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** Wost bell-house, yonder, towers in sight

Above the market-square?
The wind sweeps through it day and night;

No gate nor door is there.
Speaks joy or terror in the tone,

When neighbours hear the bell?
And that tall steed of sculptured stone—

What doth the statue tell?"

■ Not the first stranger, friend, art thou,

That hath such knowledge sought;
What say our chronicles, shall now

To thee be freely taught.
The Doom-bell of Ingratitude,

The precious relic's name;
Shades of brave sires around it brDd,—

Their memory is its fame.

"Ingratitude was, even then,

An envious world's base meed;
And so those upright, ancient men

This warning sign decreed:
Whoso had felt that serpent's sting,

To him was given the power
With h\s own hand, straight**; K o ring

The doom-bell in the tower.

"Then came the ministers of law

Together,—though 'twere night,—
Inquired, examined, heard, and saw,

Where lay the injured right.
Unheeding title, rank, or gold,

Unknowing lord or slave,
A righteous sentence, free and bold.

The honest judges gave.

■ A hundred years ago, or more,

A citizen lived here,
Whose thrifty toil and goodly store

Were famed both far aad near.
His dress, his cellar, and his sheep

His wealth might Well declare;
And he was pleased and proud to keep

A steed of beauty rare.

"Once on a time, as he rode by

A forest, late at night,
With tiger-spring and murder-cry,

Six robbers hove in sight.
His life, hard pressed before, behind,

Hung trembling by a hair,
But his good steed, with speed of wind,

Soon snatched him *rom the anare.

"The faithful beast, all white with foam,
Brought off without a wound
His grateful lord, who, once at home,

His horse's praise did aonnd.
A vow he made, and, swearing, sealed:

'Henceforth I'll give my gray
The best of oats the land can yield,
Until he turns to clay.'

VOL. VIII.

2 THE HEART AND THE WORLD.

"But the good beast fell rick at last,

Grew lame, and stiff, and blind,
And his forgetful master fast

Renounced his grateful mind.
He sought to sell him cheap, oh, fie!

And what was worst of all,
When none, at any price, would buy,

Be kicked him from the stall I

"For seven long hoars, with drooping head,

Close to his master's gate,
Pricking his ears at every tread,

That patient beast did wait.
The stars came out, all cold and bright,

None pitied his bare bones;
And there he lay, the livelong night,

Out on the icy stones.

"And when uprose another morn,

There the poor nag still stood,
Till driven by hunger's goading thorn

To stir in quest of food.
The sun o'er all his radiance flings,

But midnight Tells his head;
And he who once seemed clothed with wings,

Mow creeps with dubious tread.

M Before each tread his lifted hoof,

Groped forth to feel the way;
And, step by step, with certain proof,

Its soundness to assay.
Through all the streets he, fumbling so,

Grazed with his mouth the ground;
And 'twas a windfall, you may know,

When some stray straw he found!

"Once, thus urged on by hunger's power,

All skin and bone, oh, shame!
The skeleton, at midnight hour,

Up to the bell-house came.
He stumbled in, and chanced to grope

Near where the hemp-rope hangs;
His gnawing hunger jerks the rope,

And, hark! the doom-bell clangs!

"The judges hear the midnight cry,

Straight to the tower repair,
And lift their wondering hands on high,

To see such plaintiff there.
They went not back, with gibe and joke,

To corse the untimely clang:
Amased, they cried,—* Twas God that spoke,

When the stern doom-bell rang!'

"And the rich man is summoned now

Straight to the market-square; Half-waked, he fiercely knits his brow,—

'You dream! who wants me there?' He went defiant; but his mood

To meekness changed with speed, When in the judges' midst he stood,

Confronted with his steed.

"Know you this beast V from his high seat

Thus the chief justice said:
< But for his fleet and taitbful feet,

Your life long since had fled!
And what rewards such signal worth J

Thou spurnest him away:
Ob, man of Ice! the rabble's mirth,

And gaunt starvation's prey!

