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® JFamUfi to ILUernturr, tUr arts, Science, &&rfcuiture, J&ecHnuicg, Education, jForeisn anTir Bowesstic £ntrUi&ence, Rumour, Kt. VOLUME I. [F@[ET^Y a A MOTHER’S THOUGHTS AMIDST HER CHILDREN. BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY. • “ Tims they go, Whom we have reared, watshea, blessed, too much adored!” ‘ Mrs. He.ma.ns. Ye are around me still, A bright, unbroken band ; your voices fill The summer air with gladness, yet I know That Fate's cold shadows arc around us falling, That with its thousand tongues the world is calling, Urging you forth —and ye must go ! Ye will depart with glee From the fair bowers where ye hnve wandered free, As spring’s rejoicing birds ; ye will not cast Sad looks and lingering on your childhoods dwelling, Whilst Hope of other, brighter realms, is telling : Yet will not sorrow for the past! Ye will go boldly forth, With your heart’s treasures, gems of priceless worth, To barter for the hollowness, the strife Os human crowds ; ah, fond ones ! little knowing How ill yitur cherished dreams, so rich, so glowing, Suit the rt-hies of life! Ye will not learn to prize The holy quiet of the love that lies Deep in your hearts, till ye have felt the wrong That the cold, scornful world is ever wreaking On the gentlest spirits -on the weary seeking Safe shelter in its throng! Therefore I sadly gaze Upon you, with the thought of future days Brooding around me ; and I fain would deem That no'relentless chance your paths might sever, That thus united ye might glide for ever Along life’s onward stream ! And solemn thoughts arise, As now I look into your loving eyes, And school mv heart for evil hours to come— How may I think upon the speeding morrow, With its impending ill—irsstrife and sorrow, And trial —and be dumb T How will thy spirit brook My proud, fair girl, beneath the veil to look That hides life’s hollow joys, and mocking trust ? How wilt thou bear, from glorious visions stooping. To own with low, sad voice, and dim eye drooping, Thy portion with the dust 7 And thou, my loving child. My gentle boy, with thv affections mild, And spirit shrinking sirll from boisterous glee— How, in the world with angry passions teeming, With Envy’s poisoned words, and Pride's dark schem ing. How will it fare w ith thee ? Wilt thou find food for mirth, My joyous one, amid the graves of earth ? Will thine heart’s sunshine to the desert bring A brightness not its own 7 or wilt thou, failing In love and hope, change thy glad songs to wailing, Or silence—bird of spring ? Ye are around me still, A bright, unbroken band ; yonr voices fill The summer air with gladness, yet I know That Fate’s cold shadows are around us falling. That with its thousand tongues the world is calling, Urging you forth —and ye must go ! Yet whither 7 —are ye not Heirs of a higher promise 7 unforgot Os Him that mindeth even the sparrow’s fall 7 Be still, my heart! the future hath its story Os vanquished evil, and enduring glory, And triumph, for you all! . MB®©[£[L[L^OT a From the Ladies’ Companion. THE ONLY DAUGHTER. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. “ The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted : they have torn me, and I bleed.” Byron. ‘lt was the sunset of a beautiful autumnal day, and the slant beams shed a golden glow upon the dark foliage of many a giant oak which spread its gnarled roots and broad branches across the velvet lawn of Dales ford ; while the diamond paned casements of the fine old mansion glittered in the rays of the tieparting luminary. It was a scene truly English ; the antique house, with its heavy doorways and deep set windows, its peacked roof and clustered cbimnies —the park stretching its emerald green turf far around, and dotted with little copses where the antlered deer sported in fearless securi ty —the village in the distance with its neat white cottages and verdant hedgerow’s —-the *all £ ;-nire of the little church relieved against the cWr blue sky, and glittering in the lat est beam of day—all combined to form a picture of comfort and quiet beauty rarely seen in other lands. Seated in a deep em brasure of a window which looked out up on this lovely prospect sat the master of the rich domain, and as the soft light touched I his long, grey locks, it almost seemed like a halo around his venerable head. But the feelings of Mr. Dale were strangely at vari ance with the tranquility of the hour and the scene. His eye dwelt upon the beauty *Vbieh spread itself before turn, but his fnind was absorbed in other thoughts, and an expression of deep gloom rested on his fine features which told of secret discontent. He had been sitting with bent brow and folded arms for more than an hour, and the sunset glow had darkened into the grey of twilight when a light touch upon the shoul der