotion itself, was not wanting to complete the beauty of their simple worship; and when the sun went down on that Sabbath evening, each felt that he had never truly worshipped before; so cold, tame, and meaningless did the almost compelled services of the churches seem to them, when compared with this spontaneous, social outpouring of the heart.

As the sun was declining, John Stewart and Clara had separated from the others in their walk, and stood beside the lake. They were discussing the sermon of Philip: 'And then how beautifully he portrayed the effects of true religion on the life,' said Clara, in reply to some remark of his. 'He has so much feeling that he makes others feel. He does not say such remarkable things, but all he does utter you are sure comes from the bottom of his heart.'

'And do people always produce such effects when they speak from their hearts?' asked John.

'I believe so,' answered Clara; and then there was a long silence, and they sat down on a fallen trunk by the side of the lake, looking at the budding trees reflected in the clear water.

Religion and love are close companions. When the heart is touched by devotion, when we have made our peace with Heaven, and formed resolutions to lead purer and better lives, all the finer parts of our nature are roused into action, and we are prepared to love, to assist, and sympathize with our fellow creatures. A bad man cannot love; he may feel passion, but not love.

John Stewart, with a rough exterior, had a sensitive heart. He had long in secret worshipped the fair Clara, but the sense of his own deficiencies had hitherto kept him silent. His connection with Rufus Gilbert had drawn him often to her mother's house, where he was considered an odd sort of young man; for as we have before remarked, he would sit for hours watching the movements of the younger sister, who regarded him almost like a brother.

'You know, Clara,' at length began John, 'that we are all under a solemn agreement with Mr. Gilbert to have no secret plan, to make no bargain of any kind, and to conceal no grief, while members of the family, but to be perfectly open and trusting in all our dealings with each other.'

'Yes, John; and have you broken the agreement?'

'No, but I am like to, unless you help me out of a difficulty.'

'Oh, any thing, John; you know I would do any thing in my power for you.'

'But if it is not in your power now, will you try to help me?'

'Certainly.'

'Then you must try to love me; you must be my wife, Clara.'

'And the wedding shall take place when you have earned a thousand dollars by your own labor,' said a voice behind them, which they knew to be Rufus Gilbert's.

'And,' added another voice, 'I am an ordained minister, and can legally marry you.'

Turning, they became aware that their friends had come up as they were talking together, and unintentionally heard their conversation.

Clara said nothing, but gave her hand to John, then ran to embrace her mother and sister, while her lover half bewildered with delight and happiness so unexpected, was shaking hands with his brothers and friends.

'We heard what you said about the 'solemn agreement,' to divulge all secrets; we have saved you the trouble,' said Rufus. 'This honesty alone makes you worthy of any woman, and I congratulate myself as well as you upon this plighting.'

The parties returned to the house and spent the evening in singing sacred music together; and if, as some one has observed, happiness is the true atmosphere of devotion and of virtue, John and Clara both were better on that evening than ever before.

* * * * *

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

'O THAT the newspapers had called me slave, coward, fool, or what it
pleased their sweet voices to name me, and I had attained not death
but life!'

CARLYLE'S 'PAST AND PRESENT.'

IT must not be supposed that the Meadow-Farmers gained their position without other struggle than the labor of arranging and cultivating their domain. Fortunately for them they had enemies, or rather opponents, who talked against them and wrote against them, and by these means compelled them to look carefully to their own principles. These attacks taught them their own strength, and gave steadiness and manliness to their efforts. The strong ship never sails so steadily as when she stems an opposing current.

A man can hardly introduce a new kind of plough upon his farm, without being called upon for his reasons; much less can a body of men start a new project of society, unquestioned and unnoticed. Although every freeman may plough and reap as he please, yet may I call him to account for the implied slander which he utters upon the usual and common plough of the country, by throwing it aside and adopting a new one. So when men promulge new doctrines of society, and establish new forms of business and domestic economy, may we not rightfully question them closely, for their attempt to unsettle the established order of things, which they virtually do by such a course? For by no means is it true, that men have the right--the moral right--to plunge recklessly against old institutions and habits, with no other reason than that such is their pleasure. Such crusades may be more safely allowed in monarchical countries, whose heavy and ponderous forms are little moved by them; but in a country where public sentiment is law and government much more than the statute-book, it is not only our right but our duty to watch narrowly every innovation, and to question, with a voice of authority, him who comes to remove the old landmarks planted by our fathers.

