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looking out from cool verandahs on still, green woods and soft flowing waters, to whom Music and Poetry and Romance minister, whose slightest wish is as law to her dependents,-undertake to sentimentalize over the working classes," and quote Carlyle and Goethe, concerning the romance and beauty, and miraculous powers of Work-in the abstract. How is it that with such admirers of Labor, the laborer is so little considered? How is it that they put forth no hand to pull down that hateful wall of distinction which pride has built up between the labourer and the labored for? Excellent was the advice of Dr. Johnson to Boswell: My dear sir, clear your mind of CANT."


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My attention has been called to a neat volume just published in London, consisting of extracts from the Lowell Offering, written by females employed in the mills, to which the English editor has given the title of " Mind amongst the Spindles." Thousands will read it, and admire it, who will not reflect upon the fact that these writings are only an exception to the general rule, that after twelve or more hours of steady toil, mind and body are both too weary for intellectual effort. MIND AMONG THE SPINDLES!" Let all manner of Factory Agents, and Corporations without souls," consider it. The mind of the humblest worker in these mills is of infinitely more consequence in the sight of Him who looks on the realities of His universe, than all the iron-armed and steam-breathed engines of mechanism. It is a serious fact, gentlemen, that among your spindles, and looms, and cottons, and woolens, are thousands of immortal souls-children of our Great Fatherfearfully dependent for their bias towards good or evil, for their tendency upward or downward, upon the circumstances with which they are environed.— Think less of your monster-mechanisms, and more of the "SPIRIT WITHIN THE WHEELS."

The one

may wear out with constant friction, but it is only dead matter. It may be restored. But, who shall repair the worn out body, and renovate that spirit, the life of which has been exhausted by toil too protracted?

Yes-let the unpractical say what they will, there is much that is wearisome and irksome in the life of the factory operative. All praise then to those, who, by the cultivation of their minds, and the sweet influences of a healthful literature, have relieved this weariness, and planted with flowers the dusty path-way of Toil. Honor to those who have demonstrated to the blind aristocrats of Europe and America, that the rich and the idle cannot become the entire monopolists of refined tastethat in the temple of Nature, which is open to all, the Beautiful stands side by side with the Useful -Grace throwing her oaken garland over the sun-brown brow of Labor-with the same soft skylight of OUR FATHER'S blessing resting upon all.



Stand up-erect! Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God!-who more!
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a MAN
As moves the human mass along,
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy?—the high

In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye?

Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee? A feather, which thou mightest cast Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No:-uncurb'd passions-low desires-Absence of noble self-respectDeath, in the breast's consuming fires, To that high nature which aspires

Forever, till thus checked

These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot-
Thy labour and thy life accurst.
Oh, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great!-what better they than thou? As theirs, is not thy will as free? Has God with equal favours thee Neglected to endow ?

True, wealth thou hast not: 'tis but dust! Nor place uncertain as the wind! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water, may despise the lust

Of both--a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,

True faith, and holy trust in God, Thou art the peer of any man. Look up, then-that thy little span Of life may be well trod!



A voice peals o'er life's wildly heaving waters,
More startling than the anthem of the storm;
Sweet as the hymn wherewith Etruria's daughters
Went forth of old to welcome in the morn :
It shakes with fear the despot stern and hoary;
He totters on his blood-cemented throne-
It breathes into the warrior's ear the story
Of days when fields of blood will be unknown-
It fills the gray old idol-fanes, whose altars
Are fitly builded o'er the hollow tomb;
The Priest amid his incantation falters,
And trembles with the presence of their doom;
Falsehood, with fearful agony dissembles,

And vice, within her gilded chamber trembles
And hate grows darker still with idle rage.

But the crushed bondsman hears it, and upspringeth To burst his shackles and once more be free,

And shouts aloud until the echo ringeth

O'er the far islands of the Eastern sea.

The faithful lover of his race rejoices-

The champion girds his gleaming armor on-
The seer saith "God speaks in those earnest voices :
Earth's fearful battle-field shall yet be won."
Each hallowed martyr of the ages olden

Leapeth for joy within his darkened grave,
And new-born poets wake with voices golden
To chant the glorious actions of the brave;
O'er earth it rolls like peals of gathering thunder,
And nations rise from slumber on the sod,
And angels list, all mute with breathless wonder,
Its echo in the living soul of God!
O'er every radiant island of creation

The music of that swelling peal is borne,
Land bears to land, and nation shouts to nation
The war-cry of the age-reform!-REFORM!

List to that mighty music-O, my brother!

