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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, September 19, 1847, Image 1

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"VOLUME 2. NO. 42.
HOSE SOMERVILLE;
OR,
A HUSBAND’S MYSTERY AND A WIFE’S DEVOTION.
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“ Rose wishes not your interference; indeed,
I had thought the extreme coldness of her
manner to you would have convinced you of it i
long ago.”
“ You have played the villain in that as in i
every other respect: now, Edward, let me give
you one caution—Rose, thank God, has so far
escaped the machinations you Weaved purpose- i
ly for her destruction; had it been otherwise, i
you would not have come off so easily; as it is; ;
yoU had better have a care for the future.”
“ Do not think, Henry, to exasperate me into
a quarrel with you; I have given Rose my :
solemn promise to avoid doing so by every
means in my power, else, depend I would not
have borne this insulting language from you so 1
patiently; she foresaw, that if by any unfortu- ,
nate circumstance you discovered the regard i
with which she favored me; that yob would ;
endeavor to force m'e into calling you otlt.” ]
" It is a lie, a base cowardly lie !” interrupt
ed Henry. ‘
“ Ha!” said Edward, “ you can use oppro- ]
brioiis epithets now I have told you that my j
solemn promise is pledged to Rose not to meet i
you, as I otherwise would, and punish your in- i
solence, at once and for ever.”
“ I repeat,” replied Henry, “it is a lie, and
I ani ready to prove my words to you or any
One present;” and he glared fiercely round. i
“ Bold words,” returned Edward, “ but wise- i
Ik kept back till you were assurred that my 1
hands, so to speak, were tied, and I was incapa
ble of doing you an injury.”,
“ Again I say, it is a lie,” replied Henry, <
“ and invented purely to shield yourself from
the effects of my indignation.” <
1 “ Say on,” returned Edward, in the same i
cold sarcastic tone he had assumed from the I
commencement ot the conversation; “ I have s
told you that you are perfectly safe from me. I i
hold, in spite of everything you may urge to 1
exasperate me-, my promise to Rose sacred and
inviolable.” i
“ Safe from you I—rathtJr say;” replied Henry, i
“ that you are determined to keep yourself sate ;
from me. Vou fear me, and you know it; but, s
though you escape now, a day of reckoning will
come, till when I put this down to your ac- I
count '; and rest assured, when the time arrives <
for settling our differences, I will not forget to <
pay you in full of all demands. And reniem- <
ber that my eye is ever on you, and perhaps, 1
when you least expect it, I shall require a
reckoning at your hands. Well, indeed, is it i
for you that your base designs have fallen harm- 1
less to the ground, instead of ensnaring the <
young and innocent victim they were intended i
to desecrate to your vile passions.” I
“ I see very plainly how it is,” said Edward, i
leaning in a careless and easy attitude against f
the wall. “ You are annoyed at the preference t
Rose shows for me, and I can therefore pardon t
the violence of your language. You see I have t
not forgotten the warmth of your admiration i
so loudly expressed immediately after your first s
interview with her.” i
“Neither have I forgotten it,” returned ■
Henry, endeavoring to calm his passion, “ nor t
the fear you manifested, or at least pretended, a
that I should in any way be induced to offer I
her any insult. You might wall fear for me, i
when you were, at the moment, entertaining a
such base wishes, nourished so long, that they t
have at length assumed the appearance of t
hope.” ]
“Be it so,” replied Edward. “ You would 1
be glad could you nourish the hope concerning 1
Rose that lam proud to acknowledge I do and c
will entertain.” 1
“ This to me ?” said Henry. i
“ Yes, to you, or any man.” \
“ Then, mark my words, you do not enter- s
tain them long. Rose’s eyes shall be opened, i
as mine have been, to your real character.” t
Edward laughed scornfully. t
“ Rose will pay very slight attention to any e
thing you may say, therefore make yourself s
quite easy on that score.” t
“ I intend to do so; yet, no stone will I leave i
Unturned that may aid me in persuading Rose ;
to look upon you with the detestation that I i
myself feel; I who called yeu friend—whoever 1
treated you as one—who believed you open,
honorable, and upright, I am no longer sur- 1
prised that you have so well succeeded in im- I
posing on the credulity of a woman, when you i
could thus for years so completely deceive one I
of your own sex. And you pretend to love )
Rose ? a strange way of showing it, to coolly. <
hear, nay more, to encourage, the bandying Her :
name from mouth to mouth—to listen while ’
others make her the subject of coarse jests, and i
even to participate in the mirth excited, by 1
turning her grace and beauty into ridicule.” i
“ Mr. Melville,” said Mortimer, “ you have 1
made me completely ashamed of myself. I ac- I
knowledge we have all acted exceedingly wrong 1
in speaking of Mrs. Moreland in the manner i
you appear to have overheard, and can only say :
for myself, that I at least, am heartily sorry for ,
the share I took in the conversation, and am i
willing to make any apology you may think
necessary,”
“It is enotlgh,” replied Henry. “ You Mr.
Mortimer, are the least to blame, and I accept
your acknowledgment that you were in error,
which is all the apology I would desire you to
make to me; but lor the future, be careful how
you speak of a woman ; although you have no
sister, you have a
“ Mother,” interrupted Mortimer, “ whom I
dearly love and respect.”
