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JOHN FORSYTH—EDITOR.
i. FOIWYTHr 4. T. K. r.IXB,
Proprirtan and Pub'uhrn.
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.... AaNKHMs !
AMERICA;
DEDICATED TO JAMES K. FOLK,
President of the United Slater,
nr ■ABTacLirsiT.
Tnnl!-tted from the French for the Dotlrn Timet.
The “Courrier des Etals-Cuis,” which first pub
ii ed die beautiful pocui whicn in.lows, dms intro
duce# tins remarkable composition —‘VVecumuicnd
t,.e attention of our readers to the foilowng lerses,
which t.ie poet Itarlhelemy, lias just adnessed to
tee American Union, under cover to its ‘trnident
Ja n-s K.l'olk. Tins composition is as renarkable
for n.ought as for expressiou. It is a msjiificent
dithyrauibiC on a magnilicent subject.’’
■*ln fifty years Europe will be eitherCtisack or
Repjbi.ran.” [Words of NapUson.
No sadder sight demands the falling tear
T an as old man whose end it drawing near;
VS nose blood still courses feebly through lnsveina
The spirit sauisiied, though the form remains
Ily turns awakened, or by sicep subdued,
He leaves bis chair, he speaks, he takes his ftod,
Stiil worthy of our pity, totters on,
1 bough more than halt his former self is goni,
ii l instruct guiileshis earthly frame alone.
And such to us those nations now appear
tVmch but a semblance of existence near,
W i le -rum their aged frames life glides aw av :
Such, Europe, thy condition is to-dav,
Still to thy bending brow the life-blood flows,
RXill the Cullossus, striving with his woes,
Cwmetirues attempts a step with tottering feet,
And gropes along the old and beaten street;
Then suddenly, hit muscles giving war
Falls, ami in dreaming slumber sinks day.
Thy brow by pasaiug shadows overcast,
Thy accents murmur words of ages past,
illustrious names, by deeds illustrious won,
Charlemagne, Caspar and Napoleon
And Cromwell, giory’s uncorruptcd sun.
Sometimes a smile upon thy pallid face
Os darker shadows takes the yielded place—
Half smothered words—the Reople—Liberty—
Tae Future —flutter cm thy lips—then die.
Then thy huge arms about thee wildly flung,
1 hy bto-v with pal ini agony is wrung,
* M ini* every sign a horror shadows lorth,
rss'„ ne ayes are wildly fixed upon the North.
Tit
, pars not th.t fatal crisis, fraught with awe,
* ‘t Prophet Emperor in his vision saw,
-V,iea on his rocky deatli-hcd far awaV,
The mists were banished by a brighter dav,
And he beheld, that hour beholding all,
Europe enfranchised, or the Cossack’s thrall
Tee Cossack’s turall 1 Shall Europe stoop so iox\
And kneei to Moscow for the brand or blow ?
► nail Greece, where Art and Letters had their birth.
Whose light irradiated all the earth,
Rhtll Itome. the victos and law gixertoo,
Shall Spain, who to the Old World gave the Nsw
Shall Portugal, so great from battles won.
Who round the stormy Cape pursued the sun,
Snail France, with fourteen centuries to slio.w.
Proud nat.ous ail, in vile abatement low,
.U# like dumb cattle to the slaughiA, driven, 1
Mlyuie by the M r o lance lb-ir isarenvonf x
jmi> ‘tgesw* “tv
piy ir j ..wciiing place is but it msiWr q
‘WgKr'br later must the sentence lal l-J*
dfiuston ends the history of all.
\ ictorious tribes have borne their brands and chains
Through Europe. One alone erect remains,
beneath the polar tone there still lives one,
The enemy of ait beneath the sun :
Trough nation. have been crushed like grains of
sand
Rejected from the sieve by Ile.nen's own hand, —
T ie hammer b.eaks not by the labor done—
(tucb was the C.inbrian—such the Teuton —Hun,
8 ich would their offspring be—the demon reigns
Tnat tired of Attila the glorious veins,
incurred to Catherine’s soul of glorious wsrv,
And lives, the counsellor of all the Czars.
Nastily they seek to bide their miiulr from ours,
Tueir secret thought incessantly devours —
1 heir throne established on tile Bosphorus,
For them unbounded sway and chains for us,
Tr> such wild dreams the Russian m ud gives birth,
FucU is the menace to the trembling earth-
Such is the late imperial Russia deigns
To oiler Europe—will lie welcome chains I
V. .11 she, antcrnlicd, unmurmuring, wait
T'lr hour the seer predicted —anil the i'atc I
The I’ropiiet Emperor beheld a rope—
Saw in the stars 1 double horoscope—
Safely ami danger standing side hv side—
An ark of refuge from tli’ overwhelming tide—
The democratic ark, it* portals spread,—
A shelter from the tempest overhead,
ihmapr would build that ark to brave these*—
tyrJoinu! materials must the stiuclure he,}
Already has she laid the virgin Kiel,
Rut weak the hands that wield the moulding steel!
And toiling on, still must she pause and adv
\dr.ce of masters who abhor her task—
O every king who lives in hate and dread
W. legs lets gouty than his royal head.
Poor Europe ! she is old, and worn, an I weak,
Her limbs uo sign of former sirengili bespeak ;
Thoe arms, once stalwart, show no vigor now,
And for existence strike a languid blow.
£ ill, doubt it not, the ark will he complete,
Mon. rch shall kneel before tli ir subjects’ feet;
t'lom .Neva lo the Tiber and the sea,
K sjod be banished, and the nations free.
I'hesi-ABAs shill coine ; but in that happy hour
Europe will never hold the scale ol Power •
I l.ai srair, which holds the late o! ail our kind,
liowevrr brave, however bright her mind,
to be the ccuire of this mighty world
t\ hen thrones and sceptres are to ruin hurled.
Tms centre constantly is changing place—
Asia oiler he’d it, ere was born our race—
From land lo land forever doomed to stray,
Who cxn predict its resting place to-day >
Etch time the surface of the ea-tn expands,
Thn central point is chanced to other lands.
sti.ee English guns have opened to the world
Ti.e far Cathay, so long in darkness lined,
Fre'iug of new desires and hopes the birth
China may join the nations of the earth,
And Tar ("ccar.s, with bon owed robe,
Seek for her place upon the busy globe ;
Then fart’ er must the social pivot he,
Not in the land of worn antiquity.
Fain vw. stern land,'there lias its home,
fv-vund the dark At antic's roar and t'oam,
Whs re dw by dav a nation see Ihe-rsttr
R.e to iu aenitli, bright iu peace and war,
firona in the powers which Ic.l their number* on,
Tte naitit sos Erank!*u and of Washington.
T eve men are warr.ors. sailors, rtien of lo.!,
Vv'Uo build aauals and subjugate the soil,
Jioid laud and sea in t..a*t, rv complete,
And build acity as t bin and a stteet;
teek.rg instruction in arts, invnuers, laws,
r oni ssvagr*oature pleading stij! her cause ;
1 o.ung by labor drserts to reclaim.
