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fears and regrets, as when I stood by your cra
dle, some twenty years ago. When the doubt
that still hangs over your future fate is solved,
write to me without any misgivings. Remem
ber, that to tell Old Walter that you are happy,
is to make him so; though his joy may seem to
himself and to others like grief, it will be great
as his love for you, and nothing can be greater.
And now, farewell, and God bless you, Margaret
Leslie. I have said much, but not all I feel
about you and for you.
“ Your most affectionate, . Walter.
“p. S.—l start with young Wyndhnm at an
early hour to-morrow. Give my love to your
father and Ginevra. Write to me about her;
how beautiful but how ill she looked last night.
Tired with the exertions and the excitement
of the previous evening, Margaret slept till past
twelve o’clock on the next day, and when she
woke, and saw several letters lying by her bed
side. she stretched out her hand, and drew Wal
ter’s from among them, with a feeling of won
der at its size and apparent length. She opened
it, and started with surprise at the tone and the
tenor of its contents. She was disposed to irri
tation ; several circumstances had combined to
annoy her; and this misunderstanding (if, in
deed, misunderstanding there was) exasperated
her to the greatest degree. Tears of vexation
stood in her eyes. Walter was gone without
seeing her, and placed her under the painful ne
cessity of writing an explanation which she was
particularly desirous of making (if indeed she
made it at all) by word of mouth, or of leaving
him under an impression, which she scarcely
knew how to define. There is no doubt that we
are apt to judge the conduct of others with pe
culiar severity when we are secretly dissatisfied
with our own, and that to be provoked with those
we love distorts our understanding as much as it
disturbs our peace of mind.
Nervous and irritable from fatigue and excite
ment, Margaret resented Walter’s conduct as if
it amounted to an insult. She went almost into
a passion, spoke (luckily she was aloue, and
spoke to herself —what nonsense people talk to
themselves sometimes!) of his absurd jealousy,
his ridiculous suspicions; recollected that after
all it was she who hau originally proposed to
marry him—she actually turned crimson at the
• thought, but there was more of resentment than
of modesty in the emotion. She suggested to
herself (without in the least believing it) that he
was a regular old bachelor, and did not want to
marry at all, and was seeking to find a pretext
for giving her up. She saidt for the next hour,
to herself and of him, all the most disagreeable
things she could think of, and then felt a little
relieved, and by degrees a smile passed over her
face. Perhaps she was glad to be released ; and
then she read his letter again, and a tear, a
bright round tear, glistened in her eye, and then
stole down her cheek. Perhaps she was for
giving him. In another hour’s time she was at
her writing-table, and this note was written,
sealed, and sent to Pal is : . •
“ It is your own fault if you choose to give up
our schemes of happiness. I am not going to
propose to you a seconcl time, for I begin to think
you would be a sort of Rlueboard in modern
dress- I should be always watching for the key,
or, like another Anne Boleyn, laying hold of my
nock to make sure that my head was still upon
my shoulders. You are grown so very flighty,
Old Walter, that it is difficult to keep up with
you, both literally and figuratively. You take a
crotchet into your head, and fly off to Paris like
a lover in a novel. To think of my having to
scold you for rashness, and precipitancy, and
thoughtlessness! It is rather pleasant to turn
the tables upon you. Ido not know what you
taw with your own eyes, and heard with your
own ears (it must have been something very
dreadful, to haye 'sent you rambling over the
world in this hair-brained fashion), but as to
what my own words gave you to understand,
your comprehension was decidedly at fault, and
your journey to Paris quite superfluous. When
you want to solve this riddle, you may come
here again. Did you really think that your little
Margaret was going to give you up ? 0, dearest
Walter! if truth, and honor, and love were ban
ished from the world, I should know where to
seek for them—not in the hearts of kings, as the
French monarch fondly deemed, but in a heart
that I am proud and happy to claim as my own,
by right of birth, Old Walter, and by right of
conquest, too. When you can decently abandon
your travelling-companion, come and see with
your own eyes, and hear with your own cars,
that I love you as dearly, more dearly, than
ever; and help me by your counsel to attain an
obiec't which, next to your affection, is dearer to
me than any thing else in life. Ever, dear Wal
ter, your most affectionate Margaret."