“ Then for her sake think charitably, and
speak, at least, respectfully, of all.”
“ I Will,” returned Mortimer, apparently
affected by the other’s earnestness. “Eairford,
you also, I am certain, will tender your apology
to Mr. Melville.” «
“ Not I,” said Fairford, carelessly, “ or at
least till he can prove he is the husband or
brother of Mrs. Moreland; then, indeed, 1
might think it necessary to offer some little-ex
cuse, but, as it is, I conceive he has no right to
expect me to humble myself, merely for speak
ing a few words in praise of one of the finest
• women I know.”
“ Nr> great crime, surely,” said Edward;
“even were she my wife, I could not expect
such glowing beauty as she possesses to remain
unadmired by others.”
“ I wish to hold no communion with you,”
said Henry, with marked emphasis on the per
sonal pronoun, and turning contemptuously
away.
“ I would punish your insolence if,” said Ed
ward—
“ You dared,” added Henry.
What is it you say ?” replied Edward, at
leng throused to something like indignation;
“you will have to answer for this yet: when I
tell Rose all that has passed, she will, I feel cer
tain, release me from the promise which now
forces me to bear patiently with your insult.”
“ You will find me not only ready but will
ing to respond to your call, if, indeed, it were
possible you could ever have the courage to
make one. In the meantime, be very guarded
in your actions, for let me even have cause to
suspect you of any further villany, and, by God!
I swear you shall repent it to your latest day,
if even you escape with your life, which I will
do my best to prevent. “ Mortimer,” he con
tinued, turning to,wards him, “ when that day
comes, as come it will, I am perfectly con
vinced I may look to you as a friend who will
stand by me and see justice done between us.”
Mortimer extended his hand, which Henry
cordially grasped, as he said—
“ You may, Mr. Melville, depend upon me.”
“1 thank you,” returned Henry, “ and shall
one day unhesitating apply to you, it rilay be
speedily or otherwise, I airi not at present pre
pared to say, but yoilr services will be required
by me.”
“ And when they are so, you will find them
at your command.”
Edward smiled, as he said.
“ Well, Fairford, as the preliminaries are all
being settled on the other side, I may as well
engage you to officiate_for me; though, as I
said before, until Rose absolves me from my
promise; Nothing shall induce me to meet Mr.
Melville.”
“ All this puts me in mind of the old play
‘ Much Ado about Nothing,’ ” replied Fairford,
laughing; “ is not a man at liberty to admire a
pretty woman, and gain her if he can, without
submitting to the insult and interference of
one who bears no manner of relationship to- '
wards her. 1
“ It. seems not,” said Edward, sarcastically. I
“ Why, Harig it; then !if I Would.for ah in
stant put up with such interference; it is ask- '
ing too much of a fellow to bear with such con- '
founded impudence.” • '
“ Treat it with the contempt it so well '
merits,” said Edward, changing his position to
one of greater ease. *
“ Punish it,” cried Fairfield, “ with the 1
chastisement it deserves, would be more to my <
way of thinking; and as you’-say it is impossi- j
ble for you to do so under the present circum- 1
stances, delegate the task to me—let me be I
your proxy, and'see if I do not teach them a '
lesson not quickly forgotten.” . . J
“ Take it coolly,” returned Edward, “ for 2
a little while, and then I will take the reins 2
in my own hand, for to none will I dele
gate the task that most properly belongs to my- c
self.” *
“ Well, I suppose it must be as you desire ; '
but if Mr. Melville is not satisfied to wait, I c
can only say I am willing to meet him on my c
own account, and the sooner the better. lam s
of too fiery a temperament to be fond of any di- a
latory proceedings.” '
“So am I, in a general way,” replied Henry, s
who saw at least something to admire in the 0
hot blood and courageous bearing of Fairford, f
opposed to the cold, scheming villainy of Ed- 3
ward; “but this time I am not only willing, 1
but anxious, to wait till such time as Mr. Tre- t
vors will have his arms, at liberty. I could 1
force him on to giving me satisfaction almost at 1
the present moment, but I scorn to take ad van- s
tage even of one I despise; and being bound by 1
a promise, he would scarcely like to act other
wise than merely on the defensive, and so, as I 1
said before, I will let my anger rest, not fear- 1
ing for an instant that it will cool.” v
•• Henry spqke these words with [considerable c
bitterness, and in a tone of sarcasm he rarely e
assumed; but his provocation was great, and b
he felt more exasperated than he Would have t
wished to be known by Edward’s cold contempt, '
and, without a single work more, he bowed r
to Mortimer and left the house. The thoughts I
that filled his breast, as he walked, towards 1
home, were mingled ones of joy and sorrow, t
Rose was still in a great measure innocent, for I
had not Mortimer observed to Edward that his '
conquest was still incomplete ? Doubtless she =
had been so far led away as to entertain feel- c
ings of regard towards him, but she was not 1
without the pale of hope ; no, she might yet be '
snatched from the bring of destruction on 1
Which she was hovering, wholly unconscious of c
the danger that momentarily assailed her; it was j
this thought thatshed a brightness over the oth- i
erwise dreary sadness of his heart, a sadness that s
sprang from the purest feelings of his nature, <
to think that the man he had so fondly cher- 1
ished as his best and dearest friend, should have I
proved so totally unworthy of the affectionate '
regard that had been lavished on him, not by j
himself alone, but by his mother and sister. i
We think it is now time that we returned to c
Rose, whom we last left in the enjoyment of '
peaceful slumbers, and concerning whom so 1
many hopes and fears were entertained, both 1
by friends and foes. In the mean time poor 1
Rose, happily unconscious of all, was inno- -
enjoying herself to her heart’s content. <
Blessed in -the society of those she loved, and >
who dearly loved and prized her in return, she >
rightly judged herself blest, and the only 1
thought that ever cost her a pang was connect- 1
ed with Albert; but then she was storing her
mind with useful for the future, culled ‘
from the tender counsel and wise advice of a
truly affectionate mother; therefore, secretly 1
nourishing the purest hopes for coming days,
and with which were entwined sweet thoughts
of her unborn babe, Rose gave herself up to the
enjoyments of the present, without entertain
ing a fear for the future. Preparations were
already far advanced towards the solemnization
of the nuptials of her brother, and in wit
nessing his happiness, and the modest, blush
ing joy that illuminated the pretty features
of Agnes, Rose found a source of unmixed de
light.