Emu's pioneers, and worthy of the name;
Tncir •‘length an.ted makes the general i w ay.
And each uue tortile the laws which ail obey ;
A ! are the nation's sons w iio seek to be ;
A id when they choose a rn'er for the lice,
Tory take that ru < r from the throng.
And ?*' —” Thy reign o'er us is tour years long.”
Such s mple form*> are all that consecrate
The chosrn chief and ruler of the ?tau*.
And he. the peopla's sovereign, n-hate'er
Tie be, o. merchant, planter, to the chair
Raised, Po k, at thou art, by the people's voice,
The people's candidate, tic people's choice, <
Os real royalty would feel no more
V or twenty rsginnlfts guard his door.
He, tb exponent of the popular will,
Makos peace or war, and strengthens by his skill,
IW ta'ent lusters a far mightier realm,
Than owrns a European diadem.
A ruler by the law, a prouder name
Than any ponce or petc€he can c*t:m.
And when his brief career of chief is o’er,
* *l®ly yields hi* delegated power.
An hoasbie ctuxea he turns again
To hm own'plaee among his f#Ho- m ei.
Wanned with her life, and by her strength made j
This bright ideal we may all behold.
To those jshose blinded eyes refused to see
No bright a future for Democracy,
W*e thought Its limits iterer could tnrresse,
n 'r wider space than Oid Republic Greece,
To ail of ovii heart and blinded eye,
The jinnee of America reply.
**#• an untried stage
*have rereirrA of fhe_ige,—
J^" r * , *order to Uic i-MteUf*.
-T* m **
VOLUME VIII. |
Their spirits purified from ancient hate,
Even in the fiery struggles of debate.
The patriot's voice it heard in every note,
Whichever party claims the Speaker's vole.
There principles alone still reign supreme,
No other monarchy, no old regime.
The mighty past no regal shadow lings,
No fond regret to mar the present brings.
No enmity there severs cate from carte,
In mountains, forests and savannahs vast,
No ruined tourers, no feudal keeps you see,
Bodies that still preserve vitality.
Scour all the cities of the shore and plain,
kou’ll find no treasonable Saint-Germain,
There no faint hearts, no coward spirits lurk,
But every arm is strengthened for the work.
On sweeps the torrent, —rulers never quad,
But lend their lireath to sv. ell the popular gale.
Those two-fold powers, the Press and Steam com
bined,
Urge the advance of matter and of mind.
Daonticss in danger, strangers all to fear,
The sons of freedom push their high career,
A thousand steamboats plough their lurrows fre©
O’er giant rivers rushing to the sea,
-V crash—a shock—one gallant boat is gone,
But the next thunders all unheeding, on.
Look on the boundless universe and sav,
\\ hat prouder visions meets the eye of day,
Than that proud Eagle soaring to the skv,
No prison dark beholding from on high I
While other nat.ons immature are born,
Colombia, perfect, blessed her natal tnorn.
Three quarters of a century scarce hsve flown,
Since Freedom claimed the. western world her own,
Her blood on Bunker’s Hill is scarce grown cold,
But yet matured, sl.e lilts her forehead bold,
Baptized in lire and rising from the wars,
Bedecked with Glory’s constellated s:ars
And prompt her first far lim tsto disdain,
Already Oregon is her domain,
Spam gives to her fair FioridaAway ;
Our Louisiana o.'iu sway;
No narrow hounds her fiery heart can hold,
Her foot already treads the land of gold—
Where Cortez led from Spain his steel-clad braves,
O’er Montezuma’s Jlalls her banner waves.
What would she more T One glorious jewel* yet
Gleams in llispania’s starry coronet,
Pearl ot the sea—no brighter gem embraced
In the lair gull wherein it iiea encased.
She hopes'o win that priceless gem to-day - *
I he prize so i.ear—the Lord so far away I
She hopes to win the gem ; but let her wait,
That pear! perhaps will be the gift of Kate ;
For every western star that shines in turn,
May on her banner in conjunction burn.
Since wonders have been wrought, may it not be,
That the far-aoaring Eagle of the free,
Mill wing his daring flight from South to North,
Pass the St. Lawrence, ever pouring forth
Ilia niignty stream, then Southward wing bis flight,
Pass Chimborazo’s ever-burning height,
Sending his thrilling erv from sea to sea,
knd soaring on in unchecked majesty,
And pausing only at that southern gate,
Where bold Magellan pierced the stormy strait!
•Stupendous future ! yet indarkneES furied—
There lies perchance the Union of the world.
Each day new light upon the movement sends,
Westward the continental axis tends.
When men a brighter prospects greet their eyes.
Like, birds of passage, leave their natal skies,
The hand of Providence is there displayed
And greatness nut of ruin drear is made.
Whither does Ireland, from her blighted soil,
Or Germany, send forth her men of toil ?
Why do they leave their .ather-land unblest t
They go to seek a mother in the West.
\s instinct tills the animals with dread,
When the old roof-tree crumbles overhead,
Unerring instinct bids these ere too late
Fled front the ruin of impending Fate ;
While bending roof, and sinking shattered wall,
Mark the old homestead toppling to its Sill,
The very earth to foot lie longer true,
The Old World seeks a refuge in the New.
•The Island of Cuba.
MISCELLANY.
THE MERCHANT’* DAUGHTER.
From Tales of “Women’# Trials*”
V MRS. S. t\ tULI.
‘Poor little thing, ht-tv it limps! Flush !
ifieulare it lias gi ne through the hcju‘
HPIWo e. I til nit-yard. V\ art
’froment, dear sister, arid 1 shall Certbmnr
latch it;’ —and over the chlirch-ytud stile
founded lit.se Sunderland, as lightly as a
Junbeum, or. 1 slv uld rather say, to be in
peeping with the time and place, its lightly
Jb a nn imhenm; ter that favorite orb of
|kve and ladies had risen, even while the
widen hue of an autumnal sun lingered
it the sky, and its pale, uncertain beams
Mvered the early dew drops, which the gay
aid thoughtless girl shook-fri-jn their ver
dau bods in her rapid movements. But
Rise cared little about disturbing dew
diips, which the gay and thoughtless girl
sltu k from their verdant beds in her rapid
ilavements. But Kise cared little air ot
disturbing dew drops, or indeed anything
city that interfered with the pursuit which
occupied her for the moment. With the
eua-mess of sixteen she had pursued a
voting leverett among the silent fi nibs, as
thoughtlessly as if she tr and only on the
j swA*t wild thyme, or humble daisy, and
j whin she had nearly weaned out the ob
jjectj f her anxiety, when she saw it take
| sheler under the worn arch of an ancient
■ with erideiit satisfaction, ryn
i vincid that now she could secure her
| prizA if Margaret tv. u!d coir e to her arsis
j tam'd.
‘S*>tiT, sister,’ rejventfd site eagerly,
i*rotni; if we do n t take it. it will stiffly
| bpcciijie the prey of s< me weasel or cubfox
j hefi rt uv rjiing.’
Marg aret slowly passed the stile.