This curious and, as it is called, meddlesome spirit, which Americans show in the affairs of their neighbors, is in fact the instinct of self-preservation in our people. It is a better habit than an idle curiosity, however it may be denominated. It matters little who comes or goes, or what the habits and opinions, of people who live in countries where a military power is ever ready to support the established authority of the land. Not so with us. We require no passports in passing from village to village, from state to state; every man is free to move as he pleases; but there is constantly over every man a jealous scrutiny, and not so much over his personal movements, as over the most important part of him, his opinions and habits. Hence the thousand staring eyes which greet every stranger as he passes through our villages and towns. Is any one desirous of being conspicuous among his fellow men, he has only to quietly take up his abode in any of our country towns; preserve a mysterious silence respecting his business; say no more than is absolutely necessary for his wants, and in a week's time he will become the theme of every tea-table in the neighborhood; and should he incline to go to meeting on the Sabbath, he will find that he will more than equally divide attention with the preacher. As we live and move and have our being as a nation by the action of this public sentiment, is it not a necessary consequence that we are curious and meddlesome, and often annoying, toward those who come among us to see the strange anomaly, a self-governed people? And we ask such persons seriously, if, having considered the case, our prying, Yankee questioning is a proper subject of their ridicule?

For the same reason, too, all secret societies are deemed dangerous to the community, and our people will not endure them because they are foreign to the character of our government. And how are they foreign, it is asked? Each voter being a part of the government, he wants all the facts of the country before him in order to form his opinion, which he cannot have if secret societies exist. In a despotism the power being in one head, that head alone has need of the facts we refer to; the governed have no interest except to obey, no duty but to submit. To refer to an almost forgotten question, the rights of Free Masons, the opposition and abuse they received was far less against them as Masons, than as asking for protection and privilege, without being willing to yield any thing to that public sentiment which they were opposing by their very existence as a secret society.

Let us draw here one other inference from what has been said, and then to work: a free and untrammeled press is as essential to a free government as air is to life. If the art of printing had been known by the ancient republics they might still have existed. And, moreover, we may demand, as a right, to know any and all of the affairs of others which may, by possibility, act upon this public trust, of which each man is part keeper. And the advantage of this supervision is mutual, for it is well for every one to know that the whole country has an interest in what he does, in his acts, his habits, and especially in his opinions.

Rufus Gilbert courted this scrutiny, and took pains to open his views to all who visited him; but he became unpopular at first with the church in his neighborhood, because he did not come under its wing and ask its influence--an influence always to be obtained by paying for it. Both political parties called him a fool and fanatic, because he did not immediately set down his political opinions and promise his vote for or against men he had never seen or heard of before.

To the Whig committee-man who called to ask his support for that party, he propounded first the question, 'Is your candidate a temperance man?'

'Really, Sir, we have little to do with such narrow questions; I can't answer you.'

'Is he for or against slavery?' next proposed Rufus.

'That, too, is beyond my instructions.'

'What then, may I ask,' said Rufus, 'are the grounds upon which you ask my vote for your candidate?'

'Grounds, Sir!--zounds!' said the emissary, looking about for a convenient stump, 'grounds, did you say? Sir, he is a Whig; he was born a Whig; he has lived a Whig, and will die a Whig. What more can you ask? He never opposes his party; he is a man we can rely upon; we know where to find him; he is a man to stick to the party, if the party go to the d--l; and that's what I call being a patriot.'

A little ruder in speech, but quite as honest in his views, was the friend of the opposing party, who called to solicit the name of Mr. Gilbert on his paper, whose inquiries respecting the opinions of the candidate upon what he conceived to be vital questions, namely, temperance and slavery, he answered thus:

'I'll tell you what, friend, you're a stranger to me and I'm a stranger to you, but I have heard that you are a friend to the poor; now if such be the case, you hate the Whigs, you hate the rich, the aristocrats that they be; this is as natural as for hens to cackle. Now we don't meddle with temperance, because some of our men can only be brought forward by the drink; we don't touch slavery, because, you see old Hickory may own slaves himself. These are, in polite way of talking, subjects for the straddle. The fence, Sir, the fence, is our only and our tee-total safety on these p'ints.'

'But,' said Rufus, 'because I am a friend to the poor, how does it follow that I must hate the rich? I must love all men, for every man is my brother. I shall not vote at all at the coming election, for I have not had time to inform myself as to the respective merits of the men that are up.'

'That's right, Sir, I must confess,' said the young man, with an entirely different tone and manner, for he was the son of an honest man, and had had early instruction in his youth; 'that's right; I respect you, Mr. Gilbert; it's just what father said; and I must tell you, I've seen better days than getting a dollar a day for crying 'Hurrah for old Hickory!' So, re-cocking his hat and falling again into the part he was paid for playing, off he rode.

'A pretty fellow this,' said the Whigs, 'to show no colors; I'll bet a cow he will sneak in and vote for Hickory. What right has he to come into our county and play dark till the game turns? We'll fix him!'

'Did you try to buy him?' said the Jackson men to their emissary.

'No; I didn't dare do it; I'll wager drinks all round he is not to be bought.'