“ May you be happy !” were words often
and earnestly repeated, as she watched and as
sisted Agnes in preparing for the forthcoming
event.
“ I do not doubt it, dear Rose, neither should
you,” replied Agnes, in a tone of slight re
proach. “ I have given my consent to be uni
ted to your brother from no mercenary or un
hallowed motive, but for the plain, simple
fact that I love him, and firmly believe that he
loves me.”
“ I know it, Agnes; and do not, I entreat
you, feel hurt at my remark—but oh! some
times love alone does not render wives and
husbands happy.”
“ Most certainly not: for unless that love is
built upon a sure foundation, such as excellent
qualities, and above a all similarity of taste and
feeling, it will undoubtedly, ere long, wear it-1
self out.”
“ I think you are right, Agnes; and, as you
love Henry, not for himself alone, but for the
excellence of his character, and feeling an in
terest in all that concerns him, you may not un
reasonably hope lor happiness.”
“ A love,” said Agnes, seriously, “ such as I
feel for Henry, would make me blessed in the
lowliest cot; and to share his sorrows and
anxieties would be to me far sweeter than to
. participate in every joy and happiness with an
; other.”
“ I doubt it not, dear Agnes, nor that Henry
. so loves you, and can only breathe the prayer
• Ido so much wish to be realised, may you be
happy!”
“ Marriage is, indeed, a solemn thing,” con
i tinned Agnes, in the same serious tone, “ and
> should not be lightly entered into.”
1 “ Indeed not,” said Rose ; “ for oh ! what a
a dreadful thing, after vowing at the altar to love
! one, and one only, till death breaks the bond,
, to have the affections estranged from that one
1 being, and perchance (for such things have oc
- curred,) to meet with another we feel assimi
y lated more to ourselves, and, doing so, our
hearts involuntarily acknowledge that iVe give
them the preference,” ....
“ That would indeed be sad,” replied Agnes;
“ but I trust, dear Rosfe; neither you nor I stand
in danger of such a direful calamity.'"
“ Oh dear, no !” returned Rose —“ for our
best and purest affections are lavished on the one
who has a right to claim them to the utter ex
clusion of all others, and loving once, we must
love for ever.”
“ Yes, even if it were possible in after
years for that dfie to becoffte unworthy of eur
regard.” ■ . ,
“It would make no alteration either, in our
affection or duty, having solemnly promised
(without any stipulation,) to love, honor and
obey them. We must continue to do so, no
matter what, their conduct may be; it can
form no manner of excuse for an alteration in
ours.”
“ How exactly we think alike, dear Rose.
Your ideas completely coincide with mine;
but then we have both learnt ffotii the Same
kind teacher: having no mother of my own.
yours has ever been ready to aid me both with
counsel and encouragement, and knowing how
highly she most justly stands in Henry’s esti
mation, it will be my constant endeavor to
mould my conduct and feelings from so excel
lent a pattern, and then-1 think I shall not fail
to give satisfaction to the one I most desire to
please;” _ .
Thus did these two girls converse,
and open their hearts freely to each oiher;
and it will be seen by the foregoing conversa
tion that Rose nourished not in her innocent
and virtuous breast even one thought or desire
that it was wrong to cherish there; every hope
and wish was centered in her husband, and to
please whom alone—she Was now at a distance
from him— : her own heart would have flown
eagerly to soothe and shard his Solitude; blit he
wished, and willed it. otherwise. Misanthro
pical feelings had taken entirb possession of
his breast, and he preferred to be alone.
The day was fixed for the wedding, for Rose
was anxious to witness it, and return'to Albert.
All were looking forward to the event with
joy, for- Agnes was a favorite with the entire
household, and. the young farmers of the neigh
borhood envied Henry the happiness of gaining
such a girl as Agnes. Yet they liked add ad
mired his frank and noble disposition so much,
that while they envied his good fortune, they
at the same time declared him worthy of it;
and no unkind feeling mingled with the envy
which they unhesitatingly confessed dwelt in
their hearts.