‘like wt uld thuik you were pass mo to
ja fur Trot,’ said Rose pettishly. ‘lf y< u
! vvill do in thing else, stand there at least,
i and—*nc.w I have it!’ exclaimed she ji vi u: -
; ly; ‘its little heart pants—poor thing! I
S vvrndifriii.w it got injured!’
i *St p, replied her sister, in ah w. nt-i
----tated Voice > *y< u f- rget — yet hr wean yen
1. rget ■ —v. ho it ;,s that rests here ; wlp^— ’
She placed-her hand upon a plain stone
pedestal, hat strong and increasing enn -
tion “prevented her finishing the sentence.
‘My dear Margaret, f. rgiveme! It is
ever thus. lam fated to lie y< ur misery.
I am sure 1 never thought— ’
, * i Link ik \v. then {’• sc, if it be hut for a
! moment: think—think that • lily one little
| year lias passed since be was with us;
j since his voice, so w.se, and yet so swe t,
| was the nuisx: f otircr ttage* : his kindness.
[ the oil and ie novel > urex.stence. 1 h ugh
: the arn w had entered iv his svti*. it fes
i tv red n f, f. r no r. rruptLn was there!—
| \\ hci.he was reviled, he reviled n t again ;
i hud ‘ll’ ngh liis lieatt was l>r. ken, his lest
j wtrds were, *l. id, thy will, n-1 mine, be
] dones’ My dear, dear father!’ she c< n
j tinned, sinking at the same tie mem up. n
i her knees, and clasping her hands in de
; v- m agmy. ‘teach me to be like thee!’
| ‘Say *•;*, n iher.* ejaculated the s lihing
j R sc, nil sc grief became as vivid as had
been her exulbiti* n : say. teach R sc to he
i like thee. You are like cur father; hut I
am nothing—any thing! O, Margaret!
can you forgive me? There; I’ll let the
hare go th s inement, I’ll do any thing yi u
Hrish; indeed I will ?
*L>o let it go,’ replied Margaret Sunder*
iaud, who had quickly recovered her selt
prssession; ‘it would be ill dene to permit
I any suffering near his grave,’
After a brief pause, sfic rose from her
knees, and placinef her ajrm through that of
her sister, left the church-yard to its moon
light solitude.
The Wjjlotv StnherlanrN.welled on the
: hanks of the river Witham, and the path
; the sisters had taken led for some time a
-1 long the picturesque meadows that sloped
|to the very water’s edge. As they pursued
! their way, an opening amid the trees dis
; covered the beautiful window in Lincoln
cathedral—ct once the pride and boast of
that venerable city; the beams of the moon
were full upon it, arid its varied panes glit
tered like many-tinted silver in the placid
yet wavering fight, ‘How beautiful!’ ex
clftjerred RoadpitSS *T'‘'*'i. i (>,
-* fTT*’ iMfciii in nr
(§Hj£
m-beautiful ?’ interrogated the gay-heart
effcirl. ‘Yes, Ri so; but methinks I more
aflpire these lofty towers, standing out
nst the clear night-sky; and locking,
nj like relics, but giants of the olden days.
W have no right to u[ braid Time in this
iilance; for he,
■■ “gentlest among the thrslls
o*l,. tiny, upon whose wounds hath laid
Hi lenient touches, soft as the light that falls
Fiji the wan moon, upon the towers and walls,
Lilt deepening the prefouudest sleep of shade.”
I fie and man loved these glorious towers;
ar| I li.ve them better than the moon-tinted
widow ; fi r see, lose, a cloud has veiled
hi}brightness, and—and now my towers
arias prominent as ever, while your win
d'V is obscured.’
You would draw a moral from that, my
wte sister.’
It would be a quaint; and I fear,’ replied
Mrgaret, ‘an old song to, perhaps, not a
nor tune; signifying, that much thatisex
celent and beautiful is lost, not having the
adtantage of a good light.’
Bister. I forgot tntell you tbatl met La
dyEouisa Calcraft this morning at the li
briry, and she took no m.ticeof me. lam
sup she knew me, for sl.e said something
to t gentleman who was with her,and I dis
tinguished the wolds, “dead lather,” and
“nined fortunes.”’
The ban is upon v< u, and upon us all,
Resp,’ replied Margaret, turning her pale
butjbeautiful countenance toward her sis
;er-t-‘The ban
■ ■ “Os buried hopes,
\ And prospects faded. ,f
• A’i uld to God that were all! —that any
sacrifice on my part could pay the debts of
my poor father, in his honest but wild spec
ulations incurred ; and then 1 could return
the haughty stare of these who worship
ped, it appears, not us, but > ur jm spority,
and now scorn the daughters of a ru
ined house. The Calcrafts in Lincoln!
—bat they are every where. 1 could
ill hive borne a scornful look from one of
them.’
•They are friends of Ernest Heath wood
j —are they n< t V
A deep and glowing crin.s n, which
luckily the obscurity of the night [ reser
ved from observ'Htii n, mantled the cheeks
of Margaret Sunderland, while she re
plied—
‘Yes. 1 believe sr ; but, dear Hi sc. you
might have spared me the month nos his
name.’
*Y< u will be more angry with me when
V u know that this morning I also saw
Ernest,and he requested—prevailed on me
•To u hat ?’
•To take a letter to y'U.’
’ Again the tell-tale bh id rushed to the
maiden’s face, and as quickly receded, lea
ving’ her line features pale and rigid as chis
eled alabaster. It was kng ere she recov
ered herself sufficiently to form any deter
mination, much less arrange her words for
utterance; but the only manifestation of
displeasure sheevinced t ward her thought
less sister, was by withdrawing her arm
and walking resolutely forward, unaided
and ah- ne.
Enough th iibtless hasheejt gathered from
this c< nversation, to show that Margaret
and U< se were the, daughters of a ruined
V o d, Who had been
j'a prince yesterday, and a to-day
j of one whose argosies had g< nd’KW.h., but
1 returned no more—whose name one year
1 would have guarantied millions—yet who
1 died the next, wantinga shilling. Maurice
! Sunderland had cheerfully surrendered all
jto h.s creditors,yet that all was insufficient
’to satisfy the claims made,and justly made,
1u; on hint. House, plate, jewels, servants,
j had all been sacrificed. iN- 1 a vestige of
j their former prosperity lingered ; and they
; who had revelled in superfluities, now watt
fed the most common necessities of life. A
| small jointure alone remained; and in that
his wife had only a life interest. Marga
ret was many years elder than her sister;
undin his agony her lather wished that the
grave hud cl sed over them, as it had over
his other children, befi re .this great sorrow
had ciir.e upon them.
His wife was vain, weak, selfish; a wo
man who knew net what it was to grow old
gracefully, and who hunted y< uthful
pleasures with a'wrinkled brow, a flaxen
wig, and a painted chec k. Her mind was
ino nreivably small: she wept more for
the 1. ss of her diamonds and Dresden than
for her husband’s misfortunes; and mourn
ed incessantly that her Mine, her darling,
her exquisite poi die, was of necessity de
prived of his chicken panada! Being of
no ord nary intellectual powers, Mr. Sun
derland had chosen her—no one knew
why ! —from the love of c> ntrast, perhaps;
or as well as in w, prevailing < -
pinion, that silly women make the most ten
der wives: or perhaps, smitten with her
pretty fact—time out if mind the matri
m vital bait t. r wise men as well as foods!