'This is a noble fellow,' sighed the Whig candidate himself, when he heard what Rufus had said; 'I must seek him out; a man after my own heart. Would to God I were free to act myself! Oh! this slavery of party; this slavery of the soul! How much meaner and baser is it than any bonds of the body!'

'Saddle me a horse,' said the other candidate; 'I'll ride over and promise him he shall be post-master.'

'That's promised three times already,' said some one; 'promise him the judge of probate, for that's only promised twice.'

'Ah! that will do.' But Rufus was proof against promises and bribes.

Providence smiled upon the labors of the band, in a productive harvest, the first year of their location. The land proved even better than they expected. Uninterrupted health, the result of their simple and regular habits, enabled them to enjoy life as they had never done before. And what was it gave such a spring to their labors? They each had a personal interest in the crops. If profits accrued, they were to gain by them; if losses occurred, they were to lose by them. But better than this, they all lived in an elevated atmosphere. Subjects of deep interest employed their hours of rest and refreshment. They were living in the school of love and brotherly kindness. No rivalry excited their passions; no competition embittered their intercourse; every act of each one was felt to be the act of all; and they were as much interested in the success of each other as of themselves. It is astonishing how one earnest mind may spread its influence over masses of men, and give tone and harmony to the most discordant elements. Such was the influence of Rufus; and hardly less that of Philip. The young farmers caught the spirit of their discussions, and as they became informed in their minds, they began to take part in their animated debates. This made their hours of rest seasons of real improvement, and they became as much concerned for their intellectual harvest as for the crops on the soil. Their evenings were not spent listlessly in smoking and lolling about on benches, drinking cider and picking their teeth with straws, as many farmers spend them, but in the library, where one read aloud for the benefit of all, or in the general discussion of some topic of sufficient importance to cause them to forget their bodily fatigues. And thus are we kindly constituted by nature; study is rest from bodily labor, and bodily labor is rest from study. It has been proved by experience that one man may more easily do the intellectual and physical labor of two men, than the two can do it separately. The student without exercise becomes the invalid or the madman, and the laborer, without thought and intellectual culture, becomes a brute.

With the majority of our farmers money-getting is the prevailing motive. Are they temperate, it is out of regard to their health and pocket. If they are honest, it is often more a matter of business and credit than of virtue. Can it be denied that the farmer's standard is too low? Does he live for his soul, his mind; to make life a scene of noble progression in knowledge and virtue? Is he not generally more anxious to enlarge his farm than to expand his intellect? Does he not sneer at learning, and glory in his coarseness? Would that he might try the true life; keep up the balance of his powers; make his body the servant of his soul; and look toward knowledge and virtue as the destiny of his being!

Rufus Gilbert had arrived at that point of attainment. He really and sincerely valued money only as a means, an unusual refinement indeed; and this principle he had instilled into the hearts of all his disciples, so that they were elevated beings, and had high views of the object of life. No man who has been by circumstances 'born again' to this new being, ever can go back to the low aims and filthy pursuits of party ambition, or heap up money for money's sake. 'To him that hath shall be given;' such men are always improving, always advancing; they cannot help it. 'From him that hath not, shall be taken away even that which he hath;' such men are always retrograding, sinking, falling; they too cannot help it.

As the reader must by this time begin to feel some interest in the financial state of the Meadow-Farm, let us look in upon them at the end of the third year of their experiment. The writer will give the statement as it was given to him, and as nearly as may be in the same words.

'Our original purchase cost five thousand dollars, and consisted of five hundred acres of land, mostly in a wild state. The expense of the house, furniture, and stock, was about two thousand dollars more, for we began with the smallest amount practicable. We numbered at the outset fourteen souls, among whom were seven able-bodied young men, ready to endure hardships and work their way wherever I should lead them. Four of the remaining were women and three were children. The first year was spent in clearing enough land to secure us against want in the way of corn, and potatoes, and wheat; and contrary to my own fears, at the end of it we were able to pay the interest on our borrowed capital, beside having greatly improved our farm. The second year was still more fortunate. We had admitted five new hands, four of whom were able-bodied men and good farmers; so that we were strong in force. The other was a good tailoress whose services we began to need. Mechanics of all sorts flocked in upon us, many of whom we could not receive. At the close of the third year, now, our affairs stand thus:

'Our farm with the buildings we have erected, is estimated at, and taxed for, eight thousand dollars. We have paid the two thousand dollars borrowed capital, and do not owe a farthing. We have three hundred sheep, and fifty head of cattle and horses. We have a good library; are all well clothed and fed. Some are richer than others, in proportion to the time they have been with us. We now number twenty-five persons, including my own two children, one an infant. John Stewart considers he has earned six hundred dollars toward the thousand which is the condition of his possessing before he can claim the hand of Clara Welton. Not that I think it necessary a young man should possess a fortune before he marries. I think with Cobbett upon this point, that the sooner a young man marries the better for him, if he has good and industrious habits; but we thought it necessary to test the case with John, as he had the reputation of being an odd fellow, and we thought while he was earning the specified amount, we could do it to our satisfaction.