“ Your carrespondents are rather numerous,
Rose,” said Mrs. Sommerville one morning as
she entered the breakfast-parlor; Wheye Rose :
was conversing with her brothers.
“A letter for me, dear mother ! pray giv6 it
me, it is doubtless from Albert.”
“ Not one, Rose, but three,” returned Mrs. :
Sommerville, exhibiting them.
“ Three for me, dear mother!” replied Rose; ■
“it must be a mistake. I know of no one '
who would write to me with the exception of I
Albert.” i
“It is, nevertheless, the case,” said Mrs. :
Sommerville; “ and one, 1 think, is from i
Mrs. Trevors—it is evidently a lady’s writing.” i
“Oh ! I forgot,” returned Rose; “ she triay '
have written.” 1
“ I should think it most likely; you remem
| ber, Rose, you wrote to her the day after you
came down, and it would be only common po
liteness to return a reply.” S
The color .deepened on the cheek of Rose,
while she endeavored io Ride h&. confusion by
bending over the letters her iriotner placed in
her hand; and making some slight excuse, shd
hurried to her own little room.
Who does not desire to read a letter from one
they love best on earth entirely alone, where
no prying eye can mark the inward workings
of the mind ? Be it the extravagance of joy or
the soul-sickening effects of sorrow, we like to
indulge in it alone. This was the feeling that
prompted Rose to seek retirement before she
broke the seal of what she deemed a letter from
Albert; and filled with s .veet expectation, with
a tremulous hand she tore open the dnvelooe,
and comnieneed reading. Alas I what could it
be that so quickly drove the blood from her
cheek ere she had perused many lines, and
then sent it rushing again tumutuously to her
very temples ? Still she paused not, but went
on reading, line after line, till she came to the
close. It was a long letter, and evidently de
signed purposely to rouse her indignation
against some person whom the writer expected
would also address hei - by letter; for, when
she had finished Kef pfcrttsal, she quietly laid it
aside, and turned to one evidently Written by a
female hand, which she opened with a listless
air, as if already apprised of its contents, and
read it with a still flushed cheek; and at length
bursting into tears, she hastily crumpled it in
her hand, as if desirous ■of crushing with
it the emotion it had caused, and then,
striving to check the tears, she exclaimed,
half aloud—
“I am very, very unfortunate! I thought, at :
least, L'licy Melville was a friend to me; and, '
had I not such convincing proof to'the contrary, 1
would have deemed her far above the' mean :
curisoity of wishing to pry into a secret, that
even I felt I was acting wrong in desiring to
become acquainted with, and sent the letter :
back to Edward unopened ; consequently, it
Wils folly in her to suppose that I would give ;
my consent for Edward to exhibit it to her;
however, I can but thank him for the part he '
has acted. I feel that I have at least one
true friend, and on his advice I may ever de
pend, and,- to show him that I feel' it, I will
write just such a letter to Lucy as he has in
sincere friendship expressed a desire for me to
do. lam determined for the future to follow
his advice, for how much more he knows of the ■
world than 11 had it not been for his letter,
how innocent I should have been of Lucy’s real
desire in writing to me ! I should unconsciously
have taken it all in good part, and been drawn
into a web, from which it would not have been
so easy to extricate myself; but his letter is a
complete explanation of hers, and it is indeed
kind of him to take the trouble of writing, and
putting it in a proper light to me; very few
would have taken sufficient interest in my af
fairs to have been at all the trouble he has. Well,
if some, whom I was short-sighted enough to
consider my real friends, have proved the re
verse, one whom I looked on with cold distrust
has acted towards me nobly, generously: it all
proves, what I yin more and more convinced of,
how very unfit’! am to combat with the world
—it is not my element: how gladly I would,
could it be, remain for ever at a distance from
its noisy strife; but no, for Albert’s sake I
must again mix in it: but I will endeavor to be
but a spectator, and not an actor in the scenes
I shall be obliged to mingle in.”