But certainly no one ct uld ever have im
agined her to have been the mother of such
a being as Margaret Sunderland. One lit
tle aueedi te will serve to shew the nature
of Margaret’s princij kv—and it is to be
hoped, act as a lessi n to many similarly
circumstanced, who seem iv t aware that
h. nesty demands the sacrifice of all; so
that in the emphatic w rdsof Scripture, we
may “owe no man any thing, but to love
cue another.” V. lun her father was
making out an inventory of his personal
property it r the Le nt tit of Its c reditors,
Margaret entered the room with a noise
less step, and placed before him a lar. e
casket, containing all the jewels she p s
sojsed. The old nan hud down the pen,
and 1:< ked into her sweet face without a
word.
‘These were only valuable, dear father,
because you gave them, and l< ved to sec
1 me wear such finery; in our future dwel
-1 ling they would be wa-rse than useless ;
take them, and let them, ft r my sake, he
, appropriated to the payment f our debts.’
! ‘S.t, my child ; you have nothing to
i do with’— ’
She prevented the sentence being finish
■ cd by an aliectii nate kiss.
T will not suffer you to say so, because
lit makes me as if a t one w,th you. Il
■ you do net take them, I will sell them ray
sell, and send the money where it may be
required.’
Mr. Sunderland unclosed a portion of
the casket, and his eyes rested on a tiara
ot the finest Oriental pearl. ‘I remember
when you last wore this, my child; it was
at the gallant fete given at Hampstead, by
the rich Jew of Cheapside. — How beauti
ful it looked in your dark hair !*
‘And does net this look as beautiful, fath
er ?’ exclaimed Margaret, snatching a white
rose lrom an overturned vase or flowers,
and placing it on her head.—‘When we
live in a nice country. cottage, you shall
gather one for me every summer morning.’
* But the winter—the winter will come
there, girl as well as here, and where then
shall I gather roses ?’
‘.We will then, father, live upon"memo
ry and upon hope!’ She hardly dared
trust herself to .pronounce that little word
#s£?’ w^c^to areally broken heart, sounds
...j \ n ;o\\%*r k &y fh * a H* r
••THE l Si O S OF THE STATES AJD THE SOVEREIGNTY OF THE STATES.”
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, TUESDAY MORNING, MAY 9, IS4B.
father looked mournfully into her face and
shook his head in bitter silence; he then
reclosed the casket, and would have plac
ed it in her hands.
‘They are the only portion left you,
Margaret.’
‘Nr t so, father; they would take a por
ti; n from me.’
‘How, child r
‘An honest conscience! I cannot keep
them; they were bought with your money
for the daughter of the rich—they would
not, dearest father, become the daughter of
a poor man. All 1 ask, is the permission
to imitate y< ur example. You give up
all: O! suffer me to do the same, and do
net supjK se so meanly of your own girl,
as that she valued these more than that
self-approbation whose silent voice is sweet
er than the applause of courts or kings.’
Maurice Sunderland was neither a harsh
man nor a stern father; he had loved and
admired his daughter, but he had never
known her till that moment. He made no
reply to her words, but folded her silently
to his breast; and she felt tears—the first
she had ever known him shed—fall upon
her bn w,
These misfortunes may be considered
the commencement of Margaret’s trials.
The family removed to Lincoln, as one or
two relatives lived there, whocould forward
the plans Miss Sunderland had formed for
their support. Her affection for her father
would, not permit her to leave him to the
care of a giddy, childish sister, and her
almost idiotic mother, particularly as his
health was visibly sinking, and nature ap
peared unable to repair the inroads of dis
ease. She theres re accepted most joyful
ly the charge of the education of four little
girls, her cousins, who were to remain with
her only during the day, as their parents
resided in the good city of Lino. In. Her
father raised no obstacle to this plan; tho’
his withered cheek flushed, and his hand
trembled, the first day that he saw his beau
tiful Margaret quietly arranging and su
perintending-her eleven in the back parlor
of their cottage, which she had converted
into a school-room ; but her mother's cap
rice and spirit of contradiction was a con
stant si urce of mortification, although it
tends still more to draw forth her daugh
ter's virtues ; she was never satisfied ; al
ways regretting their past splendor—al
ways rej.reaching poor Margaret with hav
ing degraded her family, by condescend
ing to become a “scho. 1-mistress,” and
yet thoughtlessly squandering her hard
earnings cn selfish enjoyments.—This was
not all; —no one who has only read of “the
delightful task of teaching the young idea
h<"w to shoot,” can form an estimate of the
self-denial which must be the portion of
an instructress, particularly if she be con;
scientii us in the discharge of her duty.
All influences, to be useful, must be exer
cised with discretion ; and it is but one lit
tle step from dominion to tyranny. Mar
garet was, therefore, obliged to practice as
well as preach; and indeed, one without
the other is always unavailing; she had to
watch, not only herself but others, so that
her maxims might be really useful to those
she sought to improve. She wished to
make them not only accomplished, but in
formed ; and her “ new system,” as it was
called, was subject to animadversions, both
from her relatives and their friends; who,
as usual on such occasions, quite forgot
that Miss Sutherland had been what she
was; treaterlnSw uienAy as •• .v Invern
ess,” and admitted heronly as such to their
hi uses.
Os all persons dot mod by the wavering
i scale of fortune to earn their own bread,
; none are so much to lie felt for as governess
es. The servant, when her work is done,
j has an hour or two that she can call her
own, and she has no ambition beyond her
sphere. But the governess has no sphere
| —she is considered part of the kitchen,
part of the drawing-room—from the latter
she is often expelled, and from the former
she turns with disgust. She struggles be
tween a double existence; she is a sort of
amphibious creation, belonging to two sep
arate States. Sin’ must appear like a gen
tlewoman, while she hardly receives the
wages of a lady’s maid; she must be “ac
complished and refined,” yet keep her ac
complishments out of the way till called
j fir; and suppt rt insult, as if she were de
void of feeling. Heaven help th< se who
J are obliged to go “a-govornessing,” for
they can expect but litlle help from earth!
Volumes might b tilled by “the trials” of
“a governess.”