THE PACIFICATOR —A CATHOLIC JOT J l AAL.
Owing to some mistake in the direction, this
letter did not reach Waiter till long after it was
written, and in the mean time we must, in an
other chapter, follow the progress of Ginevra’s
history.
CHAPTER XVII.
It was the day after the play, and a hot July
afternoon. Margaret was lying on the sofa,
quite exhausted with heat and fatigue, when
she raised her eyes, and observed that Ginevra
was dressed to go out.
“ Where on earth are you going, this Irroiling
day ?” she exclaimed, tired at the very of
stirring.
“ To Lady Mordaunt’s breakfast,” answered
her sister, without raising her eyes from her
book. “ Mrs. Wyndham will call for me in a
moment.”
“ I could as soon fly across the Park as go with
you,” Margaret returned, while she bathed her
own head and hands with Eau do Cologne.
“ And you ought not to go,” she continued,
raising herself on the cushions, and observing
the almost transparent whiteness of Ginevra’s
complexion, and the dark shade under her'Pfts.
“ I must go,” she answered quickly, “ 1 have
promised.”
“ Whom ?” Margaret asked.
“ Myself,” she replied; and her sistenKiw
that there were tears in her eyes. . M
“0, Ginevra, take care what you do,” she
cried, for a vague fear connected with Neville’s
return seized her at that moment, and she gazed
on her with an almost frightened expression..
“Ginevra,” she said timidly, “remember that
my father—your father—loves nothing in this
world but you; remember how much he has suf
fered, and that if you—”
“0, Margaret, in mercy!” The pale girl
clasped her hands together, and then raised
them to heaven with an expression of such in
tense supplication, that her very attitude was a
prayer in itself. “Do not try to stop me,” she
said hurriedly, “ for I must go.”
“Ginevra,” cried Margaret, starting to her
feet, and throwing her arms round Uor,f-‘ 'C.o
vra, yob are not going ior—fmeVer.” * V* 1
“0, no, dearest, no! Be calm, Margaret, I
am not going to leave you. It would be better
for you if I was. I have thrown a dark shade
over your life. I know it—l feel it—but I never
will steal away from you like a culprit. I will
speak, before I leave you, sister. Do not be
afraid,” she added, and her brow contracted as
she spoke ; “I have no home, no hope on earth,
no refuge, but your love.”
At that moment a loud rap at the door an
nounced Mrs. Wyndham’s carriage, and her
voice was heard on the stairs. She was come
to persuade Margaret to go with them, but she
vainly urged it, and was obliged to content her
self with carrying off Ginevra. In the cak-che
was seated Sir Charles D’Arcy, whose eyes
lighted up with pleasure when he saw her, and
whom she greeted kindly. Her mind was so
absorbed in one subject, .that she had not had
leisure to observe bis devotion to her. ' She had
not the slightest idea that lie was supposed to
like her, or that his attentions were generally
remarked and commented upon. Margaret was
aware of it; but in all that concerned Ginevra,
she felt as if treading on delicate and danger
ous ground. If she suggested to her too soon
the necessity of seriously considering the nature
•of his sentiments or of her own, she might pos
sibly be interfering prematurely in an affair,
which, under certain aspects, and under certain
contingencies, might turn out to he highly de
sirable, and, also, whenever at the beginning of
their stay iu London, she had, seriously, or in
joke, alluded to the admiration Ginevra inspired,
or to the attentions that were paid her, she had
invariably seen an expression of indescribable
annoyance on her sister’s face, which had in
duced her to abandon the subject. Ginevra’s
manner had therefore been constantly courteous,
kind, and free from all constraint in her inter
course with Sir Charles, whom she liked as an
acquaintance, and, latterly, had grown to con
sider almost as a friend. He was very much in
love with her, hut his manners and his charac
ter were essentially English, and therefore, to
one who, like her, was Ik tie acquainted with so
ciety, and whose ideas of love were derived
partly from hooks—but chiefly from the vehe
ment expressions and emotions which had at
tended the course of Neville’s romantic court
ship, and passionate devotion to her—the placid
and calm interest which was evinced in her wel
fare, the quiet watchfulness which marked the
attention of Sir Charles D’Arcy, and the deep
but concentrated expressions of feeling which
escaped him, did not convey any notion of the
real nature of his sentiments, or warn her from
encouraging them .by marks of preference which
she naturally showed to one for whom her es
teem was great and her regard, sincere.
