Mind Amongst the Spindles — A Weaver's Reverie; Our Duty to Strangers; Elder Isaac Townsend

A WEAVER'S REVERIE.

It was a sunny day, and I left for a few moments the circumscribed spot which is my appointed place of labor, that I might look from an adjoining window upon the bright loveliness of nature.

Yes, it was a sunny day; but for many days before, the sky had been veiled in gloomy clouds; and joyous indeed was it to look up into that blue vault, and see it unobscured by its sombre screen; and my heart fluttered, like a prisoned bird, with its painful longings for an unchecked flight amidst the beautiful creation around me.

Why is it, said a friend to me one day, that the factory girls write so much about the beauties of nature?

Oh!

why is it, (thought I, when the query afterwards recurred to me,) why is it that visions of thrilling loveliness so often bless the sightless orbs of those whose eyes have once been blessed with the power of vision?

Why is it that the delirious dreams of the famine-stricken, are of tables loaded with the richest viands, or groves, whose pendent boughs droop with their delicious burdens of luscious fruit?

Why is it that haunting tones of sweetest melody come to us in the deep stillness of midnight, when the thousand tongues of man and nature are for a season mute?

Why is it that the desert-traveller looks forward upon the burning boundless waste, and sees pictured before his aching eyes, some verdant oasis, with its murmuring streams, its gushing founts, and shadowy groves--but as he presses on with faltering step, the bright _mirage_ recedes, until he lies down to die of weariness upon the scorching sands, with that isle of loveliness before him?

Oh tell me why is this, and I will tell why the factory girl sits in the hour of meditation, and thinks--not of the crowded clattering mill, nor of the noisy tenement which is her home, nor of the thronged and busy street which she may sometimes tread,--but of the still and lovely scenes which, in bygone hours, have sent their pure and elevating influence with a thrilling sweep across the strings of the spirit-harp, and then awaken its sweetest, loftiest notes; and ever as she sits in silence and seclusion, endeavoring to draw from that many-toned instrument a strain which may be meet for another's ear, that music comes to the eager listener like the sound with which the sea-shell echoes the roar of what was once its watery home.

All her best and holiest thoughts are linked with those bright pictures which call them forth, and when she would embody them for the instruction of others, she does it by a delineation of those scenes which have quickened and purified her own mind.

It was this love of nature's beauties, and a yearning for the pure hallowed feelings which those beauties had been wont to call up from their hidden springs in the depths of the soul, to bear away upon their swelling tide the corruption which had gathered, and I feared might settle there,--it was this love, and longing, and fear, which made my heart throb quickly, as I sent forth a momentary glance from the factory window.

I think I said there was a cloudless sky; but it was not so.

It was clear, and soft, and its beauteous hue was of "the hyacinth's deep blue"--but there was one bright solitary cloud, far up in the cerulean vault; and I wished that it might for once be in my power to lie down upon that white, fleecy couch, and there, away and alone, to dream of all things holy, calm, and beautiful.

Methought that better feelings, and clearer thoughts than are often wont to visit me, would there take undisturbed possession of my soul.

And might I not be there, and send my unobstructed glance into the depths of ether above me, and forget for a little while that I had ever been a foolish, wayward, guilty child of earth?

Could I not then cast aside the burden of error and sin which must ever depress me here, and with the maturity of womanhood, feel also the innocence of infancy?

And with that sense of purity and perfection, there would necessarily be mingled a feeling of sweet uncloying bliss--such as imagination may conceive, but which seldom pervades and sanctifies the earthly heart.

Might I not look down from my aerial position, and view this little world, and its hills, valleys, plains, and streamlets, and its thousands of busy inhabitants, and see how puerile and unsatisfactory it would look to one so totally disconnected from it?

Yes, there, upon that soft snowy cloud could I sit, and gaze upon my native earth, and feel how empty and "vain are all things here below."

But not motionless would I stay upon that aerial couch.

I would call upon the breezes to waft me away over the broad blue ocean, and with nought but the clear bright ether above me, have nought but a boundless, sparkling, watery expanse below me.

Then I would look down upon the vessels pursuing their different courses across the bright waters; and as I watched their toilsome progress, I should feel how blessed a thing it is to be where no impediment of wind or wave might obstruct my onward way.

But when the beams of a midday sun had ceased to flash from the foaming sea, I should wish my cloud to bear away to the western sky, and divesting itself of its snowy whiteness, stand there, arrayed in the brilliant hues of the setting sun.

Yes, well should I love to be stationed there, and see it catch those parting rays, and, transforming them to dyes of purple and crimson, shine forth in its evening vestment, with a border of brightest gold.

Then could I watch the king of day as he sinks into his watery bed, leaving behind a line of crimson light to mark the path which led him to his place of rest.

Yet once, O only once, should I love to have that cloud pass on--on--on among the myriads of stars; and leaving them all behind, go far away into the empty void of space beyond.

I should love, for once, to be _alone_.

Alone!

where _could_ I be alone?

But I would fain be where there is no other, save the INVISIBLE, and there, where not even one distant star should send its feeble rays to tell of a universe beyond, there would I rest upon that soft light cloud, and with a fathomless depth below me, and a measureless waste above and around me, there would I----

"Your looms are going without filling," said a loud voice at my elbow;

so I ran as fast as possible and changed my shuttles.

ELLA.

OUR DUTY TO STRANGERS.