At one of these visits, which she contin
ually shrunk from, and only endured as an
occasi’ nal penance, she met the very Ernest
Ileathwucd, to whom It* se unwittingly al
luded during their evening walk. Theel
dest son of a baronet, who, with his new
h : ni rs, had changed, it was understood, a
mercantile for a somewhat aristocratic
name, was a likely person to attract atten
tion, and win the civilities of all within his
circle; and he was welcomed to the man
si. n • f one of Miss Sunderland’s relatives
with extraordinary courtesy. Margaret,
always c llected, always dignified, sought
neither to attract n< r avoid his attentiins;
but silently suffered all the little manoeu
vres of sec nd-rate ct untry town society to
take their course. The anxiety that's'me
mo thers evinced to crowd a tribe of ill
dressed daughters to a tuneless piano, and
there shew off their skill irt the various de
partments of first, second, and third har
meny. while ethers contented themselves
with exhibiting the more quiet—and con
sequently, more endurable litter cf card
drawings and IVonah painting—ct uld only
excite a feeling of pity in such a mind as
Margaret’s. Pity, that woman should so
thoroughly mistake the end and aim of
her creation, as to descend to be the mis
tress of a puppet-show—and herself en
act first puppet; and something more se
vere then pity toward the other sex. who
outwardly encourage, while they inwardly
despise such petty traps of slavery. ‘An
age,’ reflected Margaret, ‘which values it
self on caricature,parody, or burlesque,can
produce little that is sublime, either in ge
nius or virtue; yet tin se qualities, and the
display of imperfect, and, in nine cases out
r, f ten, more senseless accomplishments
amuse; and we live in an age that must be
amused, though our best and noblest feel
ings pay the penalty;’ and she employed
her slender fingers with ten-fold care, to
build up the card-castle which her little
pupil, C'iseiy, had thrown down,
‘lt is abominable,’ whispered her sister,
who that evening had accompanied her, ‘to
hear such bad music, while you could give
us much that is good.’ A quiet motion of
her sister’s finger to her lips prevented fur
ther observation; and the card-castle bid
fair t 6 mount three stories high, when, sud
denly, Ernest Heathwood turned round,
and, addressing himself to the fair archi
tect, asked if now she would favor them,
for he was sure she could. ‘O, yes, ob
served one of the dowagers, ‘of course Mies
Sunderland can and will; she teaches so
well, that she must be a proficient,’ Some
feeling of pride, perhaps (for it will Un
ger, despite our better judgment,! called so
exquisite ablush to Margaret’s cneek, and
gazed on her with such
■ ‘•’ . . i* 1
respectful, yet visible admiration, that, had
she net been “only a governess,” the en
tire female sex, likely to be married, or
given in marriage, would have thrown up
the game’fcs hopeless; hut the eldest son
of a rich baronet woukl never think of
the daughter of a broken merchant —and
a governors ! The thing was impossible
—quite.
What Ernest Heathtvood did think while
Margaret commenced that sweet ballad of
Moore’s, “ All that’s bright must fade,” it
is impossible to say; but a thrill, amount
ing to anguish, was felt by every one in
the room, by the peculiar manner in which
she pronounced the following lines, as if
they r were the pure echo, the true feeling
of the sweet Indian melod\ r
“Who would seek to prixe
He ights that end in aching I
Who would trust to ties
That ex'ery hour arc breaking t’.‘
Then it was that Ernest Heathtvood saw
into her very soul, and felt that she must
indeed have known change and misfor
tune.
Music is dangerous from lips of beauty,
but more dangerous from those of feeling:
the union of both was too much for Ernest’s
philosophy: and he was, it must be con
fessed, somewhat bewildered during the re
mainder of the evening. She inspired
him not only with interest, but admiration ;
and he felt more anxiety than he cared to
express, when her history was truly,though,
it appeared to him, coldly communicated
by r her relative, the next day, with the ad
ditional intelligence that her father had
been seized only that morning with paral
ysis, and that little hopes were entertained
of his, recovery! He called constantly at
the cottage; but it was not until some time
after the bereavement, which Margaret,
above all, lamented, that he saw again the
being for whom he felt more interest than
ever.
There are peculiar circumstances which
train our susceptibilities to receive impres
sions, and misfortune either softens or har
dens the heart: the incapacity of her mo
ther, the volatility of her sister, rendered
them both unfit companions for the high
minded Margaret; and she might well be
pardoned for anticipating the evening that
now invariably brought Ernest to the cot
tage, as a dime when, free from toil and re
straint, she must meet the sympathy and
tenderness without which a woman's heart
must be sad and unsatisfied. She was
not, like many otherwise and prudent peo
ple, at all aware of the danger of her po
sition. She had no idea’ of that, while
seeking to alleviate or dispel sc rrow, by
what she termed friendly converse, a deep
and lasting feeling was silently, hut surely
implanting itself in her bosom, and that
time and opportunity were festering it, ei
ther for her happiness or misery. Her
girl-blood had passed without any of what
we call the frippery of live. How she
escaped the contagion of flirtation is v'cn
derful! Perhaps it might be attributed to
a certain reserve of manner, which served
as a beacon to fools and puppies to warn
them off whenever it was their fortune to
encounter Margaret Sunderland.
Among the wealthy citizens many had
sought her hand; but she was nc t to he
courted by a golden shower; and after her
father’s failure, none remembered the beau
tiful daughter of the unfortunate merchant;
it was, therefore not tube wondered at, that
she valued him who valued her far herself,
and herotlf only—-and dreamed the dream
that can be dreamecFbm
Many evenings were spent in that fail,
and perfect trustfulness, which pure and
virtuous hearts alone experience. So cer
tain indeed appeared the prospect of her
happiness, that she sometimes doubted its
reality; and when a doubt as to the future
did arise, it pressed so heavily, so very
heavily upon her heart, that with a grasp
ing eagerness which excited her own as
tonishment, she cast it from her, as a burden
too much for her to hoar.
She had known and loved Ernest for
some months, when one morning their only
servant interrupted her little school, by say
ing that a gentleman in the parLr wished
to speak to her. On entering the roc in, a
short, dark, elderly man returned her grace
ful salutation with an uncouth effart at ease
and self-pc ssessi. n.
‘Miss Sunderland, I presume?’
She bowed; a long pause succeeded,
which neither seemed willing to interrupt;
and when Margaret raised her eyes to li’s,
there was something—she could hardly toll
what—that made her think him the bearer
of evil tidings. Yet was the countenance
nc t unpleasing to look upon—the expanded
and somewhat elevated brow—the round,
full eye, that had rather a benign than
stern expression, would have bet ken eel a
kind, and eyen gentle being, had not the
lower portion of the face boded heaviness
and severity—the mouth was thin and
compressed—the chin lean and short'—the.*
nrse 1< oked as if nature had at first inten
ded to mould it according to thc;*mc st ap
proved of Grecian features, but suddenly
changed her plan, left it a rude piece of
uufinished workmanship.
‘Madam,’he at last commenced, ‘you arc,
I believe, acquainted with my son.’
■Sir!’
‘My son, Mr. Ernest Hcatlnvcx and ?’
Again Margaret replied by bowing.
‘I have resided many years abr< ad; but
if your father was living he would know
j me well.
The W( rd “father” was ever a talisman
to purr Margaret, and she looked into his
thee, as if imploring him to state how be
had known her parent. He evidently did
net understand her appeal; and continued,
in a constrained manner, his lips compress
ed, so as scarcely to permit egress to
his words, and his eyes bent on the carpet,
unwilling to meet her now fixed and anx
ious gaze.