aroused him from his revery. “ You have been long in obeying my summons, Marian,” said he, as he turned and beheld his daughter by his side, “ you are not wont to be a laggard in your duty to your only parent.” . The brow of the young girl crimsoned as she replied, “ I was abroad, father, and heard not your summons until this mo ment.” , “ Sit down, Marian,” said Mr. Dale, ap parently not listening to her excuse, “ I have that to say which requires your serious con sideration. Your cousin What of him, sir V’ interrupted Mari an with a startled voice. “Your cousin, Sir Thomas,” pursued the father, “has again written to me on the sub ject of. your union. He complains, and £1 TO? HP mi w - weg grat HP W W HP w V db 4Bk dBV Mm ® w JJi 4k ® certainly with some reason, of the protract ed delay to which he has been subjected. Since your childhood he has been your affi anced husband, and surely the time has come now when he ought to expect you to act with the discretion befitting a woman.” “ Sir Thomas would show his own dis cretion by chosing a lady better suited to bis years,” said Marian, harshly. “ Tut, tut, girl; a hale, hearty man of forty-five is a match for any one : he has forborne to press his suit out of deference to your girlish lin#dity, and now he must be listened to.” “Father,” said Marian firmly, “ you have spoken to me of this matter on former occa sions, and my answer must be what it ever has been : my hand must be given only in obedience to the dictates of my heart, and if I understand my own feelings it will never be obtained by my cousin.” “ Marian, I will not appear to you in the light of a tyrannical parent ; listen to my motives for desiring this match and you will scarcely then attempt to oppose your feeble will to a resolution so irrevocable as mine. My grandfather had two sons, and the elder, of course, inherited the baronetcy, but the estates were unentailed, and on his death bed the old man bequeathed to his younger and favorite child the bulk of his fortune, leav ing to the elder little more than a bare subsistacee. This unjust distribution of property naturally produced discord and disunion between the brothers which lasted during life, and my father enjoyed his wealth at the cost of fratern*al affection. The brothers, playmates in infancy, and bo som-friends in youth, now dwelt within bow shot of each other—they met in the field and the thoroughfare—they sat within the same sanctuary —knelt at the same altar and yet they never exchanged a word of kindness or even a look of recognition.. At k the elder brother died, leaving an >. ?v srin to inherit his title and poverty, — Remorse was awakened in tny father’s heart when he looked upon the grave of his long estranged brother, he shed the una vailing tears of penitence over the obdura cy which had severed those whom nature had united, and when he lay on his death bed, a few years later, he drew a solemn promise from me, who was bis only child, that I would repair the injustice which had resulted from my grandfather’s partial affec tion. In obedience to my dying parent I gave the required pledge, but, I blush to confess, Marian, that I did not fulfil mv -word. I bad then •cvoral obUdrcn and 1 could not bear the idea of diminishing then heritage by sharing it with the heir of m\ uncle ; yet this was what mv father had desired, and what he would himself have done had his life been prolonged. Indeed an unexecuted will to that effect was found among his papers, and therefore I was not left in any doubt as to the course I ought to pursue. But I was governed by selfish in terest, and contenting myself with making friendly advances to my cousin, the baronet, who was my junior by some ten or twelve years, I made no attempt to equalize out estates. But a promise given to the dead is never violated with impunity. My boys, my noble and stately boys, were one after another cut down by the stroke of death. The children for whose sake I boarded my wealth were all consigned to the keeping cf the grave, and at last, Marian, you only were left. Your mother too soon followed her little ones, and wlule standing beside her coffin I vowed that if you were spared to me, I would make full and ample restitu tion to my cousin for my long delay in ful filling my patent’s command. Contrary to the expectation of every one, you became a- healthy and promising child, and as I watched your growth in beauty and in strength my heart again failed me. I shrunk from the duty of reducing the heiress cf Dalesford, and it was not until you had sassed the age of thoughtless childhood that conceived a plan which enabled me to perform my duty without impoverishing you. Sir Thomas was the first to suggest the idea of a union between the heir of the honors and the heiress of the estates of Dalesford. Attracted by your budding beauty, Marian.be offered to