"The doom-bell sounded out Its call,

The plaintiff here you see,
Your crime is manifest to all,

And so we do decree:
That you henceforth your faithful steed

Home to your stable take,
And, like a Christian, nurse and feed

Till death, for mercy's sake i'

"The mean rich man dumbfounded stood,

The verdict vexed him sore; Yet felt he his ingratitude,

And took his steed once more.—
So in the chronicles is traced

The story, plain and fair;
And, for a monument they placed

The stone-hewn statue there."

BT MISS AUGUSTA BBOWKK.

Hiut, with thy pulses highly beating;
World, with thy pageants false as fleeting,

What concord can ye have f
Hushed shall thy pulse be, Heart, for ever,
Soon shall thy reign, proud World, be over,

Thine an oblivious grave*

Heart, canst thou grasp thy hope's fruition?
World, dost thou yield the heart's petition,

Gushing In music's tone?
None e'er enjoyed his soul's best dreaming,
Still to the prayer most earnest seeming,

Tho answerest back a moan.

Heart, hast thou found thy joys all sparkling? World, then withhold thy shadows darkling,

Spare the untainted breast! Trump-like, I hear, 'mid scenes of pleasure, A voice proclaim, in solemn measure,—

"Here, soul, is not thy rest!"

Heart, dost thou thirst for kindred union?
World, well I wist such pure communion,

Guerdon of thine, Is none;
Soul! for the goal immortal striving,
Onward! through flames and whirlwinds driving

Seise thon the victor crown t

Heart, fix on high thy sphere of action;
World, I contemn thy vague attraction,

All baseless as the wind;—
Let me so use my brief probation,
As to secure in Heaven's duration

The pinions of the mind.

Heart, guard thy treasures rich and trusting;
World, crowned with gauds, bemoulded, rusting.

Hence! with thy specious rays;—
Soul! up, and strain thy whole endeavour,
Relax the momentous combat never I—

Till mortal might decays.

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44 So you have changed your seamstress, I see," said Mrs. Mayhew to her fashionable friend, Mrs. Harris.

"O yes, and you cannot think what a difference it makes in our expenses; you know I paid Chilson half a dollar a day, and she only came at eight and worked till seven."

"That was reasonable, certainly," interrupted Mrs. Mayhew; "I am sure I don't see how any one could well work cheaper."

"You don't; well then, I only pay the girl I have now, two and sixpence, and she works an hour later, and sews beautifully; what do you think of that?" exclaimed Mrs. Harris, triumphantly.

"I think that it is not enough," answered her friend. "Only consider, my dear Mrs. Harris, twelve hours of steady labour, for the

pitiful sum of two and sixpence; surely, it is hardly just!"

"If I pay the girl all she asks, I don't see why it is not just!" replied Mrs. Harris, reddening. "She is a better judge, probably, than either you or I, of what she can, or cannot afford; if she chooses to do my sewing for two and sixpence, I don't know why I should offer her more."

"Poor girl; probably she is afraid to demand the price which is by justice hers, lest, from that grasping and overbearing spirit with which such demands are too often met, she would be refused all employment," said Mrs. Mayhew. "There is a pitiful oppression exercised toward this class of persons, Mrs. Harris; there are those, even among the most wealthy, who will bargain and chaffer with the poor seamstress, to gain a penny's advantage. What matters it that justice is on the side of the weak, so long as might supports the oppressor? and, therefore, they must either starve, or bend to the yoke."

"That may be the case with some persons, but not with me," replied Mrs. Harris. "No one is further from wishing to grind the poor than I am. I pay to those whom I employ all they ask, and no more; and that, Mrs. Mayhew, I consider to be right. 'Charity begins at home,' and I contend it is every wife's duty to use judgment and economy in the management of her household."

