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laic illness, anti tire you so much with iny ceaseless
chatting. Now, lay back in your chair and rest,
and as penance for the mischief 1 have done, 111
sit for die next hour perfectly silent,” saying
which she took up a book.
And Rosalie ; it is our sell-same whilome happy
Rosalie, that we knew in her Neapolitan cottage,
singing so gleefully amid her flowers, with all the
heart’s music of her youthful requited love.—
And vet, though the shadow is o’er the face, I
though death-like in its present marble-like pale
ness, yet even more beautiful than when we last
saw her in her own sunny home. Accident had
introduced her to Mrs. Marchment at Rome, about
six months back, and that lady struck with her
gentle manner, fascinating beauty, and exquisite
voice, blessed the accident and set about culti
vating an intimacy with Rosalie. She melan
choly, with her naturally gay spirit subdued if
not broken, clung to Mrs. Marchment with sincere
affection, loved her because she was English—
from the land where Charles was born.
As Col. Joymes said, she was wealthy, for an
old uncle of her father’s, a miser, who had never
noticed them during his lifetime for fear of- being
called upon to give some mite from his abundance,
died and left her his heiress. She was at Rome,
to which she had been summoned at his-death,
and ’twas during her sojourn there she met Mrs.
Marchment. As already narrated, Mrs. March
ment became her friend, and earnestly solicited
her to accompany her hack to England. Having
now no ties to bind her in Italy except love for
lier beautiful home, excited by a vague hope rela
tive to Charles, whose name, by the bye, she had
not once mentioned to her English friend, she
consented.
She had thought Charles faithless, and hitter in
deed was the she had with her heart to
obtain mastery over her feelings, to keep them
under control, to hide with a smiling lip her an
guished heart; and to check by the light gay laugh
the bursting sigh. She had thought to win him
back to her ; to make him love her more deeply—
fervently than before—to take her stand among
the beautiful and accomplished of his own proud
land ; and conscious of her unequalled beauty
and brilliant talents, to be the first among them—
thus making him proud of her and ambitious of
her love. Such had been her scheme, and bitter
was the disappointment, when Mrs. Marchment
had announced Charles to he engaged, actually
engaged and coming with* his young bride, elect
to night !
There she lay, apparently com posed and quiet,
in that softly cushioned chair, more torturing fai
th an the bed of Procrustus or the rack—for when
did the body ever hear what the mind lias borne,
with eyes closed, and the thick dark lashes rest
ing on the pale check, and who can tell of the
hitter thoughts passing through her brain, making
her almost sigh*for death. Mrs. Marchment in
sisted on Rosalie’s not making a toilette for din
ner, hut to allow her to send some to her dressing
room, and to sleep off her present exhaustion in
order to be better able to support the fatigue of
the evening.
Rosalie,musing herself, acquiesced with a sweet
smile, and wrapping her shawl round her, glided
from the room, and reaching her own dressing
room threw herself on the couch. There, with
her face buried in its silken cushions did she lie
till her maid brought up her repast, which she
forced herself to eat, and conscious of the slight
she had received,* she imagined it could he read
by the eyes of all if she departed from her usual
customs —such is the suspicion taught us by our
own consciences—and dismissed the servant with
a message to Mrs. Marchment, “ that she felt
much better, hut would take her advice and rest
till it was time to dress for the soiree .
Then could one hear her pace that room, with
quick steps and sparkling eyes, for that “ pride
which o’er mastereth all” was at work within.—
She to love him ! no—for was she not spurned,
slighted, aye, even forgotten, and by him too to
whom she had given all her young, pure, girlish
love. But that night should witness her triumph
over herself, over him —she had resolved, had so
determined—and again the little mouth wore a
brilliant smile, not the childlike, trusting, loving
one of yore, hut the queenly smile of triumph,
and the cheek was flushed with the bright crimson
of excitement and high resolve.
. * ciiAr. iv.
••Heart on tier lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as its skies.”
“ There Flora that will do,” said Mrs. March
ment,as she superintended the toilette of her young
jirotegec. Truly, no heart, can withstand you,
this night.”
Even Rosalie, as she caught her reflection, in’
the large Psyche-glass, could not help the smile
of gratified vanity, which stole over her face. —
Her exquisite form in its floating full skirts of white
crape, elegantly embroirdered with wreaths of
Paris floss, from under the tasty finger of some
French modiste —the wax-like throat and rounded
arm encircled with necklace and bracelets of di
amond—the soft sunny tresses, bound in smooth
bands and caught up with a comb enriched with
the same precious gems, whilst the loose, grace
ful curl softened the face, as it were, and made it
still more lovely. Through those silky, perfumed
ringlets, as she moved her head, was the face
caught changing in its glorious radience, now
wreathed in smiles, and anon wearing a noble,
queenly mien,
“ Os greatness in her looks, and of high fate
That almost awes one.”