As these thoughts passed through her mind,
she sat at her little dressing-table, with her
head resting on her hand, when her eye sud
denly caught sight of the third letter mother her
had given her, and which the engrossing inter
est of the others had caused her to overlook;
she gazed on it for a second with a listless as
pect, but, as she became acquainted with the
hand-writing, her look changed into one of in
tense joy—it was from Albert. Oh yes! she
knew his writing too well to be deceived, and
she had allowed that to remain unheeded while
she was reading, thinking on, and even weep
ing over the others; and now that she was cer
tain she held one from him in her hands, the
other two seemed to sink into a mere nothing
ness: what mattered it if persons, almost
strangers, certainly unconnected to her by any
tie, chose (to answer some bad purpose of their
own) to pretend to think ill of her, even to de
clare she was calumniated. Oh nothing, no
thing! if him she so dearly loved and trea
sured still thought of her with kindness, still
knew her heart to be pure and unsophisticated,
as in truth it was. He had not forgotten her,
amid the studies that so intruded on his time,
as to swallow up almost every moment; she
had hoped, earnestly hoped, he would write,
and yet she had hardly dared to expect it, and
thus she had judged wrongly of him, for now
she held in her hand a -letter from him, how
, fondly she pressed it to her lips, even covered
it with kisses, till she smiled at her own folly
in thus delaying to open it, and resolved to do
i so at once, to turn every hope into sweet cer
tainty, to read, perhaps, that he was desirous
: again to have her with him, and beg her to
. hasten her return home. While thus thinking,
. she broke the seal and commenced reading:
the letter was short, being as follows:
“ Mv dear Rose,—
“ I was much pleased to hear that your health
and spirits were improved, as you seemed
sadly to lack both when I last saw you. I hope
a further continuance from town may be the
means of procuring you a complete restoration,
to which end I think it would be advisable for
you to remain where you are for at least some
weeks longer: but, however, I am only desir
ous of rendering you happy, therefore consult
your own feelings, without any reference to
me. In the country, I am well aware, you meet
with kindred spirits, who do their best to
amuse and enliven you; whereas in town, I
know I am but a very poor companion, and, if I
understood you rightly, you have wearied of
the gaieties that I thought would have been the
means of preventing you feeling the want of a
more lively companion, and Marian assures me
that you have lately rather avoided her than
11 Jli tV YORK,: * SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER Tof " 1847.
5 otbArwisS,; dr dish I Could have hoped that she
might ptcasiopafly. h'atd djsj>ellea the ennui
; under .which it sadly grJeVed me to' observe yon
1 were laboring, .Do,not think,’.my dial' girl, I
mean for.an instant .to-chide, yop,’ such being
• very far troth ii;y intention; lam only anxious
s for your welfare; could I feel assured of, your
■ happiness, it would tend greatly towards my
: own. Gire my kindest regards to your parents
and brothers, and wish Henry joy. I hope you
• will spend a right merry day at the wedding.
■ And now, my dear Rose, farewell! Your affec
tionate hiisband; Aubert Moreland.”
: , Rose scarcely, knew liovt' it was.< but, after
perusing-ilfis fetter, arid endeavoring td .put a
tender construction orievery vyoydj she felt dis
satisfied with the contents,- arid,yet she., kpew
not what to complain of, unless it Was separat
ing himself so entirely from her; she would
rather, much rather, he would have spoken
less of her and more of himself; he meant to be
kind, she was certain, and thought more, even
than She desired, of her happiness ; but he had
said hpt, one yjo'fd of his oWn health or spirit—
had expressed no to sfie' her again; he
wished her to be happy; but it vias to be
a happiness totally unconnected with him; with
which, in fact, he was to have nothing what
ever to do.
“ He knows not my heart,” exclaimed Rose,
inwardly, “ and, indeed, I sometimes fear he
never will; he looks upon me wholly as a spoilt
child; and deems I shall be pleased at being
thus allowed to study my own will and plea
sure with'odt reference to him'; bitt, alas ! it is
far, very far otherwise—hovl syteet, how
blessed it would be to resign my own gratifica
tion in obedience to his wishes ! to show him,
by my ready acquiescence to his lightest de
sire, how dearly I lovetj and treasured in my
heart each little thought of him! Oh ! had he
been poor, instead of rich, in becoming his
wife, he coiild nqt have suspected me, as I now
sometimes fear he does; of being actuated by
mercenary feelings, and then, indeed; being his
equal in station and b’irfh, I could have freely
offered him those little eridt'ating attentions
that make poverty so pleasant when shared
with those we love, and which the rich can ne
ver know; they are too much hemmed in by
forms and ceremonies, which forbid a wife per
forming those duties which are so sweet, and
which bind the ties of relationship more close
and firm—but no ! a menial inils.t attend to the
rich man’s comforts, and supply his evify want,
while the wife sits idly by, and when, as in' mj> ;
case of inferior birth and breeding, almost I
afraid to speak before the servants lest she be- 1
trary, her want of acquaintance with those 1
things the rich consider a mark of extreme ig- :
norance not to Understand.”
Poor Rose had indeed paid dear for the lux- I
uries Albert had p/cffusely scattered round her 1
—dear, if they had even brought With them a I
something like commensurate amount of happi- 1
ness ; but when, instead of that being the case <
—they wearied her, and kept back the sweet 1
ebullition of. spirits that had previously made
her beloved by others, and blest within herself, I
the reader may judge that hers was indeed a 1
sad exchange, and only made endurable by the 1
tender love she cherished for Albert—a love 1
that, had it been retured with equal warmth, 1
would have caused her willingly to brave all ‘
things clsh, to trample on her pride, and en- <
deavor to remould her irrt're .character, till she 1
had become what he most desirdd her to be. f
As it was, she resolved to return to him, ad <
soon as she had witnessed her brother’s nup
tials, and, keeping aloof from all scenes of
- strive to convince Albert that all she E
wanted to make her happy was his love and af- i
fec'tio’n. Blest with that, she cared for nought s
beside, therefore; placing his letter in her bo- <
som, and destroying the other two, she de- I
scended to the parlor. A sadness she could not s
wholly conceal sat upon her fair countenance,
and was immediately perceived by her anxious c
mother. i
“ I trust, my love, you have heard no bad
news, Albert, I hope ■”
“Is quite well, my dear mother; at least,”
replied Rose, recollecting herself, “ he does not
say a word to the contrary.”