'But, Sir, the best wealth we have, in my opinion, is the amount of good habits of mind and body among us. Our young farmers are chemists and botanists. We have poets, musicians, and painters among us. We cultivate the sciences as well as the land. Our wealth is in our heads and hearts, as well as something in our pockets. As to myself, I have lost nothing, but on the contrary have received a better interest on my share of the investment than I could have received in any fair business. Thus you see what united labor can accomplish; in three years we have converted three thousand dollars into eight thousand. Our profits in happiness and improvement cannot be estimated in money.'

Now although much was said and written against this new-fangled scheme of Meadow-Farm, when the public saw how successful and happy were the members, what peace and harmony reigned among them, and more than all, how much money they were making, the tide began to turn the other way. Parents gave the best evidence of what they thought of it, by striving to get their children received into Philip Welton's school. The few boys placed at first under his charge had made such improvement, not only in their studies but in their dispositions, living in an atmosphere of love and kindness, that the school began to be very popular, and many pupils were refused for want of room. Let us look in of a summer morning, at the library, and see the charms the place had for the youth. It was a large and spacious room, kept studiously clean. Books were arranged around upon the walls; historical pictures were seen here and there. The bust of WASHINGTON, which, though never so badly executed, always tells us of firmness and virtue, patriotism and heroism, stood conspicuously fronting the entrance; that of FRANKLIN, the true man and republican, the wise man and the practical man, stood near it. Flowers were placed here and there upon the tables. There was no master's desk, no pedagogical throne, the sceptre a ferula. All formality was banished from the place, and they found their seats as suited their taste and convenience. They came and went as in the order of a well-conducted reading-room, without restraint, and looked like those who came to seek knowledge, rather than like the pupils of most schools, whose anxious faces seem to say, 'When will it be my turn to be crammed?' 'How long will it be before it will be time to leave this prison?'

Or listen to the words of the teacher as he meets his pupils in the morning, and cordially takes each one by the hand, and thus removes all feeling of distance and reserve between himself and his scholars. 'My dear children, our law is love; see, it is written yonder,' pointing to an inscription on the wall, 'God is love;' 'let us to-day strive to obey this law in our thoughts and actions. It is our first duty to be good, and then, if we can, to be learned and honorable, and graceful and happy. You have collected here to learn history, and language, and useful sciences; but all these will avail you nothing, unless you first learn to govern your passions, and obey your conscience, and try to be like Christ, in preferring to bear and suffer every thing rather than commit sin. This is the enemy of happiness; the only evil in the world; for a good man cannot be unhappy. Let us, before we do any thing else, ask our Father to assist us in forming this character.'

The pupils all kneel devoutly; they all pray mentally. It is no hurried form of prayer, run through without preparation, and which robs the young of respect for devotional exercises. They are all impressed by the service, and the great idea that they will be assisted in whatever they purely undertake, gives encouragement and hope to their hearts. The words, the manner, the confidence of their teacher, lift the pupils into an elevated frame of mind, and they are ashamed, or rather forget, to do wrong, so wholly are they occupied with that which is good.

In our ambition for a high intellectual training for our youth, is there not danger that we may forget that moral and spiritual discipline, without which learning and education are a curse? Better is it that the child remain untaught in human learning, and be left to the influences and teachings of nature, than to be so engaged in the works and inventions and plans of man, that he rarely thinks of or regards the great purpose for which he was born, and received a living soul.

We are so bigoted and sectarian, that religious instruction is excluded from our common schools, for fear some sect should get the advantage of the others. We know it is allowed to teach the great principles of morality and religion, the existence of a God, and a future state of rewards and punishments; but these a child gets any where in a Christian land; he drinks them in with his mother's milk. But what folly it is to suppose that the teacher can help giving the bias of his own mind to the children, in teaching even the general principles of religion! He is aware himself that he cannot, and so he abstains from the subject altogether, or alludes to it in such a manner that it would be better let alone. At the present time no wonder there is no reverence in the young. The name and laws of God are not taught as the first and most important lessons in our common schools.

When Walter Scott was asked how he educated his sons, he said, 'he taught them to ride and to speak the truth;' showing the high value he placed upon moral and physical training, and not even noticing their intellectual pursuits. For he undoubtedly meant to convey the idea that so good principles are established in the hearts of the young, and their physical health properly cared for, there is but little fear that they will be deficient in those elevated studies whose tendency is so kindred with virtue, and whose essence is the great immutable truths of creation. Seek first the kingdom of heaven, and every thing shall be added unto you; even knowledge and power.

* * * * *

CHAPTER NINTH.

THE STORE.