keep himself free until you should have attained the age of womanhood, if 1 would consent to over look the disparity in years and allow him to consider you liis future bride. His propo sition removed a great weight from my mind, for it enabled me to accomplish the dearest objects of my life and I gladly con sented to such an arrangement. Knowing, how often such an affiance produces dis gust in the minds of the parties, we con eluded to allow you to remain in ignorance of it until such time as Sir Thomas might have’ succeeded in winning your regard. Your unfortunate acquaintance with young Whatncliffe, Marian, was a hindrance to our plans because it awakened a foolish and transient attachment which I trust is now entirely effaced from your recollection. His proposals for your hand, Marian, induc ed ine to disclose to you my intentions re specting Sit Thomas’ and 1 regret that it should have been found necessary to sub ject your cousiti to so long a probation in consequence of your foolish partiality for this stranger. Wharnclifl'e is a man of mean biith, of fickle and unsteady character, and neither by fortune nor station warranted in his presumption. I cannot therefore but wonder at the strange infatuation which led you to listen for a moment to his suit, although I am willing to give you full cre dit for the implicit obedience which you ac corded to my prohibition of all further in tercourse. “A year has been allowed you to forget this passing folly, and Sir ’1 homas is now impatient to gall you his bride, there PUBLISHED WEEKLY, BY C. R. IIANLEITER, AT TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. MADISON, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, APRIL 5, 1842. fore be prepared, Marian, to meet him. next week, as your affianced husband, and as soon as the necessary arrangements can be made 1 shall have the happiness of see ing you wedded to a man who is deserving of your love and duty.” At this moment, a servant entering with lights, interrupted the conversation, and Mr. Dale discovered his daughter’s face bathed in tears, while her whole frame shook with suppressed emotion. Surprised and dis pleased he hade her retire until she had banished all such traces of agitation from her countenance and remember that his will was now to be obeyed with cheerful ness as well as alacrity. Marian gladly ac cepted permission to retire but no sooner had she reached her apartment, than, dry ing her tears, she drew from her bosom a folded paper and read as follows : “ Meet me to-night in the little- coppice on the right hand of the park gate. 1 have hovered about you for three days without being able to see you ; do not fail me now; I shall wait until the stroke of twelve. The ship which is to bear me forever from mv native land will sail in five days ; I come to bid you a last farewell—dearest, do not re fuse to let me listen once more to the tones of your sweet voice ere I go to return no more.” There was no signature to the note but Marian well knew the characters of her lover’s writing. It was from What ncliffe— from him whose suit her father had rejec ted, from him, whom her father had ap plauded for her forgetting, and with whom she had kept up a clandestine correspon dence during imply months. “It shall be so,” said Marian to herself, as she replaced the paper in the folds of her dress, “ there is no alternative ; better is a life of affec tion with him I love than one of splendor with that cold, selfish, heartless profligate to whom my father destines me. If I should stay and wed Sir Thomas my father’s grey hairs would be brought down to the grave in sorrow, by the sight of my unhappiness. Let me then take my destiny in my own hands; he will then relent when he finds the step irrevocable—lie will pardon my disobedience when be finds it has ensured my future peace of mind : any thing—any thing —rather than this hated marriage ! And absorbed in such thoughts Marian sat unheading of the flight of time until the deep-toned clock struck the eleventh hour, and throwing a cloakaround her to conceal her figure, stoe softly out of a side door to meet Iwar. fxpetd. IqvcT l . _ Marian Dale bad been the petted and the polled plaything of the whole household cf Dalesford from her parents down to the grey-headed steward and gossiping nurse who had watched her infancy. Her mothei had indulged her to excess, and when she lost that parent, her father, transferring to her the affection which he had borne towards the fine fair children, who now lay buried within the family vault in the village church, fancied he was contributing to her happi ness by allowing her to follow the impulses if her own inclination in all things. Her character therefore became embued with wilfulness to a degree totally unsuspected by those who saw only the sunny tempered and happy girl. Gifted with fine