‘I have every respect for you. Miss Sun
derland; and yet I feel it but right to u.ers
ticn, in time, that a union between you and
mj’ sen is what I never could—never will
agree to. The title (and the new baronet
drew up his little person with much digni
ty) I cannot prevent his having, but a shil
ling cf my money goes not with it. unless
he marries with my perfect consent. For
give me, young lady—l esteem yi ur char
acter; I—l—’ He raised his eyes, and
the death-like hue of Margaret's features
seemed, for the first time, to give him the
idea that he spoke to a being endowed with
feeling, __
‘Miss Sunderland, I was not prepared
for this. I had hoped matters had not
gone so far. I—then you really love Er
nest ?’
‘Whatevermv sentiments,sir, maybe to.
ward your son/ she replied—all the proud
woman roused within her—-‘I would never
entail beggary on him.’
‘Well spoken, faith; and lam sure, Miss
Sunderland, that had yu—in short, yon
must be aware this is a very delicate sub.
ject; but had you fortune equal to my hopes
of Ernest, I would prefer you—upon my
word, I would—though I never saw you
till this moment— to any woman .in Eng
land. Youjiee,’ he persisted, assuming
►he tone of lsw-h jMT” **
ai -• *- -’S'”
a mercantile man, had many losses; per
haps you know that!’ He paused for a
replyi which Margaret could not give.—
•These losses must be repaid, and there is
only one way to do so. If I had not the
station to support which 1 have, it would
not signify; but as a man of title, the truth
is, I require, and must have, ten or twenty
thousand pounds within a very little time;
there is but one way to obtain it; you
would net—(and here the man of wealth
and the man of rank forgot himself in
the husband and the father) —you would
not, I am sure, by persisting in this love
affair, entail ruin on me and mine. Er
nest has two sisters and a mother, Miss
Sunderland.’
Margaret’s breath came short and
quick, the room reeled round, and as she
endeavored to move to open the win
dow, she must have fallen but for the
support that Sir Thomas Heathwood af
forded her.
‘I will never bring ruin on any one,’
she said at last. ‘What is it you require
of me V
‘To write and reject, fully and entirely,
inv sen’s addresses, and never, never see
him more.’
•This, sir, I cannot; I will see him once
more, for the last time, this evening. I
will practice no deceit, but I will tell him
what is necessary. There, sir, you have
my word, and may the Almighty ever pre
serve you and yours from the bitterness of
poverty!’
Well might the old baronet dread the ef
fects of another interview between Marga
ret and his son, when he himself experi
enced such a sensation of awe and love
towards this sell-denying girl; yet such
was the holy truth of’ her resolve, that
he had not the power to dispute it. He
left the cottage, after various awkward at
tempts to give utterance to his contending
feelings.
‘Margaret!’ screamed her mother, as
she was passing to her own room, ‘do
Margaret,’ just come here and see how
well—how young I look with my widow’s
cap—a conceit of my own, this trimming.
When you are married to Ernest I shall
dress in white. I should like to know
what sort of a man his father is, and if he
is likely to live long or die soon. Dear
Margaret,’added the poor woman, in all
the pure vulgarity of her mind, ‘I should
so like to hear a child of mine called “My
Lady.” ’ This was too much for her poor
daughter, who rushed into her little cham
ber, and burying her face in her hands,
yielded to emotions, which, for a time,
were too powerful ts submit to the control
of reason.
The evening of that eventful day was
clear and balmy; the flowers of early
spring disseminated their fragrance over
every little weed and blade of grass, till
they were all impregnated with a most
sweet odor. The few insects which the
April sun calls into existence clung wea
rily to the young tendrils for support, and
the oak leaves of the past autumn still
rustled beneath the tread of the creeping
hedge-hog or swift-footed hare. It was a
tranquil hour, and Margaret Sunderland
repined at its tranquility. ‘I could have
hotter parted from him in storm and tem
pest, than amid such a scene as this,’ she
said, as she leaned against the gnarl
ed trunk of a withered beach for sup
port. The next moment Ernest was at her
side.
‘And thus, to please the avarice of my
father, Margaret, you cast me off forever
—you turn me adrift—you consent to my
u.m'onAvifh uttcwiei, thpimdi you have often
said, that the union unhallowed by af
fection was indeed unholy. Is this con
sistent ?’
‘I came not here to reason, hut to part
from you—to say, Ernest Heathwood,
what I never said before ; that so true is
my a flection for you, that I will kneel to
my Maker, and fervently and earnestly im
plore him to bless you, to bless your bride,
to multiply happiness and prosperity to
your house, and to increase exceedingly
your riches and good name.’
•Riches!’ repeated her lover, (like all
lovers) contemptuously ; with you I should
net need them.’
‘Cut your family ; y> u can save them
from the misery of poverty—from the
plague-spot that marks, and blights, and
curses all whom it approaches. I should
have remembered,’ she added with unwon
ted asperity, ‘that it'rested upon us, and
mt have suffered tube contaminated
by its influence.’
Many were the words he used, and the
roes ns he urged, to shake her resolve.—
lie appealed to her affections, but they
were too strongly enlisted on the side of
duty to heed his arguments; and, after
some ropr. aches on the score of caprice
and inconsistency, which she bore with
mere patience than women so circumstan
ced generally possess, he left her under
feelings of strong excitement and displeas
ure. He had not given himself time to
consider the sacrifice she made; he felt as
if she deserted him from a feeling of over
strained pride, and bitterly hinted (though
he knew it to be untrue at the time) that
it might be she had.suddeniy firmed some
..ther attachment. When she found her
self indeed alone, in the dim twilight, at
their old trysting spet —though while he
was present she had repelled the charge
with true womanly contempt—she would
fain have recalled him, to reiterate her
blessing, and assure him that though her
res* lve was unehangahle, she loved him
with a pure and unsullied faith. Had he
turned on his path, he would have seen
her waving hirn back : and the tears that
deluged her pale cheeks would have told
him but too truly of the suppressed agony
she had endured.
Many weeks elapsed, nnd she had out
wardly recovered her tranquility, though
she was hut ill fitted to go through her dai
ly labors as before, when 11; se so unex
pectedly announced that she had seen Er
nest, and taken a letter from him. When
the sisters entered the little cottage, it was
evident that something was necessary to
dispel Mrs. Sunderland’s ill temper.
‘Yes, it’s a pretty little thing; what
loves of eyes it has, and sucli nice long
ears ’. But really, Margaret, you must not
out and leave me at home without a six
pence ; there was no silver in your purse,
and the postboy came here and refused to
leave a London letter without the money ;
it is astonishing how impudent these fellows
are—and so—’
Margaret interrupted her mother by say
ing that she left ten or twelve shillings in
her purse.
‘Ay—very true—so you did; but a wo
man called with such an, assortment of
sweet collars, and it is so seldom 1 have an
opportunity now of treating myself to any
little bit of dress, that I used them; it jvas
so cheap—only eleven and sixpence—with
so lovely a border of double herospeb, and
the comers worked in the most delicate
bunches of fusia; here it is/
“And did the letter really go back, mo
ther r
‘I wish vou would not call me mother f
M-’ 3- r£T
| NUMBER 20.
even married women. No, it did not go
back ; I sent Mary into the little grocer’s
to borrow half-a-crown. Tt ou need not get
so red, child ; I said you were out —had
my purse —and would repay it to-morrow
morning.’