''This is the latest fashion, ma'am,' said the young clerk,
with obsequious politeness, to a raw country girl, as he
spread out before her some damaged calicoes.'

'STORIES FOR THE PEOPLE.'

THERE was no subject which Rufus had more at heart, than to connect with the farm a place of trade for his company and such of the neighboring farmers as chose to benefit by it. Brought up in a country store himself, he felt a thorough disgust for the extortions, tricks, and lures of the class calling themselves country merchants. He knew well that the largest profits are almost invariably put upon the most useless articles; that every inducement is held out to the vain and weak to buy; the temptation of credit, the fanciful adjustment of flimsy fabrics to catch the eye and bewilder the fancy of ignorant servant maids; that what an article will fetch is the price of it, and not what it is really worth. If any one doubts these statements, let him inquire, and he will find that flour pays hardly any profit at all; that sugars, teas, and most of the heavy articles, are sold in the country store at barely enough to pay the cost of transportation, clerk-hire, and store-rent. How then does the merchant amass his gains? By the sale of wines and liquors, which he manufactures himself from alcohol; by selling at exorbitant profits things which cost him scarcely any thing; by obtaining mortgages on the farms for his store accounts, and ultimately getting the land into his possession for half its value.

To obviate these evils, and to secure a fair price for the products of the farm, and to be able to buy at a reasonable profit; to secure the young and giddy against temptation; he drew up a plan which he submitted to a number of the farmers in his neighborhood, who began to show themselves favorably disposed toward him. The main features of the plan were these: A capital of ten thousand dollars was divided into shares of one hundred dollars, and these shares were to be taken up by individuals; no person being allowed to hold more than four shares. Each share was to have one vote in the affairs of the concern.

When all the shares should be taken up, the company were to hire a person who, under a board of directors, was to manage the store. He was to buy and sell goods at such prices as the board should allow; exchange goods for produce, and carry on the general business of a country store as usual, only that the interest so many had in the store should secure them against exorbitant prices and unjust profits. Every holder of a share became so far the merchant; and if he paid a profit upon the goods which he bought, a part of the profit belonged to him. So in selling produce at the store; if he demanded an unjust price, he was robbing himself as well as others; and thus honest prices and profits were made his interest as well as duty.

The plan met with instant approval, and was put into immediate operation. Meadow-Farm began to assume the appearance of a village. Saving a tavern-stand, it had all the appurtenances of one. Work-shops were erected, mills set a-going, and neat cottages peeped from among luxuriant shrubbery in this amphitheatre of hills. The sounds of industry were heard where a few years before all was the unbroken silence of nature; and songs of joy and thanksgiving gushed from many hearts whose youth had been laden with sighs and tears.

Successful beyond his hopes, Rufus looked over the whole, and his conscience told him, 'This is my work; under the blessing of heaven my design is answered; truly may we cast our bread upon the waters, and find it after many days.' He felt at the moment that he had paid back to society all that his father had taken from it, and his heart was at peace.

But what were his own domestic relations, it may be asked, in this kind of common life? Did not his heart pine for a home of his own? Did he not long for the seclusion, the freedom of a hearth he could call exclusively his own? Did not this constant watchfulness over so many, distract his attention from his wife and children? By no means. The domestic arrangements of the house were such that he could retire and be as solitary as a hermit. No member of the band lost his individuality any more than men do by living in cities and villages. The association and its laws did not merge the domestic relations or destroy the family bond. On the contrary, the father had more time to give to his wife and the education of his children than is usual, because both himself and wife were freed from much of that domestic drudgery which so much occupies the time of the middle ranks of men. Three women, by a judicious distribution of labor, can cook and keep house for thirty persons with more ease and much greater economy than one woman can do all the work for five persons, the average number of households. And if the outlay in conveniences and labor-saving machinery which a large establishment authorizes, be taken into account, this truth becomes still more apparent.

Ruth heartily from the first coöperated with her husband, and took her full share of all the hard work; and by her example and readiness at the outset, procured for herself all the leisure she desired in the end. Here the women were not the mere lookers-on at the operations of their husbands. They had an interest in the profits of the concern, and voted upon all questions which involved the general conduct of affairs. Being responsible for their opinions, in one sense, they took care to inform themselves upon subjects which unhappily are too often considered out of the reach and beyond the capacity of the female mind. Woman at Meadow-Farm was not the mere cook of her husband's food, his house-keeper, his plaything, or his drudge; the nurse and convenience of the lord, one or the other of which offices most women fill in society. Her time was considered equally valuable with that of the males; and her heart and ambition were not crushed by receiving for her best exertions the paltry pittance, about one third the wages of males, which the highest civilization awards to her.

At the end of five years John Stewart was worth _the_ thousand dollars, and the union with Clara Welton was consummated, amid much rejoicing and real happiness of all parties concerned.