“ Then, of course, you draw an infeience,
and conclude that he is,” said her mother,
smiling.
“ Yes,” returned Rose, rather confused, and
avoiding Mrs. Sommerville’s earnest look.
“ He desires his kind regards to all, and
wishes Henry joy.”
“ Very kind of him. my love; and I suppose
he is anxious to have you back again, and
though desirous of complying with his wishes,
you are still sorry to leave ns.”
“ No; he would rather prefer my remainirg
here sometime longer, on account of my health,
but still at the same time he begs me to consult
only my own wishes.”
Mrs. Sommerville, although born and edu
cated entirely in the country, without having
ever strayed from her native place, was never
theless a very shrewd woman, and none were
quicker in reading that mystic volume, the hu
man heart; few characters were ever inscribed
there that she failed to unravel, and in the end
entirely understand. A few questions adroitly
put, and in such a manner, that none ever sus
pected her motives, and she knew almost as
well as the possessor, what thoughts and feel
ings had found a resting place in their hearts.
Thus, she said no more to Rose ; but she knew
as well as if her daughter had intentionally im
parted it to her, that the letter she had re
ceived from Albert was unsatisfactory, and
though seeming what some women would per
haps have deemed exceeding kind in allowing
her entirely to consult her own pleasure, yet,
as a proof of love, a sensitive mind like Rose’s
would have been far more delighted by his ex
pressing a desire for her return, though, at the
same time she was willing to believe that Albert
meant it, in all kindness and affection; at all
events, as she had derived her knowledge from
the ingenuity and facility she had acquired in
marking the expression of Rose’s countenance,
and drawing from that conclusions she had ne
ver failed in finding correct, she deemed it best
to offer no comment, and turned therefore to
the second letter.
“ Mrs. Trevors, I hope, Rose, is in the en
joyment of that richest blessing, health!”
“ Yes, I believe her, dear mother, to be per
fectly well,”
“ Why, your correspondents, Rose, do not
seem much given to egotism, replied Mrs. Som
merville ; “ did Marian say how Mr. Trevors
was ?”
Poor Rose was conscious of looking very fool
ish and confused, and for the nonce would have
been glad to be anywhere but on the chair she
now occupied, directly facing her mother ; but
there was nothing for it, but to answer, with as
little show of agitation as possible; and she re
plied,—
“ Mr. Trevors, oh! yes, he is in excellent
health.”
Mrs. Sommerville laughed,
“ Marian, it seems, Rose, resembles you, and
thinks more of her husband than herself.”
Rose’s confusion increased tenfold, so much
so, that she could not trust herself to reply,
and inwardly hoped her mother would allow
the subject of her letters to drop, although she
could not herself introduce another topic,
though assuredly most desirous of changing the
conversation to some more trivial subject. Mrs.
Sommerville marked her confusion, and for the
first time in her life, entertained a fear for her
daughter’s moral conduct, and it cost her the
severest pang it had ever been her lot to feel.
Oh! could it be possible that Rose, hitherto all
innocence, had, amid the gaieties and wicked
ness of London, been unhappily led into sin.
Alas ! it is indeed the severest torture we can
ever know, to tremble for the virtue of one we
love. Mrs Sommerville had arrived at an age
that seldom retains much of the bloom of youth,
but what time had left her: the anguish of the
moment when the first doubt of her only daugh
ter, who had been educated in the strictest vir
tuous principles, crossed her mind, was quickly
chased away, and. she sat confronting her, with
out the slightest vestige of color.
“My dear mother,” said Rose, recovering
from heirown confusion, at sight ol the agitation
of her parent, “ You are ill, what can 1 do for
you
“ Do not alarm yourself, my child,” said Mrs.
Sommerville, endeavoring ,to calm the violence
of her emotion, “it was but an involuntary
spasm, and is now gone.”
“But, dear mother,” urged Rose, “I never
saw you thus before, and it has made me very
uneasy.”
“ There is no occasion for uneasiness, my
love, so I assure you that I am perfectly re
covered,” replied Mrs. Sommerville.
“ Well, then, dear mother, I will endeavor
to dismiss my fear.”
They then conversed on indifferent topics for
some time. Aftfr dinner Rose excused herself
to her mother, and again sought the privacy of j
her own room, to reply to the letters she had
received; and first, she drew from her bosom
Albert’s letter, and perused it again, determined,
though unsolicited, to write an answer. She
could not, even on this second reading, think it
otherwise than cold; butthen she argued with
herself. “He does not intend it to be so, on
the contrary, he deem he is studying my happi
ness in preference to his own, therefore it is
my duty to write to him kindly and affection
ately,” which she accordingly did, stating the
day which was fixed for her brother’s wedding,
? aiid natrilng tl’e third day aftel-vtards as the one,
i on which he’ might look for her retlifri > her
i health, she assured hitn, being fully re-esta
-1 b'lished,- she would much prefer returning to
; hird, to’remaining longer from home; this done,
s she wrotd dido' to Lucy, Which letter the rea
• der is already acqiiiilriffi'd with, therefore any
- remark upon it is needless, firi cCßnepting that
i with the letter Rose’ received from Edward } it
. is easy enough to draw a conclusion. The third
letter Rose appeared to think' required no
answer; for laying aside her psih,' she took
those she had written in her hand ana left the
room. Her mother’s eye watched her closely
as she gave them to the servant, and failed not
to observe that there were but two; conse
quently, one of the letters she had given to her
daughter irf the fiiouming must still remain
unanswered. Mrs. Sommerville felt anxious,
and would have been, glad, could ehe have
known who it Whs that' bhd’ written' to Iler
daughter.