Heed thou those anthem-voices, as they roll,

Like bursting flames that darkness fain would smother
Through the deep chambers of the inner soul,
Waking the spirit, in its deathless power,
To gird its armor for the daily fight;
And in the Present's dark and fearful hour

Go forth to battle for the true and right.
Hearken, and burst the slimy chains of fashion,
Let the false worlding scorn thee if he will;
Rise, sun-like, o'er the storms of earthly passion,
And stem with fearless breast the tide of ill.

Success will crown each arduous endeavor,

And from the strife thy soul rise great and free, And deed give birth to deeds that roll forever,

Wave after wave, o'er time's grand, azure sea. A crown of thorns the foe may twine around thee: Press on, the way is open, heed not them--

The mournful wreath, wherewith their hate hath bound
Shall change unto a starry diadem.
The grand of soul, the true, the noble-hearted,
Will hear thy strokes and rally at thy side,
And round thy brow, through rifted clouds and parted,
Stream down the smile of God. O, glorified!
From life and voice the wakened world inherit
A legacy of truth and love sublime,
Whose charm shall echo when thy earnest spirit
Rests with the mighty of the olden time;
Rests, filled with joy beyond all human story,
As looking down, with calm and god-like eyes,
It views the race, in mind's transcendant glory,
Scaling the star-crowned mountains of the skies!

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"He is the FREEMAN whom the TRUTH makes free, And all are slaves beside."-CowPER.

For the Truth, then, let us battle,
Whatsoever fate betide!

Long the boast that we are FREEMEN,
We have made and published wide.
He who hath the Truth, and keeps it,
Keeps what to himself belongs,
But performs a selfish action,

That his fellow mortal wrongs.

He who seeks the Truth, and trembles
At the dangers he must brave,
Is not fit to be a Freeman :-

He, at least, is but a slave.
He who hears the Truth and places
Its high promptings under ban,
Loud may boast of all that's manly,
But can never be a MAN.
Friend, this simple lay who readest,
Be not thou like either them,-
But to Truth give utmost freedom,
And the tide it raises, stem.

Bold in speech and bold in action,
Be forever!-Time will test,
Of the free soul'd and the slavish,
Which fulfils life's mission best.
Be thou like the noble Roman-

Scorn the threat that bids thee fear,
Speak!-no matter what betide thee;

Let them strike, but make them hear.
Be thou like the first Apostles-

Be thou like heroic Paul;
If a free thought seek expression,
Speak it boldly!-speak it all!
Face thine enemies!-accusers!

Scorn the prison, rack, or rod!
And, if thou hath TRUTH to utter,

Speak! and leave the rest to God.



Time, which tarries not for mortals, has brought me to the close of my look at England. It is very awkward to sum up and generalize when one has only begun to observe; therefore understand me as giving generalizations of things as they seem to mewhat a fly that lights upon England for a twinkling and is off, thinks of it.

Look at the Times newspaper with a net revenue
equal to that of a third rate European potentate.
Ministers have bribed it till it is beyond the reach
of their bribery. They look up to it with fear and
trembling, and a degree of humble obedience. It is
the voice of the most vigorous intellect of England,
saying what will be most likely to find an echo in
the breasts of one hundred thousand independent
Englishmen as they swallow their buttered toast
and boiled egg.
Look at Punch, too, with wit and
wisdom enough to insure him a hundred patents of
immortality. He governs a great part of England,
very much for its good. The Pecksniffs of the land
take hints from him, much to the benefit of their
dupes. Hence one may conclude that England is
growing, and has grown wiser, and, of course hap-
pier. Yet if one were to ask himself to write down
the folly and humbug and unhappiness of England,
it would be difficult to decide where to begin, and
quite impossible to end.