‘Degradation on degradation!’ thought
poor Margaret, as she took the letter: ‘I
cannot repay it to-morrow; that was the
last silver in the house ; l know not where
to get a shilling till next week.’
‘I must say, Margaret, for a young wo
man, you are the least communicative per
son I ever met; you have got that letter by
heart, by this time, I should imagine. Pray,
who is it from V
Margaret Sunderland seemed perfectly
unconscious of the question, but continued
the re-perusal of her epistle, as if her mo
ther had not spoken; she then left the room
without uttering a single word.
‘I must say, Rose, that your sister gives
me a great deal of uneasiness,’ said Mrs.
Sunderland; she is so unlike me in all
things—so self-willed—so like your poor
father, who, indeed always made her his
companion. She wants tenderness, and— ’
‘Oh ! my dear mamma!’ exclaimed the
generous, thoughtless Rose, ‘you cannot
think that, lam sure. If you only knew
the sacrifice she made to-night to catch you
that little hare; and as to her purse, I know
the reason she changed color was that it
contained all the money in the house.’
. ‘Then she ought to manage better; I
never used to be without money in London;
it is very odd— ’ and so ran on this incon
siderate lady, until the heart of her young
est-born ached within her, from perfect
weariness, and shame at her selfishness.
‘Rose,’ said Margaret, as the former en
tered her bed-room,‘come hither ; you may
perhaps see Ernest Heathwood again, and
you can then return hi n this.’ She placed
the unepened letter in her hand “I do n t
wish to read it, particularly n >w ; it migh’
have a baneful effect upon the honest pur
pose which I trust in God, I shall have
strength to accomplish. And now, dear
est, sit here and look over this other letter
I have received from London.”
Rose took the paper that Margaret offer
ed, and moved from opposite the cracked
looking-glass which garnished the simple
dressing-table.
‘l’ll stand here, please, sister; I cannot
bear to sit opposite that disagreeable trum
pery glass; it makes my nose crooked.
Oh! Maggy, do you retnernber the beauti
ful mirrors we had in Bedford Square, and
my pretty little bed, with its pale pink silk
curtains, looped with roses ? Heigho ! I did
net know what a patched quilt meant then;’
and she glanced contemptuously at the
clean, hut humble coverlet flf their simple
couch.
‘ My dear Rose, dobe serious, and read.’
* What an ungenteel looking letter it
is—such coarse paper, and such a scribbly
scrabbly hand !’ Whatever the hand or,
paper might be, after she had fairly com
menced she did not again speak until she
had finished the perusal from beginning
to end ; and then, with one loud cry of
joy, she threw herself iuto her sister’s
arms.
‘Margaret, dear Margaret—to think of
your taking this so quietly, when I, my
dear sister, I shall certainly lose my sen
ses. We shall be rich, more rich than ev
er ; and you can marry Ernest—dear kind
Ernest—and we can live in London and
keep our carriage ; and—Nay, sister, do
let me break that odious glass. O,Marga
ret, lam so happy! Let us go tell our
mother — mamma —l beg her pardon; and
you shall give up your pupils. Dear, beau
tiful letters! let me read it.again.’ And
tftff I #*gpnd perusahhteuv her into
raptures tnan the first.
‘lt is better not to mention this to our
mother, I think,’ said Margaret, when her
sister’s ecstacies had in some degree sub
sided. ‘And yet she is our parent, and
has, therefore, a right to our confidence,
though I know she, will endeavor to thwart
my resolves.’
‘Thwart your resolves !* replied Rose,
in astonishment, ‘why, what fesolves can
you have, except to marry Ernest, and be
as happy as the day is long ?
‘I shall never marry Ernest Heathwood,
replied her sister, in a trembling voice,
‘though I certainly shall be more happy
than I ever anticipated in this world.’
I* cannot pretend to understand you,’ said
Rose ; but do let me go and make mamma
acquainted with our unlocked, for prosper
ity ;’ and she accordingly explqjned to her
mother that a brother of her father’s—one
who had ever been on decidedly had terms
with all his relatives, and their family more
particularly, had died lately in Calcutta,
and bequeathed by will his property, a
mounting to many thousand, to his niece,
Margaret Sunderland, who, in the words
of his singular testament, ‘had never offen
ded him by word or deed, and must ever
he considered a credit to her sex.’ There
is no necessity to recapitulate the ecstacies,
plans and arrangements that succeeded and
in which Margaret took no part.
The next morning she granted her pupils
a holiday ; and when her mother went out
doubtless for the purpose of propagating
the account of their good fortune, Margaret
told her sister that she wished to be alone
for some time, to arrange her plans. She
had been so occupied for about two hours,
when Rose Sunderland, accompanied by a
gentleman passed the heechen tree where
Margaret and her lover had I; st met.
‘1 am sure she will not be angry—it will
he* an agreeable surprise—and mamma
won’t be home* for a fa ng time yet,’ said
Rose. ‘I will open the parlor door an 1— ’
‘There l shall find her forming plans for
future happiness, in which, perhaps, l am
not in- luded,’ interrupted Ernest II *ath->
woe and.
‘You are very unjust sir,’ replied R sa
as they entered the cottage : and in another j
instant Margaret, with a flushed cheek
and a burning brow had returned the salu- j
tation of him she loved. There was more |
coldness in her manndt than he deemed
necessary, and, with the impetuosity of a ;
high and ardent spirit, be asked her if she !
attributed his visit to interested motives. {
•No,’ she replied, ‘not so ; ‘I hold my
self incapable of such feelings, and shonld
I attribute them to you? ,1 tell you now,
as I told you when last we met, that mv
constant prayer is, that God might exceed
ingly bless you and yours, and save yon
from poverty, which, in the world’s eye, is
the extremity of sin.*
‘But, Margaret,’ interrupted Rose, as
was her wont, ‘there is no fear of poverty
now ; and Sir Thomas himself said that
even with a moderate fortune, he should
prefer you to other women.’
‘I - have not even a moderate fortune,* re
plied the noble-minded girl, rising from
her seat, and at the same time laying her
hand on a pile of account books that she
had been -examining. ‘You, Mr. Heath
wood, will understand me, if I say that,
when 1 first breathed the air of existence,
I became a partaker of my family’s for
■ tunes, as they might be, for good or evil/
‘And you shared in both Margaret, and
supported b*ti with dignity.’ said Ernest^
* x \
she replied, whited > .