Already the rooms, are nearly full, but Ros
alie’s quick glance, cannot discover, her faithless
lover. The Earl of Orford, q. quiet, gentlemanly
looking young man, joins her; and soon many
others are introduced. The centre of a group of
admirers, they plead for a song, and Rosalie, whose
watchful ear has caught the announcement of La
dy Woodley’s name, rises, and allows the Earl of
Orford to lead her to the harp. After a brilliant
prelude, she raised her head, and almost immedi
ately before her, stood Charles Lauriston, with
agitated face, upon whose arm leaned a fair, slight
girl.
A moment’s pause —then looking up at the Earl
of Orford, with a sweet smile, as if to ask him
what to sing—Rosalie, commenced a gleeful air,
as if the very embodyment of mirth, and speaking
he r own heart’s merriment —her voice never fal
tered hut rang out gladsome and clear, like the
soft sound of a silver bell. Again her strain is
changed into one deep, plaintive, hut withitsvery
tnelodv and sweetness causing tears to come into
many a bright eye, and as she leaves the harp she
meets the eye of Charles —mute, appealing, he
stands gazing at her —he has dropped the arm of
the astonished Lady Annie, and advanced to
wards Rosalie. No one, but himself catches the
glance of contempt she casts upon him, Him, the
proud man !—but all observe the despairing face
as he turn-s away from her.
Yes, fickle as lie was, and is now to his be
trothed, Rosalie has triumphed. The first strains
from her bird-like voice, brought hack to his
memory of the heart, the vine clad cottage—the
rosy evenings—the fond words spoken—the vows
exchanged —and the bitter parting ! and with
that rush of memory comes back deep, more
passionate, the love, which made then her brightest
word, a spell to bind him. What cares he, for
Lady Annie now, when her very existence
seems forgotten. He passes her like one un
known, and moves on, till Donnie, observing bis
stricken look, lays his hand kindly on Lis arm and
draws him, as in converse from the room, and
Rosalie, whose heart was once teaming with love
for him, now gazes on her rival with pitying eye,
for in her own heart is no vestige of her former
love. His mean, cringing look as it were —
ashamed of her, of himself, made so by his own
wavering, unstable mind, has swept it away as
completely, as would the simoon the light, fairy
like temple raised on the desert, leaving no trace
that it once existed.. The Earl, of Orford dazzled,
enchanted, whispers those words which leave his
fate in her hands. At this moment Dennie ap
proaches, and unperceived, hands her a’ note
from Charles. Her first impulse was to return it,
but to show to his confident how heart-whole, how
careless she had become, she calmly opened it,
and then handing it hack to Dennie, said as
calmly :
“Tell your friend, Mr. Lauriston, that I will be
disengaged to-morrow, andhis interview for which
he so earnestly begs, cqn take place here, in the
house of my friend,” and as Dennie turned from
her to.do her bidding she said to her companion :
“ for certain reasons I wish you to he an unseen
witness, to this interview, and then, you may
have my answer”
CHAPTER V.
“ VVi’ curling lips, and scornful ‘eon,
She listened to all lie said,
While the sun’s bright and twinkling sheen
Still gammers above their head
My heart is wae, for the luckless knight,
His vows are scattered in air,
For pitiless is his lady bright,
And his prayer is a bootless prayer.”
All! hut Rosalie, in my own heart Eve never
wandered, and though Seperated from you, and 1
thinking it had been said not in the same feeling
with which you had inspired me, I tried to forget
you and my own unhappiness. Many a time and
oft did I plan to seek you out and beg for those
words which could chase away mv doubts: hut
circumstances detained me in England.
“ But could you not have written, Mr. Lauris
ton ? ”
Written ! most certainly, and did repeatedly do
so, hut uusatisfied with each they were never
sent. Led on by others, and a desire to forget
ray own unhappiness I sought the attraction of
society —met Lady Annie Woodley, and reminded
by her manner and inueridoes of some boyish
engagement, paid her attentions which, though
they meant npthing, were not so received—l found
that it was arranged by her family and the world,
and l was forced, aye obliged to make those vows
to her, when my every thought turned to thee.”
ou then, Mr. Lauriston, never loved Ladv
Annie ? ”
Loved ! Rosalie, dear one, how could I, when
your image prevented all others from entering my
heart; and he advanced more boldly, and at
tempted to take her hand, which was however
coldly withdrawn—“ Ah ! I cannot, I need not
tell you beautiful one, that to love you once, is to
love you ever.”