"Very true; but not at the expense of justice and humanity," said Mrs. Mayhew. "'Live and let live,' is an old adage, and one which I wish was imprinted in letters of gold upon every hearthstone. I simply plead for justice, not for charity; and, believe me, if the former were more frequently meted out, there would be less call for the latter! But, allow me to ask what has become of Miss Chilson f she appeared to be a very nice girl."

"Yes, I believe she was, and very faithful," answered Mrs. Harris. "But, somehow, I never exactly liked her—in fact, it is very annoying to see persons in her situation put on so many airs as she did—it is very disagreeable."

"Every person should possess a proper selfrespect," said Mrs. Mayhew.

"O yes, certainly; but, sometimes, Chilson had a way with her that was really quite provoking. Now, for instance, one day we had company to dinner, and, only an hour before the time, our waiter took a miff at something, and left the house; of course, it was then too late to procure another, and so I just 6imply proposed to Chilson to take her place, as it would accommodate me so much."

"Which, I presume, she would not do," said Mrs. Mayhew, smiling.

"Mercy, no indeed! why she looked as indignant as any princess; I always thought it very ungrateful of her. Then, another time, when I was out of a chambermaid, I requested her as a favour to do the work just for one day, and, I declare, if I had not actually demeaned myself to apologize, I believe she would have left the house, and my children's dresses half finished. To be sure, she was quite kind when little John and Anne had the measles, and insisted upon sitting up with them two or three nights."

"And yet you dismissed her, Mrs. Harris, for no other reason than that you found a person who would work for you more reasonably?" said Mrs. Mayhew.

"For that only; but I consider it a duty to save every penny I can, for you know we have

a large family, and our expenses are heavy; and, if I can hire my sewing for less than I have been paying for it, why I ought certainly to take advantage of the opportunity. But, I confess, I was sorry to tell Chilson she need not come any more."

"Did she seem disappointed?" inquired Mrs. Mayhew.

"You never saw any one so agitated as she was at first," replied Mrs. Harris. "And when I paid her what little money I was owing her, and told her I had no further use for her services, the tears stood in her eyes."

"Poor girl! I fear, my dear friend, you have unintentionally done a cruel deed!" said Mrs. Mayhew. "It is a very difficult thing for a poor young girl to obtain a new situation. Men can rough and battle with the world, but with the friendless female it is different. Miss Chilson may have many dear ones—a father— a mother, dependent upon her exertions; even the little mite she earned from you, may have been of vital importance to them, and of which, my dear Mrs. Harris, you have thus thoughtlessly deprived them."

Mrs. Harris was now really angry, and answered accordingly.

"Indeed, Mrs. Mayhew, I did not know that I was accountable to you for my actions; when I am, it will be time enough for you to assume the office of Mentor!"

"I am sorry to have offended you," said Mrs. Mayhew, rising calmly from her seat; "when we meet again I trust all will be forgotten. One thing more; can you tell me where Miss Chilson lives?"

"No; for I never asked her," ungraciously replied Mrs. Harris; "but I believe somewhere in Third Street. I am sorry I cannot relieve your benevolent curiosity!" she added, ironically.

Mrs. Mayhew bowed, and left the house; while Mrs. Harris, in no very comfortable frame of mind, ascended to the nursery.

"How very disagreeable that woman is getting!" she muttered to herself; "I really believe I will cut her acquaintance—she is too much of the Fry school to suit me!"

In one corner of the nursery, a pale, sicklylooking girl sat, bending over her needle, surrounded by three or four noisy, quarrelsome children.

"Heavens, what on uproar!" exclaimed Mrs. Harris os she entered; "be still, all of you— you are enough to craze one! Have you finished the trimming to my cape?" she asked, turning to the sewing girl.

"Not quite, ma'am," she replied, without raising her eyes from her work.

"Not quite! why it is more than on hour since you began it; yon must sew very slowly, I am sure," said Mrs. Harris, snappishly.

