When my young friend, Kate Wilson, requested me to relate the history of Agnes, forty-five years had stealthily crept over her, but even the bitter, bleak winters of her adversity had failed to whiten her dark locks, or dim those beaming eyes—time had dealt gently with her beauty. Evart’s children have proved as blessings to her, and by them, and by her brothers and sisters, and by their children, Agnes is revered almost as a saint. “Ah, Kate, Kate,” I said, as I arrived at this part of my “_ower true tale_,” “has not Agnes Lincoln’s lot, as an old maid, been quite as useful, and still more happy, than she would have been as Evart Berkely’s broken-hearted wife?” * * * * * THE BRICKMAKER. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. I. Let the blinded horse go round Till the yellow clay be ground; Let no weary arms be folded Till the mass to brick be moulded. In no stately structures skilled, What’s the temple we would build? When its massive walls are risen Call it palace—call it prison; View it well from end to end, See its arching courts extend! ’Tis a prison, not a palace! Hear the culprit vent his malice! Hear the mad and fettered fire Pour the torrent of his ire! Wrought anon to wilder spells, Hear him tell his loud alarms, See him thrust his glowing arms Through the windows of his cells! But his chains at last shall sever, Slavery lives not forever; And the thickest prison wall Into ruin yet must fall! Whatsoever falls away Springeth up again, they say; Then when this shall fall asunder, And the fire be freed from under, Tell us then what stately thing From the ruin shall upspring? There shall grow a stately building, Airy dome and columned walls; Mottoes writ in richest gilding Shall be blazing through its halls. In those chambers, stern and dreaded They, the mighty ones, shall stand; There shall be hoary-headed Old defenders of the land. There shall wondrous words be spoken, Which shall thrill a list’ning world; Then shall ancient bonds be broken And new banners be unfurled! But anon these glorious uses In those chambers shall lie dead, And the world’s antique abuses, Hydra-headed, rise instead. But this wrong not long shall linger— The old capitol must fall; For behold the fiery finger Flames along the fated wall! II. Let the blinded horse go round Till the yellow clay be ground; Let no weary arms be folded Till the mass to brick be moulded; Till the heavy walls be risen And the fire is in his prison: Then when break the walls asunder And the fire is freed from under, Say again what stately thing From the ruin shall upspring?