“ And you then truly love me, as in past days,
Mr. Lauriston ? ” you see I do dearest ; but call
me Charles as you used in those old days, and
smile on me as you were wont. Those were
happy, happy day Rosalie.”
“ Ah, were they ? Do you recollect that sweet
evening we sailed with aunt Theresa> on the bay
of Naples, when with song and story vve spent the
hours ? ”
Recollect! It seems but as yesterday.”
“ Have you forgotten the moonlight walks when
you had not as then told me in words you loved,
but tried by actions to show it? ”
Sooner forget my existence.
“ tclid I tell }ou when you plighted your
faith to me ? ”
You said—“ Charles, it may not be that I tell
you, how much I love you, but time must prove.
Life must be extinct ere my love will cease.”
“And now, hear me, as with shame I recall
those words spoken, as they then were, from the
depths of a true and loving heart. Mind you,
‘tis at your own seeking you hear this, and mind
you well also, and take this truth to your heart—
did you ever have one—“that woman never,
never doubts till she is taught to do so.” lam not,
Mr. L auriston, so much ashamed of the declara
tion, as of the fact of loving so mean an object as
yourself. Nay sir, hear me, as much as I loved
you, do I pity and despise you ; and must do my
self the justice to say, that I am fully convinced I
never loved you , but the creature of my imagina
tion, from whom I now discover you to be as dif
ferent as darkness from light. Farewell sir, I
have granted you this interview more in accor
dance with my own than your washes, and I hope
it has ended as satisfactorily to yourself, as to me; ”
and she passed coldly and calmly from his pres
ence.”
It is almost needless to add that in time Rosalie
Da Vinci—the Italian girl—became the wife of
the Earl of Orford : and he had never cause to
regret his choice. Lady Annie Woodley, smart
ing under the neglect, she received from Lauris
ton, discarded him ; and worse than all, his friend ,
his own familiar friend, supplanted him, in ben af
fections, and in less than two months, led to the
altar she who was to have wedded Charles. lie
died, as lie lived, an old bachelor.
THE FARMER AND THE BEGGARS.
An old farmer was once travelling with his
son on a lonely and unfrequented road. By some
mishap the cart in which they were seated broke
down, and they were obliged to dismount and
try to remedy the evil.. They found, however,
that they .should require more assistance than they
two could render to set them riajit.
In this dilemma a troop of ragged beggars
came up, and began to enquire what was the
matter.
“You may see that plain enough,” .said the far
mer ; “ouraxletree is broken, and we need help
to mend it.”
“Ho ! ho ! ” said one, “he expects to find
help ready made to his hands.”
“ No doubt he would have us mend the cart,”
said another, “ that he might have the pleasure of
wishing us good morrow as he drove away.”
“Do but w r ait awhile, old plowman,” said a
third, “ and the axletree will grow together again
. o o o
of itself.”
“ Thank you, good friends,” said the farmer,
pulling; a strong cord out of his pocket, “ but it
just strikes me that I can perhaps do without your
help, as I certainly can dispense with your jokes
and counsel.”
With that the beggars set up a laugh, and went
on. The farmer, by the aid of his cord, soon
righted his misfortune, and arrived safely at the
end of his journey.
Not long afterwards, as the farmer sat at meat
with his before the blazing kitchen fire,
the three beggars who had mocked him by the
road-side came up and asked for alms. The far
mer invited them to come in out of the cold, in
loud, hut hospitable words and set before them
the best provisions his house would afford.
W hen the beggars were gone, the little boy, who
remembered them well enough, said to his father :
“ I ather why did you give those men food ?
They are the same wicked beggars who laughed
at us on the lonely^road.”
“ True my boy, answered the farmer, taking
his hand and leading him to the door steps : “ but
do you see the great sun in the beautiful blue sky
over our heads ? ”
“\es,” said the wondering child.
“ Well,” added the farmer, “ he shines on the
e\il and the good alike. It never troubles him
whether men, are deserving or not deserving of
the light, and warmth he sends them. Itis enough
10l him that ho can diffuse his goodness in his own
great way. And so it should be with us. lfother
men aie unkind and bad, that is no reason why
we should be so. Our course is clear: To do
good at all times, both to friends and foes.” —A
Fable , by J. Scurle.