This conduct on her part, joined to the emo
tion which some casual expression sometimes
caused her—to the agitation which he had some
times noticed jn her manner and in her counte
nance, without being able to assign it a cause—
had given him hopes that she reciprocated his
attachment; and on the preceding evening he
had confided these hopes to Mrs. Wyndham, and
entreated her to interest herself in his favor.
To be made the confidant in an affair of this
kind was one of the happiest incidents in her
life; and actually to be the chaperon on the oc
casion when a proposal might he anticipated, al
most turned her head with joy and excitement.
Her great object in persuading Margaret to go
to the breakfast had been that she might have
conversed incessantly with her as they drove to
Rosewood, and have thus left the lovers, as she
designated them already, in peace and comfort
on the opposite side of the carriage; hut this
scheme failing, vainly sought for some mode
of suppressing herself altogether—of annihila
ting herself for the time being. She would have
liked to Jhire la morte, like her own spaniel, .or
to have been for an hour—
“ln second childishness and mere oblivion.”
But it would not do ; she could not offer to shut
her eyesjuul her ears, or go to sleep or read the
“ Court Guide ;” the two last expedients she at
tempted, but it did not help on matters ; and in
this unsatisfactory state of mind she remained
till they reached Rosewood, and joined the nu
merous groups of people who were already as
sembled on the lawn.
A band of music ' was playing in one place,
some Swiss peasants singing in another, chil
dren dressed as children should not be—that is,
so smartly, that they ought not to tear their
clothes ; and yet scampering about happily, do
ing exactly what they should not have done,
with their lace frocks and gauze bonnets—wore
running round and round between people’s feet.
Girls were sitting. talkies as if \van-tire
business of life; and men standing about, as if
to be bored was the inevitable condition of hu
manity, from which they sought no refuge and
no escape. Some mothers, anxious about their
daughters’ parasols being up and their veils
down ; others pursuing their younger offspring
through bushes and beds of flowers; some full
of hopes and schemes, others full of weariness
and heart-sickness; some anxious about them
selves or curious about others; a few enjoying
themselves in the pure air, in the gay scene,
with the joyous music and the routing ehil
dre.n—happy in the sight of happiness, and con
fronting with their radiant smiles some of those
careworn visages—
“ As rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain
Meet in the sky.” •
In a moment Ginevra was surrounded by r a
tribe of children, among whom the little Vin
cents, some of Lady Donningtou’s youngest
boys, were foremost.
“Oh, Ginevra,” exclaimed a little fellow of
six years old ; “ come pull off your bonnet, and
put on your scarf in that queer way in which
you used to wear it at Genoa.”
“ Oh, yes,” cried a little girl; “ and do sing
us that funny Italian song.”
Ginevra tried to escape, but children (leg cn
fahts terribles) are unmerciful, and she was
forced upon a garden chair, her bonnet removed,
and her scarf presented to her with earnest en
treaties that she would put it on. She complied
with a smile, and with one child on her knee
and the others crowding round her, she repeated
in a low voice a few stanzas of the comic song
they asked for.
“ Louder,” cried the little tyrants; and
“ louder,” was repeated by the older specta
tors that had also assembled round her. The
children were delighted, and one little thing
climbing behind her tried to put a garland of
roses on her head, but the flowers fell to pieces,
and the scattered leaves flow about her. There
was one gazing upon her at that moment, who
remembered the Casa Masaui and the first day
in which lie had seen her playing also with ehil
*dren and roses. Alas! he had stolen away the
youthfulness of her spirit—the roses of her life—
and planted many- a sharp thorn in her path,
lie had made sad havoc in her life, and in his
own, too. Was he nut suffering more than her
self in that instant ? Who can tell ? . Who can
decide upon the acuteness of sufferings they
ha’ve not felt—upon the capabilities of suffering,
in natures so different ?