One letter Rose had acknowledged crime from
Albert, and one of the others she was certain
was written by Marion Trevors, or some other
female acquaintance; but the third, she was
equally. Sure, datiie from a gentleman, and to
which letter. Rose had made no allusion what
ever. Shd could riot; on’ sif.ch slight suspicion,
think ill of her daughter Rose, Who,- u'p to the
time of her marriage, was tluiyorsalTy admired I
for her modest manners, and which, dve'ri nW, i
after mixing for a season, amid the fashionable
foflies and gaieties of London, had by no means
worn off; on the contrary, it had only given
place to a pretty becoming matronly air that
suited w-ell her Charming features. But, alas!
she had heard so much of the dangers to which
the fating ar-i pkpose’d in the bristle and strife
of London, of such terrible temp’ationS that
were spread to ensnare yotiilg' and hnipcent fe- ’
males, that she began to tremble for Rose'. Hi
therto she had safely rested, not alone on the' '
virtue of her child, but in the guardian care !
and protection of Albert; but now it seemed,
from what »he had gathered in her converse- i
tioris With Rose, that he delegated the task that s
so properly and exclusively belonged to him, of ]
watching narrowly the steps of his wife and
keeping all temptati'di'i' from.her,-to another:
and that other a gay and volatile female,- un
fitted, from her very position-in life, ii Rave
the guardianship and care of so tender a charge.
And here, alas! we are obliged to remark,
that many, very many virtuous women have
fallep low, both to their own and their hus
bands' iHsh'cnor, through being unnecessarily
exposed to teiriptations, that they need be al
most more than human &' Ife’ capable of resist
ing-
For example, a man of moderate ability arid 1
personal attractions marries a woman, who, in
addition to the most fascinating manners, and a
pretty face and figure, possesses rare and un
common talents in literature, which makes her
company eagerly sought for, and universally de
lighted in.
Such a man as We hate described, naturally
feels very proud at having gairwd such a wo
man; and, to gratify his vanity, (inriocen,t en
ough in itself,) he introduces her to men,
whose mind and pursuits assimilate more close
ly with hers than his own, and consequently,
she feels pleasure in their company, which she
expresses to her husband, and, instead of a kind
word of caution, or a gentle withdrawal of he'f
from society that may become dangerous, he
encourages her in it, with the boast, —
“I am not jealous—l love to see you admired
—nothing affords ilia so much gratification. I
am well aware that my dispcrition is in many
respects at variance with yours, and cannot be
so selfish as to desire to exclude you from so
ciety that you feel pleasure in—enjoy it by all
means—l know I can trust you, I have not the
slightest fear of your betraying me.”
Did we not know the very words we have
quoted to have been Used by men when address
ing their wives on this subject—wives, too,
whose very beauty and talents rendered them
attractive, and sought for in no common degree
—we say, did we not know of ourselves, such
to be the case, we could scarcely have thought
it possible, that men would thus wilfully, as it
were, place their wives on the very brink of
destruction; especially when they know, as
they must, how ready men are to take advant
age of a woman. A moment’s betrayal into an
undue familiarity, misconstructs (perhaps pur
posely) into more than was really meant. Some
iimes, even a tender look, and all is lost. It is,
indeed; Worse than folly to expect a woman so
cautiously to guard her looks and words, as
never, at any time whatever, through being on
terms of intimacy with men, whose company
she acknowledges is pleasing to her, to give
them the lightest opportunity, which, doubt
less, they are constantly on the watch for,
eao-erly to improve it to their own advantage,
an?l the ruin of her. It was utterly impossible
for a woman (as some husbands appear to ex
pect) to say to herself, so far will I go and no
farther. She may entreat; she may think to
do so ; but while men are ever seeking to win
women, by any means, honorable, or dishonor
able, no matter so the end is gained, we repeat
it as a downright impossibility. And men who
know their own sex better than a woman can,
especially, if (as is not unfrequently the case)
she has been, up to the time of her marriage,
rather excluded from their society, should care
fully protect her from temptation, and not thus
thrust her into it, but if they will be wilfully
blind to the consequences let them not, after
the mischief is done, blame aught but their
own want of caution. No one can pity such a
man for having his wife’s affections seduced
from him; any one who knows the world would
only say, “ It serves him right!”