mental powers, she had received an education su perior to most of her sex, while her extreme beauty and graceful manners served to dis play to advantage her really noble qualities of heart. Mr. Dale was like his ancestors, a man of stern and inflexible purpose. When he had once made a resolution noth ing could shake it, arid under a severe coun tenance and the most polished elegance of address he concealed the most determined obstinacy. He loved his daughter, he liked his somewhat elderly nephew, valued his estate and he was proud of his family name. He fancied that he had fallen upon a plan which would combine all the advantages that he most valued, and perpetuate the name while it repaired the fortunes of the titled branch of his.family. It was certain ly a well arranged scheme and would have been a perfectly feasible one but for the ob jections which arose from the mature age of Sir Thomas and the prior attachment of his daughter to another. Still Mr. Dale did not dream of resistance. His will was law and he did not suspect that Marian would venture to cherish an affection which lie had interdicted or to refuse her assent to a marriage which lie had projected. But Marian possessed too much of her father’s spirit to become the passive instrument of his despotism. The unlimited indulgence which had been extended to her in all trif ling matters had rendered her incapable of implicit obedience in serious one’s. She was so unused to control that it now seem ed to her an undue exertion of parental authority to which her proud spirit could not submit. One week after the conversa tion just narrated Marian was on her way to America, the wife of Albert Wharncliffe. Absorbed in dreams of a first and passion ate love, and facinated by her husband’s agreeable pictures of the new world which was now to be their abode, Marian had lit tle time to regret her deserted home. If the image of that desolute mansion and its bcart-striken master rose before her mental vision, the voice of him for whose sake she had sacrificed all, had power to chase these painful fancies and awaken cheerful antici pations of the future. For a brief interval Marian was happy—perfectly happy not withstanding her disobedience and her wil fnlness. But such happiness—the dream of a feverish excitement—lasts not long. Immediately upon her arrival in NewYork Marian addressed a letter to her father, not doubting that the affection which had so long been the measure of her days and years would silence the dictates of anger in his bosom. She wrote not as a supplicant, but as a tender and affectionate child who had been driven to ex’reraity by his cruel determination. Her letter breathed the deepest tenderness, but no remorse, no sup plication for forgiveness. She acknowledg ed her fault, hut spoke of it as rendered necessary by circumstances, and instead of throwing herself upon her father’s mercy seemed to extent the’ offer of mutual obli vion of injuries. Three months elapsed ere an answer was received. It was a large packet and Marian with tearful eyes greet ed the bandwriting of her father; but what were her feelings when she found only her own letter enclosed in a blank envelope. The letter had been opened ; her father must have read it, yet it had not softened his obdurate feelings, and Marian knew that she was now an outcast from her father’s heart and home. She wept such tears, as she had never before shed : even her bus bat d’s tenderness was powerless to soothe her remorseful agony, and, for the first time, she was made sensible of the magnitude ol her sin by the extent of its punishment. Albert Wharncliffe was one of those good tempered, thoughtless beings who arc known in societies as ‘goodhearted fellotvs’ and who are invariably attended by ill suc cess in life. Without high mental gifts or strong moral principles, without prudence and sometimes without integrity, without disinterestedness and real generosity, the j ‘good-hearted man’ is usually a reckless prodigal whose plentiful flow of animal spi rits is mistaken for genuine good temper, whose profuseness is deemed true generosi ty, and whose kindness to others is usually the result of an acute and morbid sensitive ness to his own comfort. Such are the men on whom society bestows the unmeaning epithets; such are the men whom misfor tune pursues like a shadow—and such an one was Albert Wharncliffe. His fine per son and agreeable address made him a gen eral favorite and he had that kind of good taste in small matters which passes current for talent with some people. He sketched caricatures with great drollery, played gracefully if not scientifically on the flute, was extremely skilful in manufacturing charades, quoted Romeo and Juliet to the extreme delight of young ladies, and recited love verses with marked emphasis, if not discretion. He had the art (and it is