Philip Welton still continues to this day to be the school-master, preacher, playmate and friend of all persons who need such offices at the farm. The writer has made several visits to his chance friends since the time when he first became acquainted with them; and now, in conclusion, and by way of apology, would say to the reader that he has been led to undertake this simple and unadorned narration of the _origin of one of the finest villages in the country_, because he thought it remarkable that a scheme of association should have been carried out and accomplished, without making any noise in the world, just prior to the time of a great movement among some leading and philosophic minds upon the same subject.

The village now looks much like other villages; but if you examine into the character of the people there, you will find great union of heart and hand in all philanthropic effort. It is a remarkable place. Rufus Gilbert still lives, and his gentle wife is the happy mother of a numerous offspring. May they long live to bless and adorn the world; but not for ever; for we feel sure that for such hearts and characters there is prepared, in that other world, a blissful reward for their exertions in this, and free from its trials and perplexities; where there is no more sorrow and sighing, and all tears are wiped away for ever.

THE MAIDEN'S BURIAL.

BY MISS H. J. WOODMAN.

I.

VEIL tenderly the pale and placid brow,
Round which the floating hair
Gleams like a sunbeam, moving lightly now
In the soft summer air!

II.

Around her pillow ye have strown fresh flowers,
And her small pulseless hand
Claspeth white rose-buds, as in childhood's hours,
With her own bright-eyed band!

III.

Upon her pallid lip a smile is set,
The spirit's parting boon!
Why mourn that flow'rs with heaven's own dew-drops wet
Perish before their noon?

IV.

The soft, dark lashes rest upon her cheek,
Like shadows on the snow;
Hiding the full blue orbs whose light we seek--
But shall we find?--ah, no!

V.

There is less beauty in the glowing skies,
Less music in the vale;
The streams flow onward in a sadder guise,
The springs of pleasure fail.

VI.

Give back the precious dust, so still and fair,
Unto the waiting earth!
Hallow her couch with song and tearful prayer--
Tributes to love and worth.

VII.

A flood of radiance from the spirit-land
Dispels the gathered gloom;
Near to her God the spotless soul shall stand,
Forgetful of the tomb!

A NIGHT ON LAKE ERIE.

BY PETER VON GEIST.

NIGHT upon the waters! The blue waves of Old Erie are black, and loud, and angry; and the good ship sits uneasily, as though they were trying by incessant, convulsive throbs to shake the encumbrance from their bosom. The Heavens above are as though a pall were settling down upon us; and the horizon on all sides is marked by a zone of lurid light, like the distant fires of a conflagration. The light-house, far behind us, glimmers like the rising evening star, and its ray flashes along the dim and swelling surface, revealing the wide and heaving waste that intervenes. The strained masts quiver, and the vessel bends like an overmatched, but unyielding gladiator, before the blast. It is a night to make the timid tremble, and the bold to shout out a wild 'Halloo!' to the winds as they sweep past.

Onward the barque drives; and I sit myself down on the bowsprit, over the water, and look down on the boiling surges beneath. Eternally, in quick succession, the white-capped waves come foaming in, and hurl themselves against the reeling bow. High are they flung back, in broken fragments, and madly, like grape-shot, is the spray dashed far out on either side. Now the ship rears up her head, as if affrighted and seeking to escape from the encounter, and in a moment she plunges desperately down into the foaming mass, which leaps up to receive her.

'On high the winds lift up their voices,' and howl, and shriek, and moan, and rage; and on high I lift up _my_ voice too, but it sounds like the soft notes of a lute amid the smoke and thunder of artillery. Oh! ye spirits that ride on the wings of the wind! and ye spirits of the deep, that roll, and twist, and writhe, like serpents, on the water! who taught you to combat so furiously? The blue sky, that is wont to smile down on your repose, or on your peaceful sports, is veiled by the smoke of your battle; and under a dark canopy, as is most befitting strife, whether of spirits or of men, you wage fierce war. The petty distinctions of society; the vanity, the acquirements, the skill of man, are in your presence awed and abashed. But have their ambition and the evil passions which fill and degrade his heart taken possession of you also? I will not believe it; for Nature never conceived nor uttered an unholy thought. Or perhaps your rage is kindled against this fabric of human construction, which invades your ancient domain? Ah! well; howl and fight on; the cunning handiwork of him who calls himself your master defies your rebellious ravings!

What a stirring thing it is, to throw out a hearty defiance to the thunder and tempest! When a man flings his gauntlet into the face of the storm, all the strength there is in him is strained up; he feels himself rigid, and braced to meet the impending shock. If I were disposed, I might pause here to show, that in the everyday moulding of mind and character, a kindred principle is perceivable; that it is gigantic opposition that makes the gigantic man; that every man who has done great things in the world _has_ met such opposition; and that he was a great man, because his mind was taught to despise them, and to go forth, trusting in its own strength to meet them. I do not wonder that Ajax, when he defied the lightning, felt himself a god.