As to the bounties of Providence, substantial blessings and beauties, I cannot conceive how more could have been granted in the same space, than is the lot of this, so far as nature has made it, "merrie England." After seeing the golden harvests of the rich eastern counties and Yorkshire, the meadows of the Thames, above all, the garden valley of the Tweed; the mines of Derbyshire, and another region to which the wise do not carry coals; the bens and lochs of Scotland; the pikes and fells, and dales and meres of Westmoreland; the springs of Mal- England may be said to live under a trinity vern; the valleys of the Severn and the Wye-even of evil, kingeraft, priestcraft, and beercraft. In taking a nap on the brow of the Wyndecliffe—surely this let me not be understood to speak disrespect. I have a right to say, "Avaunt, all geography; this fully of this interesting daughter of Eve, the Queen, island is the very spot where the human race ought who with such exemplary patience obeys the comto develop itself in all its power and glory." But mand imposed upon her aforesaid mother, nor of the truly, the race, as a man, is far and painfully below reverend clergy, nor yet of the noble brewers, what a nurseling of republicanism, alighting on the many of whom write sir before and bart. after their Wyndecliffe, and drinking in the beauties of the names. They are all honorable persons, I hope and wide landscape, and knowing nothing more of Eng-trust; but the craft to which they were born or land, would expect to find it. There is ignorance and coarse brutality, and sullen hopelessness, and haggared wretchedness, far beyond what there ought to be in the midst of such beauties and blessings. Yet there is not a little, but a great deal among the human inhabitants, that is, like the land-scape, noble and lovely and glorious, and that, not in no one class, but in all classes, from the highest to the lowest. And a peep at history will convince one, too, that the race is here making a progress that is truly encouraging and sublime. Indeed, history writes this upon the landscape. The old feudal castles, now possessed by ivy and owls; the ruinous abbeys, the dimly-remembered battle fields and Smithfields," are way-marks that show how the race has gone forward. The Alfreds, the Shakspeares, the Hamp-cisely to more beer and consequences of beer! I dens, the Newtons, the Miltons, the Howards, the may be mistaken; truly I have found warm and Wesleys, the Hogarths, have not lived in vain. zealous promoters of thorough temperance, but they Their mantles are worn worthily by men whom it seem to be regarded as the maddest of fanatics. might be invidious to mention now, but who will Nine men out of ten of the laboring classes, so far as shine as the stars by and by; men who are doing I have been able to observe, and I have been quite what Cromwell did, in a wiser way. They have inquisitive, have not the slightest barrier between approached in fact, nearer than in form, to the de- themselves and stupidity and drunkenness but their sired goal. In enumerating the governing powers inability to get enough beer. It is their undoubted of England, you have not done when you have men-creed that beer is a blessing, and one of their deeptioned king, lords and commons. The press is to est sorrows is that their wages will not allow them be named, and that not at the tail of the list. The to get plenty of it, with a drop or two of gin by way press has outgrown the power of what is called the of luxury. Look at poor Chartism, befogged in government, to control either by fear or favor.beer! fighting as often as any way against itself, and

bred, does, I am sure, cost England immeasurable woes. O that I had the eye of a prophet and could say that there was in the visible dimmest distance of the future, any thorough relief. As it is, sanguine hope, without seeing any thing, guesses that deliverance must come, somehow and at sometime or other. The order in which the evils press upon the country seem to me to be first, beercraft, second priestcraft, third kingcraft. Till the beercraft is removed-till the people get the clear heads and strong hearts which pure water gives-in vain you lift at the others. Suppose you abolish the taxes and tithes and give England a cheap government, and free church and fall suffrage, to what will it amount, so far as the masses are concerned? Pre

selling to its worst enemies even the little suffrage | of total abstinence upon a more commanding founda

it commands! If the masses of England could be tion than it has hitherto occupied. If you can get roused to enter upon the career so gloriously begun the wine out of the heads of the philanthropic of the by those of Ireland, they would soon take a position higher class, then will they see clearly the effects of which would settle many of the knottiest questions beer upon the lower. Both once delivered, the naof politics, and the crafts of the priest and the king tion would not be long in discovering the folly of would be swept away like the meshes of the spider. working itself to death to support a class of grand The state and the church would then take their and idle hereditary pickpockets, nor long in devising places as servants of the people-not masters. Yet means of relief. See if the new vision bestowed with all this, which to an American mind is so evi-upon the Irish people does not work out such dent, staring them in the face, there are plenty of results. England wants an occulist like Father sincere philanthropists here, enemies of slavery, of Mathew.


corn laws, of church tyranny, of a vampyre aris-
tocracy, who will pity you for not drinking wine
with them! who will raise the cup of Circe to their
own lips, and then lament the oppression and dagra-
dation of England's poor! Put the brewers of Eng-A happy bit hame this auld warld wad be,

land in the same condition with her feudal castles

and monasteries, and her poor will soon take care of other vampyres.


An'ilk said to his neebour, in cottage an' ha’,
If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree,
'Come, gi'e me your hand, we are britheren a'.'


There is one sign of the times, however, which is hopeful. The discovery in Germany of the won-I ken na why ane wi' anither sud fight, derful sanatory principles of cold water, is making a deep impression upon the higher and middle classes here. The doctors are not able to laugh it down. After spending fortunes on physicians in vain, invalids go to Grafenburg and are healed. A child with the scarlet fever is wrapped in a wet sheet and gets well. Men rummage their libraries and find that just such cures have been performed at Malvern a hundred years ago, and the water when analysed is the purest possible. And they find cases in which patients with raging fever and delirium have broken loose from their nurses and jumped into the Thames or some horsepond, and their madness has proved better than the wisdom of the doctors.