no des picable one, gqntle reader) of displaying all his knowledge in the best possible light, and ha vKSthns enabled to throw into tWo shade many a wiser and better man. Asa skilful disposition of goods in a shop window will tempt many an unwary customer to the pur chase of inferior articles of merchandise, so the judicious arrangement of his small wares enabled him to retail them at about double their value. Marian Dale met him when she? first emerged from the seclusion in which she had past her early years. He was the charn of the somewhat limited circle of society to which she was confined at Dalesford, and it is not surprising that to the young and un experienced girl, he should have seemed one of the noblest of men. This favorable im pression was increased by the suavity of his manners and his devotion to herself: and when this prepossession had grown into a passion, her father’s determined rejection of his suit had awakened all the latent wil fulness of her nature. Probably had she “continued to met t him in society her ma ture mind would have judged more acurate ly of his merits, and this early folly might soon have faded like the rainbow-tinted dreams which ebann the fancy of every romantic girl in early life. But her father’s prohibition of bis presence, and the restraint in which she was kept during the period of Whamcliffe’s sojourn in the neighborhood aroused that kind of martyr-like pride which we all feel when the shadow of persecutiot falls upon our path. Marian loved her hus band with all the fervor of her ardent na ture, but she could not be blind to his er rors. The familiar intercourse of wedded life is hut little favorable to the delusions of fancy. The really noble qualities of character seem developed in greater perfec tion when viewed by the light which glows on the domestic hearth, but the minute de fects also are apt to stand out in too bold relief unless thrown into the shade by vir tues or veiled by the hand of Love. The vacillating temper and fickleness of purpose which were Whamcliff’s most serious faults could not escape the penetration of his wife. She saw him wasting day after day in idle projects, consumingtheir very limited means in luxurious living, and deferring from week to week the search after some regular em ployment which alone could ensure them future comforts. His sanguine temper had led him to believe that his superior know ledge of business would readily ensure him employment in a mercantile community. But to his great surprise he found that even the head of the bankrupt firm of Whnrn clifte, Higgand Cos. was not likely to obtain employment by means of his own braggart recommendations only. Winter came on and he w<is still unengaged, while their means were rapidly diminishing. It be came necessary to reduce their expenses. Their costly lodgings at the City Hotel were changed for private apartments in a hoarding-house, and, when, after the birth of Mrs. Wharncliffe’s eldest child, they ven tured to bok into the little fund, they found it expedient to remove to still humbler lodg ings in a cheaper part of the city. Mr. Wharncliffe became moody and dis contented and Marian saw with alarm that he resorted to the wine-cup as a stimulus to his sinking spirits. The pride of her na ture was subdued by present suffering and painful anticipations. The newly-awaken ed feelings of maternal affection too had softened her whole character, and she re solved again to address her father. But month after month passed away and no an swer arrived to cheer the heart of the peni tent daughter. At last as a resource from the horrors of actual want, she determined to turn to account the talents which had once been only the adornment of her afflu ence and station. She sought employment as a daily governess, and some kindly-dis posed persons, who had noticed her regu lar attendance at church, her lady-like •man ners, and her delicate beauty, readily came forward to favor her views. She ob tained • engagments with several families, and by exact appropriation of her time was enabled to devote her whole day to. her pupils. What a contrast was this to her former life ! How often as she toiled through the wet and dirty streets at early morning, or sat with heated brow and flushed cheek patiently instilling the rudiness of know ledge into the mind of some dull little stu dent, or dragged her weary limbs and still more wearied brain to her humble home at twilight, how often did the old mansion of Dalesford rise before her troubled fancy ! She saw the cheerful sitting-room with the bright fire glancing on the rich pictures which graced the walls; she beheld once more the massive old chair in which reclin ; ed her grey-haired father ; the cumbrous table on which lay the newspaper it had been her evening task to read for him—her own low seat at the old man’s knee—every