Undismayed, the stout ship struggles on, driving through the rolling sea, as if determined to force her way into, and loose herself in, the unmeasured and unexplored tract of darkness that lies before us. At length the night and the elements are beginning to assume something like their accustomed tranquillity; and now the wind, wearied with the contest, forgets its anger, and sweeps by only in short, irregular growls; while the sea continues to heave up its long, black, unbroken waves; as though the passion which penetrates and rages in a deep bosom, does not its work so quickly and lightly. The heavy clouds that seemed to embrace the lake gradually lift, and are borne swiftly and in fragments away toward the north. One by one, and for a moment at a time, the stars come out, and the rising crescent moon sends down her first trembling rays; trembling, indeed, but like the timid smile of the loved one, when it shines on the troubled sea of doubt and despair in our hearts, how brightening! The darkness is illumined by that gentle light, and we go on our way with new hopes and new courage.

The light which is thrown on the scene is like that of dawn, dim but steady, and sufficient to reveal, as far as it can be revealed, its magnificence. On the left, and at but a little distance, rise perpendicular bluffs, an hundred feet in height, and nearly as many miles in length, against which the swell is breaking, with hollow thunder, and spray dashed far up its jagged rocks. On the other side, far as the eye can reach, the waves come rolling in, grim and gray, seeming to proceed from where the edge of the horizon rests on the bosom of the waters. Occasionally, one which lifts its crest above the others, may be seen far off bursting into foam; in a single place, at first, and then the white streak winding along its summit mile after mile, till the eye is tired with following it.

There is grandeur in the unvarying sameness of these parallel ridges, which sway the ship up and down as though it were a cork, as well as in the deep monotone of their voice. This same voice, this same tone, has been given forth in storm and calm, in the darkness of night and in the light of day, for uncounted ages! When there was no created eye or heart to see and be moved, deep has here called unto deep, and storm has answered storm!

These cliffs have always felt the gentle wash, or the leaping weight of the waters. This lake felt no change when its surface was first broken by the keel of civilized man; its voice is as loud in wrath, and as soft in calm, and its pulsations are as deep, as when it made music to solitude, and disported itself alone! And by this is taught the enquirer one useful lesson (and on what page of her great book, does not Nature speak such instruction?) in human life. When a man is great, he is elevated above the heads of his fellow men so far, that the objects and passions which are so vast to them seem to him, from the distance, very small. And one of the first things that he loses sight of, is love of the approbation of the world. If he ever manifests this love, it is a sign that he has descended; and it is not surprising that he should sometimes; for he cannot be expected to be so elevated, except periodically. But when he is doing a great work, he goes forward like these waves, in his own strength, and in the majesty of his own purposes; and the breath of the crowd, whether sent forth to applaud or condemn, is like the idle wind, which passes by and touches him not. The history of every poet, or philosopher, or politician, who has himself gone before, and hastened on the slow footsteps of his generation in the march of improvement, would illustrate this principle. They have, each one, forgotten the world, and toiled to discover and elaborate some new truth, for its own sake, or for the sake of others; and when the gem was duly set, luminous, to shed light on man's pathway, and beautiful, to elevate and refine his mind, purify and warm his heart, it has been cast down with a careless hand, for those who will, to pick up.

I might exhibit this position more familiarly, by appealing to the consciousness of every writer; the present writer, for instance; and assuring _him_ if he ever wrote or thought any thing really good, when he was pondering all the while what other people would think or say concerning it? It is impossible: he paints a scene or landscape, or analyzes passion, because he loves to do so; and of course, does it best when he forgets for the moment that his picture or reasoning will come under the eye of any one else. Man can make music fit for the stars to hear, only when he makes it _to_ the stars; and then when men hear it, they will call it the music of the spheres.

The night-lamps of the firmament are unveiled, and shine down as calmly as they did on the garden of Eden. I wonder that they are not tired, and do not grow dim with long watching; the more that their watch is over such a world as this. They look down steadily on scenes of crime, and folly, and suffering; and yet their pure eyes are never seen obscured with grief, or to grow brighter through anger. Perhaps, like some noble men, they see in the mass of unclean things with which man has filled his soul the spirit of Divinity, which was breathed into it at the first, not yet wholly corrupted or cast out; and keep hoping on, that he will before long purify himself, and that they shall again shine down on the garden of Eden. We love them for this, because they love us. Like GOD, they are present to every heart that looks up toward Heaven. Like the countenance of a friend, too, they speak to us; rejoicing with a dancing ray, when we rejoice; pouring down a warm, steady flood of light, when we are full of quiet and happiness; and they have a cheering, reviving beam for the afflicted and despairing--a beam that speaks of constancy and hope.