"Deal gently with the stranger's heart."

--MRS.

HEMANS.

The factory girl has trials, as every one of the class can testify.

It was hard for thee to leave "Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land.

The voices of thy hindred band,"-- was it not, my sister?

Yes, there was a burden at your heart as you turned away from father, mother, sister, and brother, to meet the cold glance of strange stage-companions.

There was the mournfulness of the funeral dirge and knell, in the crack of the driver's whip, and in the rattling of the coach-wheels.

And when the last familiar object receded from your fixed gaze, there was a sense of utter desolation at your heart.

There was a half-formed wish that you could lie down on your own bed, and die, rather than encounter the new trials before you.

Home may be a capacious farm-house, or a lowly cottage, it matters not.

It is _home_.

It is the spot around which the dearest affections and hopes of the heart cluster and rest.

When we turn away, a thousand tendrils are broken, and they bleed.

--Lovelier scenes _might_ open before us, but that only "the loved are lovely."

Yet until new interests are awakened, and new loves adopted, there is a constant heaviness of heart, more oppressive than can be imagined by those who have never felt it.

The "kindred band" may be made up of the intelligent and elegant, or of the illiterate and vulgar; it matters not.

Our hearts yearn for their companionship.

We would rejoice with them in health, or watch over them in sickness.

In all seasons of trial, whether from sickness, fatigue, unkindness, or _ennui_, there is one bright _oasis_.

It is ----"the hope of return to the mother, whose smile Could dissipate sadness and sorrow beguile;

To the father, whose glance we've exultingly met-- And no meed half so proud hath awaited us yet;

To the sister whose tenderness, breathing a charm, No distance could lessen, no danger disarm;

To the friends, whose remembrances time cannot chill, And whose home in the heart not the stranger can fill."

This hope is invaluable; for it, "like the ivy round the oak, Clings closer in the storm."

Alas!

that there are those to whom this hope comes not!

those whose affections go out, like Noah's dove, in search of a resting place; and return without the olive-leaf.

"Death is in the world," and it has made hundreds of our factory girls orphans.

Misfortunes are abroad, and they have left as many destitute of homes.

This is a melancholy fact, and one that calls loudly for the sympathy and kind offices of the more fortunate of the class.

It is not a light thing to be alone in the world.

It is not a light thing to meet only neglect and selfishness, when one longs for disinterestedness and love.

Oh, then, let us "Deal gently with the stranger's heart," especially if the stranger be a destitute orphan.

Her garb may be homely, and her manners awkward; but we will take her to our heart, and call her sister.

Some glaring faults may be hers; but we will remember "who it is that maketh us to differ," and if possible, by our kindness and forbearance, win her to virtue and peace.

There are many reasons why we should do this.

It is a part of "pure and undefiled religion" to "visit the fatherless in their afflictions."

And "mercy is twice blest; blest in him that gives, and him that takes."

In the beautiful language of the simple Scotch girl, "When the hour o' trouble comes, that comes to mind and body, and when the hour o' death comes, that comes to high and low, oh, my leddy, then it is na' what we ha' done for ourselves, but what we ha' done for others, that we think on maist pleasantly."

E.

ELDER ISAAC TOWNSEND.

Elder Townsend was a truly meek and pious man.

He was not what is called _learned_, being bred a farmer, and never having had an opportunity of attending school but very little--for school privileges were very limited when Elder Townsend was young.

His chief knowledge was what he had acquired by studying the Bible (which had been his constant companion from early childhood,) and a study of human nature, as he had seen it exemplified in the lives of those with whom he held intercourse.

Although a Gospel preacher for more than forty years, he never received a salary.

He owned a farm of some forty acres, which he cultivated himself; and when, by reason of ill health, or from having to attend to pastoral duties, his farming-work was not so forward as that of his neighbors, he would ask his parishioners to assist him for a day, or a half-day, according to his necessities.

As this was the only pay he ever asked for his continuous labors with them, he never received a denial, and a pittance so trifling could not be given grudgingly.

The days which were spent on Elder Townsend's farm were not considered by his parishioners as days of toil, but as holydays, from whose recreations they were sure to return home richly laden with the blessings of their good pastor.

The sermons of Elder T. were always _extempore_; and if they were not always delivered with the elocution of an orator, they were truly excellent, inasmuch as they consisted principally of passages of Scripture, judiciously selected, and well connected.

The Elder's intimate knowledge of his flock, and their habits and propensities, their joys and their sorrows, together with his thorough acquaintance with the Scriptures, enabled him to be ever in readiness to give reproof or consolation (as need might be,) in the language of Holy Writ.

His reproofs were received with meekness, and the recipients would resolve to profit thereby; and when he offered the cup of consolation, it was received with gratitude by those who stood in need of its healing influences.

But when he dwelt on the loving-kindness of our God, all hearts would rejoice and be glad.

Often, while listening to his preaching, have I sat with eyes intently gazing on the speaker, until I fancied myself transported back to the days of the "beloved disciple," and on the Isle of Patmos was hearing him say, "My little children, love one another."

When I last saw Elder Townsend, his head was white with the frosts of more than seventy winters.

It is many years since.

I presume, ere this, he sleeps beneath the turf on the hill-side, and is remembered among the worthies of the olden time.

B.

N.

HARRIET GREENOUGH.

CHAPTER I.

"The day is come I never thought to see, Strange revolutions in my farm and me."