thing which had been so familiar, so almost unregarded when she was at home, but which were so dear to her now, seemed to come vividly before her. Yet Marian mur mured not at her condition. She loved her husband too well to embitter his life with repinings, and though she felt that an effort of resolution on his part might save her from hardship and piivation, she uttered no complaint. At length the sympathy which was awakened in the minds of those who had employed the wife, led to some interest in the fate of the husband, and a clerkship, with a very moderate salary, was offered to Mr. Wharncliffe. But the emoluments of this office were not sufficient to support the family without the aid of Mrs. Wharncliffe’s talents, and she therefore continued her laborious avocation as a daily governess. Thus passed five years, during which .time two other children were born to share their parent's poverty. Never untd she looked upon her own children had Mrs. W’ arnclifle realized the full extent of her guilt towards her father. However dutiful we” may be in mir childhood, and in later life, to those who gave us birth, yet never do we fully understand how much we owe them —never do we feel the full weight of the obligation to honor our parents, until we clasp to our hearts the child of our own bosom, the little being who in awaking maternal affection lias redoubled filial love. Again and again did Mrs. Wharncliffe ap peal to her offended father, but her letters were returned unopened and the remorse which was eating into her very heart be-, came more keen with every new repulse which her penitence received, She was destined however to drink still more deep ly of the cup of bitterness. Her daily du ties towards her young pupils compelled her ter,entrust the care of her little ones to a domestic, who proved totally unworthy of the charge. The infant received a serious injury from her carelessness, a painful dis ease of the spine was the result, and for six months Mrs. Wharncliffe was compelled to witness the sufferings of her cherished babe. The trial was rendered more severe by the necessity which still existed for daily exer tion on her part in order to secure the mere comforts of life to her little family. She could not sit hour after hour beside her dy ing child, listening to his faintest cry, watch ing his every look, smoothing with gentle hand his uneasy pillow, and ministering the thousand offices of affection which afford so much solace in memory. Her monotonous and weary tasks were still to be performed, her pupils were still to be visited, and with a heart almost bursting she turned from the pale face of the little sufferer, often doubt ing whether he would be still living to greet her return at evening. At length the poor child died, and as she bent to impress a last kiss upon bis brow ere the little shrunken form was hidden forever beneath the coffin lid, she murmured in the words of the devot ed missionary mother onja similar occasion : “God grant the sacrifice may not be madein vain !” She felt that the child had gone to hear her offering of penitence to her offend ed Maker whose commandment she had broken when she turned from her father’s heart and home. From that time Mrs. Wharncliffe altered rapidly. After the lapse of a few days, spent in melancholy seclusion, she resumed her duties, but her pupils who had learned to love her tenderly, saw with pain the pal lid cheek and sunken eye of their young pre ceptor. A short cough often interrupted her leading, and she was soon obliged to relinguish the attempt to continue her les sons in vocal music. “It was only a slight cold,” she said, when she was advised to practice the prudenco so necessary in our changeful climate, and she slill persevered through all seasons and even in the most inclement weather to fulfil her daily en gagements. But the short dry cough be camo still more distressing, her breathing was painful and labored, and she was oblig ed to limither walks to short distances. By degrees her strength failed : one after an other of her pupils was given up, and at length the pale face and fragile form of the daily governess was no longer seen in her daily walk. Confinement to the house was speedily followed by a total prostration ot strength, which stretched her upon the couch of sickness from whence she was never again to rise. Consumption had long been making its insidious ravages upon her frame and little now was left for the des troyer to accomplish. Mr. Whamcliffe had been strangely blind to the gradual change in his wife's health. Her patient endurance had rendered him unsuspicious of the extent of her sufferings, and it was not until the fiat had gone forth and the voice of medical science had inter preted the decree, that he was awakened to a sense of the trial which awaited him. Whamcliffe was fickle, and