‘ l ‘F ‘ ,nsst ' d ov f
n..>A-bear with me for
i ;i: i.iy future• intentfatts. Mv prtor fa
ther’s unfortunate failure workctlmp
fi r many who trustelnn him with g ■
dence which he and yet betray 1 *!
ed. 1 meant not that.” she added hpwtiafe;
•he did not betray, but the waves, the
and the misfortunes or ill principles of oth
ers conspired against hrm, and tie fell, over- %
whelmed with toaoWn and others’ min.—
Lips that had bfwre blessed, n-vv cursed
him they had so fatally trusted, and every i
curse seemed to acsgßnulate suffering#
which only I was witness to. Tottkrrem
uttermo st —even the ring from his
he gave cheerfully to his creditors ( there #
was no reserve ou his part—-all, all was I|-
sacrificed. Yet, like the daughters
h rseleech, the cry was still “Give! Give!”
and she added, w.th trembling voice, ‘*t
last he did give—even his existence!—
And I, who knew so well the honor of Ira
noble nature at the very time when hfacohi
corpse lingered in tfijs house, beewtefr-fp;
lacked the means of decent buriat<—
doomed to receive letters, and hear CCH*-
plaints of his injustice. In the silent
of night l knelt by his coffin; decayblaw, :
been merciful—it spared his features t&iiM.:’
hist; and I could count and kiss the fur*
rows which disappointment and the acofatr
ings of a selfish world had graven on h>a
brow. But. O! how perfectly did I feel,
in that melancholy hour# that his J
indeed departed, and that my lips rested opr*
naught hut cold and senseless clay-; yvWjJj
clung, with almost childish infatuation,
the dwelling it had so sweetly inkabitefj
for such a length of years. The hcosf
led on, and the gray mists of mominirreßiMF ;
mein the same spot; it was then, as tfljf ,
light mingled with and overcame the dm
parting darkness, that I entered into OjSQraE*
pact with the living spirit ol my dean - fatvf
er, that, as long as I possessed power Mfi
think or act, I would entirely devote ss7
energies to the fulfilment of those
ments which his necessities compelled huii*
to leave unsatisfied. lam ashamed to say,
I nearly forgot my pr. raise; and though i
a portion of my hard earnings were regu- !
1 txly devoted to the darling project of win
ning hack far niy"father his unspotted re
putatfi n. yet 1 did form plans of huppinei#
in which his memory had no share. Efco ,
nest, for tl i< l have suffered, and must euf
fermore. Iha ve gene over these books, and
find that, after devoting the entire of the
many, many thousands now my own to the
cherished object, ohly a few hundred#®* jr
remain at my dispcsal. This is enough.
Again I say, may you be happy with your
dowered bride; and rpmember that the one
consolation—the only one that can support
me under this separation—is that I hav#
done my duty.’
Strange as it may seem, young Heath
wood did nit apppar so much distressed M
this resolution as Rose—or, to say the truth,
as Margaret—thought he would have been.
No matter how heroic, how disinterested,
the feeling which compels a woman to re
sign her lover, she naturally expects that
the lover will evince a proper quantity of
despair at the sad circumstance; and cer
tainly Ernest, after a pause of a ftw min
utes, during which he seemed mure'affec
ted by Margaret’s than
his own bereavement, entered cordiuliy in
to her views, and praised the sacrifice (if,
with her feelings, so it might be called,)
with an energy that left no room to doubt
its sincerity. t * w : •
After his departure, she pondered these
things in her heart, and came to the etejr *
elusion that she had n> t resigned her idjfegj
tions too soon, for that it was evident fiw
had pretty well succeeded in bgiiishirtte 1
her from his love; and poor Rose, who h;d :
in so little time been twice disappointed in
her hopes both of a fortune a wedding,
was reproved with seme- asperity for con-;
ducting Ernest Heathwood, under any Clf*
cumstances, to their cottage. It is needles*
to add that her mother’s tears ami remon
strances had no effect upon Margaret**
purpose; and her lawyer received instrta
tions to remit forthwith to all the creditm
of the late Maurice Sunderland ‘
amount of their demands, with intejCaL
thereon from the day of his
It required all firmness
hex Lcen’ i
against the paui WBftf'.nition ol’ a r<ini)d|nT|HS
mind, that ErnesMuufa' 1 ! Vk jLrsj2m
with anything boroer/fig” on affectiorak
Strange, that at the very moment we nr*f
endeavoring to repress the unavailing pas
sion of the one we lovic, we secretly—ub
khowingly it may far its contin
uance ! * jjfeKil .. ;
All ‘busincss affalrsj weeds arranged ac
cording to her desire ;|ut she was fust sink
ing under the outward tranquility which ii
more fatal than in Listlessly she
wandered amid tfis u flovvers wfijfrh Rose
loved to
of carriage-wheels lfi her attefltii n,-
nnd, with no ordinary emotion, she saw
Sir Thomas and Ernes i Heathwood enter
the wicket-gate, and a ilk toward thox<.t
tage.
‘I told you, Miss Su fieri and,’ commen
ced the old gentleman with more agita
tion, but less embarras rnent, than he had
shown at tbeirfi rmeri] erview, ‘that I had
need of twenty thtusr td pounds to sup
port my credit and sav my family from
distress. I told yen I fished my son to
marry a lady possessed of that sum, and I
now come to claim vou i ? his bride.’
‘Sir!’
‘Yes, madam,l was jiur father*jJargest
creditor ; and though I ltd no fraud, n. th
ing dishonorable, to alkie against hint, vut. ;
I did not, l confess it, lif* the idra4>f roy
son being united tohis (Slighter. He wa*|
always speculative and! imaginative, a ltd
I feared you might be thosaine. The sum
you have so nob'y repair me I locked up
on as lost, and you mustS therefore, suffer
me to consider it a ma jiage-portion. It
lias saved me from ruin,Without the sacr.*
fice of my s n’s tapninds.*
•How isthis?*'cci|(|n and Margaret, fear
ful of trusting the evijjbr j ofher own sens
es, ‘I cannot understate Uthe name—’
‘Our original name w \ Sijcnnions,’
claimed Ernest, eagerly *btrt ail
the circumstances, ,1 naver told you—f
knew how my t father tvtuld feel at yoty
disinterested conduct; a|now that y<>nf
trials are past, you will Jj| net, no lengerf
doubt me.’
‘Wlv said 1 doubled?? I ./tired Marga*.
ret.
•Even Rose, and here rhe comes t■><-
swer for her crime.’ I
‘Nay dearest suiter,’exiaimed the laugh
ing girl, ‘it was <inly lal: evening that l
saw Ernest, nnd Ahavcr U’pt out of your
way ever since, lest I sha.ld discover ms
secret. Without my fnldity, and : tb
thoughtlessness of am. the! who, for all
that, is dear to us both, Milgaret’s virtues
would never have slv rve vlfi so steady 4
% ht -’ “ I
‘True,Rose; spoken lilq #ft soger,l
never thought you wise heft*?. It is to be
hoped that when your si steal changes her
name, her mantle may desceijj upon yds**
said Ernest. u . g. ft
‘She may want wisdom she
continued, archly? who knows ttf i&9
most bitter trials of Margaret i üb 4HUO&2
may come after marriage >’
Ernest did not reply to the unjustiH
cion, for he had not heard it; his fterwfl
thought, his heart, were fixed
her who had thrown so briglrt
ing lustre over the
good things that belong••
to be wished, but the dung*. taE
long to adversity admgpgfeffi
A Jrr