I have no other rule, says Rosseau, by which
to judge of what I read than that of consulting
the*disposition in which I rise up from my book;
nor can I well conceive what sort of merit any
piece has to boast, the reading of which leaves
no benevolent impression behind it nor stimulates
the reader to any thing that is virtuous or good.
A devotee of Bacchus being absent from home
rather later in the day than suited the sovereign
will and pleasure of his “spare rib,” she de
volved the task of announcing the arrival of the
delinquent spouse, upon her eldest boy. Very
soon the little urchin ran into the house, exclaim
ing : “ Marm, here daddy comes, leading two men
hoim”
A FRIEND OF THE FAMII 1 |
SAVANNAH, THURSDAY, AUGUSTIrT^W
u ’ 1843,1
AGENTS. I
Mr. J. M. Boardman is our Agent for Macon.
Mr. S. S. Box for Rome.
Mr. Rout. E. Seyle for the State of South Carols
James O’Conner, Travelling Agent.
Dr. M. Woodruff, Columbus, Ga.
I *
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SEiP Nothing of interest is transpiring incur healthy ufi
orderly city. Frequent showers cool the atmosphere ai,m
make us as happy and comfortable as clams.
L
Introductory Lecture before the Mechanics Society of Mncnn.l
By S. T. Chapman, Esqr. Macon, S. Rose & Cos., Prio-I
ters, 1849.
. The Lecture is an able production arid contains truths that
we wish every Southern man, Mechanic, Farmer, Lawyer,
Physician dr Merchant would appreciate and act upon, li
we wish prosperity to shed its benign rays over the sunn
South, we must fester the mechanic arts. They are as m
cessary to her wealth ns good crops of grain or cotton. Be
the dawning of brighter days is at hand—the clank of n,
chinery now resounds from the seaboard to the mountain
and tho mortifying truth of the subjoined extract will sooube
known only in tho past:
“ The same difficulty exists with regard to capital. Ocr
Banks, for two-tliirds of the year, refuse to make discount#
except against cotton ; and a cotton speculator, a wild adven
turer, without a cent in his pocket or a single tie to bind him
to the community, can obtain accommodations, while the toil
ing worthy Mechanic, with his shop full of materials—with
heavy contracts on hand—with a well-earned character and
a promising family in our midst, is turned away from the j
counter with the declaration that “ his paper cannot be don* j
unless in the shape of exchange.” As he has no friend to
draw upon, the answer amounts to a refusal to furnish the
asked lor aid. Should he apply to a money-lender for the
purpose, it may be, ot raising a few dollars with which to pay
his workmen, he is compelled to submit to a shave of p el
cent, and interest for 39 or 60 days, or ho must fail to meet
his contracts.
On the contrary, should ho succeed in raising tho meat*
and fill his shop with the products of Southern Mechanic labor,
his difficulties will have but begun. The very persons who
discourse most eloquently and feelingly about Southern rights
and Northerp encroachments, are the last to think of sustain
ing Southern industry and Southern Mechanics, by giving a
preferanco to the products of Southern labor. Some iniagi
nary difference, in style or price, determines them to prefer a
Parisian or a Northern-made article. Their hats, their shoes,
their clothing, their furniture, their agricultural implements—
every thing which they use on their persons, around theirhoine*
steads,*on their plantations, or in their offices, are the product*
not only of Northern labor, but the labor ot the \4ery men vv.
are vilifying our institutions and denouncing us as men-stealei>
and murderers. The value of shoes annually imported from
the Northern States, added to the various other manufactur
of leather, may bo estimated at nearly four millions of doll#
The value of ready-made clothing, say from six to seven in**’
lions; of hats, three millions; of household furniture, lout
millions; of manufactured goods, six millions ; of hardware
and agricultural implements, tvvo millions; of carriages ami
vehicles ot various kinds, three millions ; of printing paper aid
stationery, one and a half millions; of “ Yankee notions” and
general, from two to four millions.
It these articles were manufactured at the South, as they
ought to be, as they can be, and as we believe they will be,
three-fourths of this money would go towards the support oi
our own laboring classes. Hundreds who are now in idleness
would be allured to habits of industry—hundreds who are n°' v
suffering the pinches of poverty would find the means of
earning a handsome competency —hundreds who now i ntest
the haunts ot vice and dissipation would have their energi® 3
quickened, and be induced to press forward in the great r® 6 ®
of improvement.