The girl made no answer; but a tear rolled slowly down her pale cheek, and dropped upon the delicate silk in her hand. Mrs. Harris immediately observed the stain on the beautiful fabric, though not the cause.

"Why, what is this, Gales? See, you have spotted my cape, you careless creature; what is it? Is it grease, or what?" she exclaimed, angrily.

The colour rose to the cheek of the poor girl as she answered.

"No, ma'am, it is not grease, it is no stain; it is only—only water."

"Only water! Well, I must say, I think it is very careless in you not to put by your work when you drink! Have not you almost finished? for I have an engagement at one o'clock, and have set my heart upon wearing my new silk."

"It will very soon be completed, ma'am," was the reply.

"Ma, she don't sew half so fast as Chilson did," whispered little Fanny; "and has been doing nothing half the time, but just sitting with her handkerchief to her eyes; I don't like her a bit!"

Mrs. Harris turned sharply round:

"I see you are very slow with your needle; my other girl, Chilson, would have done the work in half the time. I don't like eye-servants."

The poor girl sighed heavily.

"I am very sorry that I have not been able to do more this morning. I had a headache when I left home, and it has increased to such a degree, that I fear I must ask permission to return."

Mrs. Harris was somewhat touched by her sad tone and pallid looks.

"Well, I am sorry you are sick, Gales—perhaps you had better go up stairs into the chambermaid's room and lie down a little while—you do look pale. Remember, I never require any one to work for me unless they are able—and, by the way, are you subject to headaches, Gales?"

"I have suffered very much, ma'am, but somehow I believe I am getting used to them," answered the girl with a faint, sickly smile.

"Because," continued Mrs. Harris, "if you are not healthy, why of course I cannot consider my engagement with you binding; I have a great deal of sewing, and cannot afford to hire any one who is constantly putting it by on account of sickness."

Another tear stole down the cheek of the poor seamstress as she meekly folded her work.

"I should be very sorry to lose your patronage, Mrs. Harris," she answered, "and I hope

you will try me a little longer—I will use every exertion to please you. If—if—I could have a room to myself I think I could do better."

"A room to yourself—nonsense—Chilson never thought of such a thing! Pray what objection have you to this?" exclaimed Mrs. Harris.

"I do not wish to complain, but sometimes the noise of the children makes my head whirl and ache very badly."

"That 1 can't help; if you sew for me, you must get used to the noise—that's all—Chilson did. I cannot have any other room but this littered up with work, and I choose the children to be kept here."

"Very well," said the girl with the same sad smile, "I dare say I shall get used to it . If you please, I think I will go home now—I am very sorry to have disappointed you today."

Mrs. Harris deigned no answer, and putting on her bonnet and shawl, the poor, young seamstress wearily threaded the gay, noisy streets to her own wretched abode.

Six months prior to the scenes just related, a small house, located in a quarter of the city densely packed with a hard-working, industrious class of citizens, had been rented by a family of the name of Chilson. The groundfloor of the dwelling was disposed of to a bookbinder, only reserving for themselves two small rooms above, and a kitchen in the rear. They were strangers in the neighbourhood; but from the fact that the father of the family was utterly helpless, from a paralysis which had destroyed both mind and body, they excited a lively interest and commiseration.

Mrs. Chilson was evidently an invalid, although she was never heard to complain: if she suffered, it was silently, and with quiet cheerfulness and resignation performed her heavy duties. Amy was the eldest, and had just entered her eighteenth year. Caroline was fourteen, and the little Nina a child of ten summers. Their united labours served to maintain them comfortably from day to day, and to meet the rent, &c, but it was done by constant, unremitting toil, and by using every penny with the most scrupulous economy, so that it was evident, should any untoward circumstance prevent the mutual aid by which their little fund accumulated, it would be severely felt by all.

Their path in life had not always been the humble one through which they now struggled, battling with disease and poverty; for at no very late period, though long enough to have escaped the memory of sunny friends, they

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