thoughtless, and selfish, but he was not hardhearted. He wept like an infant as he watched beside his dying wife, and thought of the ruin which his hand had wrought. His heart now has told him that the indulgence of his wayward passion had been productive of lit tle happiness to him and certainly of great misery to others. His conscience reproach ed him with many an-act of thoughtless un kindness, many a cold and careless word; and the remembrance of her uncomplaining patience and devoted tenderness was now as a dagger to his bosom. But repentance came too late, and the love which might have saved was now destined to look with ‘ late remorse’ upon his victim ! Death hovered long beside the pillow of the gentle sufferer ere his dart sped on its fatal errand. There was little pain in her disease towards the close of Her life; ex cessive weakness and lassitude were its principal symptoms, and she lay hour after hour with closed eyes and quiet smile, as if in sleep. But at such times her mind was wandering to the scenes of her childhood. Ihe beauties of the natural scenery at DalesfotjjJ, the images which were connected with her infancy, the old familiar faces of her father’s household were pictured in vivid colors before her failing sight. She would murmur of the rill and the green wood, of the summer flowers and the joyous birds ; then she would fancy herself sitting at her father’s knee while his handjsmootli ed her flowing dresses ; sometimes she would seem to be uttering some merry jest with her old nurse, or bantering the formal old steward who had loved her so well in her childhood ; again melancholy fancies would mingle w ith her dreams—the remem brance of her dying mother and the mourn ful array of the stately burial would seem to be blended with more recent recollec tions of her lost infant—then she would weep piteously and beg the funeral train to wait a little while, only a little while, and bear her with them to aplaco of rest. There were other periods however when her in tellect was as clear and unclouded as if dis ease had never touched her frame, and it was then that her wishes were conveyed to her sorrowing husband, and her latest ap peal was made to her obdurate father, ere the tyng suspended stroke at length fell, and the purified.spirit of her who hod been sanctified by sorrow was released from its earthly tabernacle. One evening, about six months after the event just recorded, Mr. Dale was seated, absorbed in thought, in the cheerful apart ment which we have already described. The light of .a Mowing re foil upon the rich caipet, the velvet-cushioned chairs and the luxurious decorations of the abode of wealth, while the decanter of fine old port and a half filled glass which stood upon the table sparkled in the cheerful flame liko melted rubies. Every thing spoke of afflu ence and comfort, but the countenance of him who seemed left to the lonely enjoy ment of these applicances was moody and melancholy. His locks were thinner and of a more snowy whiteness, bis brow was ploughed with deepened furrows, and the lines of his handsome mouth were marked with a firmer and more determined expres sion, yet there was a degree of sadness in his eye which seemed scarcely in keeping with the stern cold fixedness of his fine fea tures. The old man was evidently the prey to some hidden sorrow, ‘end the frequent sigh which alone broke the stillness of the apartment told a tale of long suppressed regret, It was at this time that a letter was put into bis hands. He hesitated a moment —it was unsealed! and the direction was in a strange handwriting. A presentiment of coming ill sent a shudder through his frame as he enclosed the paper and read as fol lows : ■ m “ My Father, my dear father !—the voice which now utters that sacred name will be hushed for ever ere your eye rests upon this written word; the heart that now pours forth its gushing tenderness will have ceas- ’ ed to beat with life and love ete you can re ceive this latest record of my oft rejected penitence. Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight: I have broken the command of promise: I have not honored my father—therefore my days are not long in the land : therefore in my youth am I cut down as a cumbcrer of the ground. You will forgivo me now, dear father; the bles sed sounds of pardon cannot pierce the sod which will lie more lightly upon my breast than your curse had dope upon my heart.* yet you will forgive me. I have fepente& in bitterness of spirit, and now I go down to my early grave mourning over my offence. and with none to comfort me. Yeti have one treasure to bequeath—a treasure which poverty and want have made more precious lame : my children ! will you pot be to them iis a father I I ask not your wealth for the heirs of my sorrow, but by the love , you bore to the mother wjbQ now awaits NUMBER 1.