Many are coming to the conclusion that disease is chiefly some mysterious modification of that great poison, diet, with which we are sent into the world to battle, and this redounds greatly to the advantage of pure water. Setting poisons to catch poisons is growing into disrepute with these people, and consequently they may by and by be expected to see the absurdity of sending one dram of alcohol into the stomach to cure the disease made by its predecessor. The multitude of experiments which have now put the matter fairly to the test, seem to demonstrate that coldness combined with pure water, is the best means that has ever been tried to quench human inflammations, and when properly applied will cure any patient who has strength to be cured in any way. This being true, the occupation—I do not say of the doctors, for it will require science and wisdom to apply cold water-but of the druggists of all medical poison manufacturers, is gone. And shall not alcohol be included?

From the hold this subject has taken of the most intelligent here, I look for a great pathological reform, which I think cannot fail to set the principle

Whan to 'gree wad make a' body cosie an' right.
Whan man meets wi' man, tis the best way ava,
To say, Gi'e me your hand-we are britheren a'.'
My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,
An' I maun drink water, while you may drink wine,
But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to shaw,
Sae gi'e me your hand-we are britheren a'.
The knave ye wad scorn, the unfaithfu' deride;
Ye wad stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side;
Sae wad I, an' nought else wad I value a straw;
Then gi'e me your hand-we are britheren a'.

Ye wad scorn to do fausely by woman or man ;
I hand by the right aye, as weel as I can;
We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a';
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are britheren a'.

Your mither has lo'ed you as mithers can lo’e;
An' mine has done for me what mithers can do;
We are ane hie an' laigh, an' we should na be twa-
Sae gi'e me your hand-we are britheren a'.
We luve the same simmer day, sunny an' fair;
Hame! O! how we lo'e it, an' a' that are there!
Frae the pure air o' Heaven the same life we draw-
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are britheren a'.

Frail shakin' Auld Age will sune come o'er us baith,
An' creepin' alang at his back will be Death;
Syne into the same mither yird we will fa':
Come, gi'e me your hand-WE ARE BRitheren a',

"God is better lodged in the heart than in great edifices."

"By taking revenge a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over he is superior."

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Thou canst not; and 'tis breathed in vain

Thy sophistry of love.

'Tis not in pride or cold disdain

Thy falsehood I reprove.

Inly my heart may bleed—but yet
Mine is no weak, no vain regret,
Thy wrongs to me I might forget,
But not to Him above.

Cease then thy fond impassioned vow
In happier hours so dear.

No virgin pride restrains me now,
I must not turn to hear;

For still my erring heart might prove
Too weak to spurn thy proffered love,

And tears-though feigned and false-might


And prayers, though insincere.

But no. The tie so firmly bound

Is torn asunder now;

How deep that sudden wrench may wound

It reeks not to avow.

Go thou to fortune and to fame,
I sink to sorrow-suffering-shame-
Yet think, when glory gilds thy name,
I would not be as thou.

Thou canst not light or wavering deem

My bosom, all thy own, Thou knowest, in joys enlivening beam, Or fortune's adverse frown, My pride-my bliss had been to share Thy hopes; to soothe thine hours of care; With thee the martyr-cross to bear,

Or win the martyr's crown..

Tis o'er-but never from my heart
Shall time thine image blot.
The dreams of other days depart.
Thou shalt not be forgot;
And never in the suppliant sigh

Poured forth to Him who sways the sky
Shall my own name be breathed on high,
And thine remembered not.

Farewell! and oh may He whose love Endures, though man's rebel,

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When they flock, like birds, about me-
Birds in rainbow plumage clad-
Their bright looks and thrilling voices
Make my spirit glad.

Pure, confiding, free from sorrow,
Free from even a shade of sin,
They, like lilies in their glory,
Neither toil nor spin.

Wicked tongues have not assailed them,
Or the serpent, slander, stung,
Or the poisonous ivy clambered
Their green leaves among.

Parasites, and false companions,
Have not stolen their guileless trust,
And their tenderest flowers of feeling
Trampled in the dust.

Dark suspicion, envy, malice

Fiends to man and foes to GodNever scathed the blooming gardens By their footsteps trod.

Mother-love has folded round them

Arms more soft than angel's wings, And with sweeter accents lulled them Than an angel sings.

Father-love, defending, keeping,

Leading strengthening, cheering, throws Its broad shield above them, waking Or in deep repose.

Gentle darlings, spotless creatures,

How, through many a live-long day, Have I, neither vexed nor weary, Joined your merry play!

I, a lonely man, am friendless
Never where young children be;
Though my love for them be endless,
Large is theirs for me.

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