[To ho continued.]
jEssay and fitters trn Infallibility.
15V THE RIGHT REV. JOHN ENGLAND.
' FOURTH LETTER* OF “TRUTH.”
To the Editors of llie. United States Catholic Mis
cellany : *
Savannah, September, 1825.
In my last Letter your printer lias done me i::
justice, or I must at least for once submit to U.
charge of having written hastily. I have no copv
upon which to rely, and consequently cannot be
certain whether the error is owing to the printer
or myself. The sense of the passage, as it how
appears iu print, is incomplete, if it be not indeed
wholly unintelligible.
The passage is on the first column of the eight v
first page, near the bottom. I will.transcribe it,
with the substance of what was or should har,
been added to convey the meaning for whieh’it was
designed. A period being placed before the first
words, it should have read to this effect:
“My object was to shew, that it nothing short of
strict £>r absolute i.ufallibility could be a sufficient
ground for faith, then individual Horn in Catholics
must be as fur removed from faith as any others ;
unless this infallibility should extend to ever./ indi
vidual who leaches and every one who is taught that
Religion. But only admit my principle that strict
infallibility is not essential to faith, which must be
true, if indeed there be Faith on the earth ; ami
then, these “inevitable results, which were so
frightfully marshalled, Ac.—the rest is correct.
The words underscored, or words of similar im
port, were or should have been inserted, to evince
my meaning in the passage.
If the manuscript is not destroyed, and the
mistake proves to be on the part of the printer, i
beg yon will have the goodness to correct it iti
some early number. If it occurred on the part of
myself, I am content it should remain uncorrectod.
It is not my design to intrude further upon your
courtesy, in relation to this subject, nor is it mv
wish that you should publish this letter. For the
attention you have bestowed upon the subject at
my request, you will please to accept mv thanks.
I am convinced that minds, trained in different
habits, cannot alwaysasee' the truth in the sunn,
light. I bc;r f.uvvevi-rVu be assured |hat i .
have not* designedly drawdrroncous inferences
from any of*your statements. My objections, as
stated, are such as appear to me really to be
drawn from, the natural meaning of what you
#TOte. If they are illegitimate or unsound, Jj
shall always be glad to see them fairly met and
confuted. I, too, luave thought that my sentiments
in some eases were not fairly stated iu your re
plies—particularly when you make me.say in your
last reply that moral certainty is only “an indefi
nitely near approximation to truth.'’ By'refer
ence to my letter yoti will see I used the word
infallibility and not Truth, which in my. mind
materially alters the sense.. But I am far from
thinking you had any design to state the passage
incorrectly. We cannot yet see alike. But we
can, I trust, both believe in the same Lord and
seek to be gijflpd by him into the way of all
' TRUTH.
REPLY TO FOURTH LETTER OF ‘-‘TRUTH ”
Upon this letter we have to state that we do
not consider the expression of our correspondent's
absence of a wish that we should publish it, to bo
a prohibition of its publication; it is only declar
ing that he does not require its publication. Usin'-
our own discretion, therefore, we have published
it, because we thought it proper: Ist, In order
to give room for our explanation ; and 2d‘ that we
might not-be charged with suppressing any, even
the most trivial of the objections against us. We
have had no opportunity of communicating with
our correspondent, because we neither know who
he is nor how a letter could reach him: and his
correspondence is not on any private business fi ;■
we know him only as a public writer.
lie will acquit us of having suppressed the pas
sage in question, when we inform him that the
compositor in our printing office, set up his letter.
from his own manuscript, without having anv
mark whatever upon it save as we got it from ti #
post-office; and without having any part taken
from the two sheets upon which it was contained.
That the correctors in the office, neither of whom
is a Roman Catholic, compared it when set up
with his MS,, and that it was subsequently com
pared therewith by one of the Editors. In this
last comparison, one line was found omitted, and
was supplied. Os these facts, as well as that no
wilful omission was made, our correspondent ear.
if he will, be satisfied by the evidence ot those
concerned. After the publication, the manuscrij 4
was put aside.and has not yet been found.
The second change was not made in the letter:
the text was given correctly; but iu the comment
the word truth was substituted for infallibility , br