But morning approaches; the wearied powers demand repose; and it is sweet to lie down like a cradled child, and sleep with the ceaseless wash of waters, for a lullaby, and rocked by their ceaseless roll!

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD FABLE.

WITH A BRAN-NEW MORAL.

A LION once, by hunters pressed,
He jumped out of his skin:
A Donkey found it, passing by,
And straightway he jumped in.

He stretched his legs, he switched his tail,
He grinned in triumph vain,
And snugly hid a foot of ears
Among the shaggy mane.

At sight of him, on every side
The beasts began to 'shin it;'
As frightened at the lion's hide
As if himself were in it.

Nor sight alone contented him,
But try his voice he would;
And brayed as like a lion's roar
As ever a jackass could.

Just then upon the road he saw
His master, honest man;
Quoth would-be lion to himself,
'I'll scare him, if I can!'

An extra flourish then he flung,
Too lustily no doubt,
For, shaken from their hiding-place,
Lo! his long ears stuck out!

His master took the timely hint,
And ere the joke was done,
He curried off the lion-skin,
And laid the cow-skin on.

MORAL.

WITH empty heads in borrowed locks,
Thus Dandies throng Broadway,
And strut as if they were in truth
The Lions of the day.

And why the cow-skin follows not.
Would you the reason know?
Dame Nature has encased them all
In calf-skin long ago.

_Savannah, Georgia, 1843._ J. RHEYN PIKSOHN.

THE MAIL ROBBER

NUMBER THREE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.

_Saratoga Springs, July 4, 1843._

SIR: Being now located at the Springs, amid all the gayety and elegance and aristocracy of the land, I found last evening, among the ladies in the drawing-room, the July number of your periodical. Again was I shocked and overwhelmed at the gross impudence with which you persist in the promulgation of my private affairs. That you should have published my second personal epistle to yourself, is a tremendous aggravation of your audacity. I shall take care to frame this in a style which will preclude all possibility of your printing it, and disclosing your own rascality.

I have heard moreover that well-known individuals in England have been highly disgusted at the cool, hyena-like, editorial ferocity with which you and your greedy subscribers feed upon this foul dish of scandal. Such heartless conduct cannot fail to confirm our neighbors across the 'great Atlantic privilege' in their uncomplimentary opinion of American probity. _Repudiation_ was a virtue compared with this infamous violation of the rights of man. Even here, amid all the soothing magnificence of the surroundings; in the solemn stillness of the woods, or by the stainless bosom of Saratoga Lake, or by that salubrious fount of which half a dozen tumblers are so invigorating to the spirits and beneficial to the bowels, I am sick at soul when I realize the wickedness and worldly-mindedness of Magazine Editors.

You have not hinted one syllable about _pecuniary compensation_; and how, under such a load of ingratitude, can you expect that you will be long permitted to pursue your fiendish career? A reasonable sum would satisfy me; but I forbear to urge it, for I doubt if you are a Christian. This is the last time I shall address you; nor should I now write, except to charge you immediately to return the remaining manuscripts, or to forward the customary fee for articles of equal value. You will not dare to publish this letter, I am sure, unless you are a fool as well as a fraudulent and evil-minded person.

Yours, by no means, ---- ----.'

* * * * *

AT the risk of our reputation, we have ventured to publish the above severe remonstrance; and in reply, we take pleasure in soothing the lacerated nerves of our financial friend by the following statement:

Some days ago, about sherry-cobbler time, a middle-aged individual, between five and six feet high, not very stout, although far from slim; of an open countenance; a nose Greco-Gothic, inclining to the Roman, and eyes neither light nor dark, called at our sanctum, and claimed to be the author of the poetical epistles in question. Before we had time to apologize for our part in this curious affair, the stranger, so far from producing a horse-whip, assured us, with a benignant smile, that he forgave the liberty we had assumed, and moreover, that he wished to extend his pardon to the gentleman whose late indiscretion had put us in possession of the papers. Far be it from himself, the stranger said, to remain behind the age; he supposed it was the custom of the country; and this apology, as in the aforementioned case of Repudiation, must content his friends in London. It was true, he added, that some offence had been taken abroad by this truly American proceeding; but on the whole, as he found the KNICKERBOCKER a conveyance considerably safer than the steamboat-mail, and as it was beside an immense saving in the matter of postage, he would permit us to continue the correspondence. As for those letters which we still retained in our keeping, he assured us that we were perfectly free to enlighten with them our 'Principes' or the public. Beside all this, he placed in our hands a fresh epistle, which he had intended to have sent by the next packet, but which, by his generous permission, we are happy to insert in the present number.

We trust that this will quiet the sensibilities of our Saratoga friend, and that he will return to the city with an invigorated conscience, a healthful moral sense, and a stomach improved by the waters.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

LETTER THIRD.

TO EDWARD MOXON, PUBLISHER, LONDON.