Suppose a man to be possessed of some rare
treasure which he knows to be coveted by
others, and feels assured they will not hesitate
to deprive him of it on the first opportunity
that may offer, that, in fact, they are watching
for that opportunity. What would any uncon
cerned spectator say if he carelessly laid it
about; and at length, actually threw it in their
way ? They would, of course, smile at his folly,
and think "that he desired to lose it; and if
afterwards, when it was irretrievably gone, he |
made bitter complaints and. accusations against
the parties who had possessed themselves of it,
would not everybody laugh at his absurdity in
not taking proper care of it while it was his
own property; of course, there cannot be a
doubt of it. How much more, then, does it be
hove a man to guard that best and dearest of all
treasures, his wife, the one that makes home so
sweet and pleasant—whose cheering smile is
his sure reward, and sweet incentive to renew
ed exertion —who lavishes on him all the warm
outpourings of an affectionate heart, one, whom
he has honorably won, and whom he should
proudly wear in his bosom, throwing around
her by his constant and endearing attentions,
and wise counsels, a shield, from which all temp
tations will harmlessly rebound, having no
power to penetrate the inward recesses of the
heart, some may perchance deem these remarks
totally uncalled for; but, we doubt not, there
are others, who know, by sad experience, that
wives are often left entirely unguarded by those
whose duty it is, and pleasure it should be, to
watch over them.
Mrs. Sommerville felt, as indeed she had
from their first acquaintance, that Albert was
not at all the man she would have chosen for
the husband of Rose, and now that she began
to fear for her innocence, she also began to
blame herself, for having so readily given her
consent to their union; yet it was excess of
kindness towards Rose alone that had prevent
ed her offering any objection. But, oh ! if it
should prove to have been mistaken kindness;
for rathey, a thousand times rather than see
her she had oo tenderly watched over in infacy,
and exulted proudly in her ripe years, as a per
fect pattern of excellence and purity, seduced
from her high estate, would she have lain her
in the quiet churchyard while yet she was in
nocent.
“ You have written to Albert, my love,” said
Mrs Sommerville, inquiringly.
“ Yes; and named the dav for my departure
from here,” returned Rose, “ for, though griev
ing much to leave you, dear mother, I am most
anxious to return to Albert. It is, you know,
the first time we have been separated, and it is
therefore natural I should wish to see him
again.”
“ But does he not, my love, also desire to see
you, I thought I understood you to the con
trary.”
“ He only mentions his wish for me to pro
long my stay, out of a desire for the restora
tion of my health, which you know, dear
mother, was really out of order on my arrival.”
“ It was, my love, but then your situation
might in a great measure account for it.”
“ Not altogether, dear mother,” returned
Rose, “ for how much improved I am now, both
in health and spirits.”
“ True, my love, you certainly looked very
poorly, when you first came among us,” said
Mrs. Sommerville, musingly: “ and 1 am de
lighted to observe, as you say, such an improve
ment, especially in so short a time; indeed, it
is almost more than we could expect.”
“ And what is better,” added Rose, “ I do
not at all fear a relapse.”
“ You will forgive me, Rose,” returned her
mother, anxiously, “ for what 1 am about to
say; it arises, 1 am sure you will believe,
wholly from a desire to see you happy.”
“Dear, dear ;mother,”_ interrupted . Rose,
, “ you' Itnow how happy I have ever been, and I
• may trffl’y say I still am, to receive instruction,
■ cbunsfel I ,' or reproof from you—therefore, I en-
> treat of yori to’ say on,- and do not, think it for
a moment necessary to offer any apology to me.
I feel troubled at the bare’ idea of such a thing;
a child should be always thankful to attend to
what a parent may suggest.”
“ Still, my own dear girl,” replied Mrs. Sota
merville, folding Rose to her bosom, “ I feared,
f mu'st confess, that having passed to another’s
care, you would no longer be so eager to receive
my counsel, especially as it Would bear upon a
subject that may, perhaps, be painful to you.”
“ Fdar it no longer, dear mother; although
married I am no le'ss y’oUT child, and possessing
a husband does not cause ttie' to 1 forget I have a |
mother.”
“ I see, dear Rose, that I should Lave'known
you better, and will at once proceed to’ open
my mind to you. You love Albert as dearly
and fondly as when you were first united ?”
.“ I do, indeed,” returned Rose, with an air
of sbrprisc!. “What could induce you, dear
mother; for a moment apparently to doubt it ?”
“ 1 scarcmv diti,-” replied Mrs. Sommerville,
“ and yet ’
“ What!” said Rose, “ I entreat- you to tell |
me all that has transpired to throw even a
shadow of a doubt upon the subject of iriy love
I for Albert ?”
j “It was' not, Rose, that Iso much doubted
ybtfr ibye for hirfi, as I feared it might become
estrarfg-td. Do you think, my child, that he
still entertains’ the same affection for you ?”
“ I can most unhesitatingly answer, yes,” re
plied Rose; “ but I will not conceal from you ’
that I have, since our marriage, discovered that '
Albert is unhappy.” I
“And have you no clue to the cause of his :
unhappiness ?”
“I hake, dear mother, but it is a subject on I
which lam not at liberty to disclose aught that I
I know, Oven to yos.-” i
“ Such being the case,. Rose, I would not ask i
it of you; but what ho’ has confided in you, you i
should do your best to iwfov’O,- or if that is im- (
possible, at all events to make hilri' forget his
uneasiness.” '
“Rirdon me, dear mother, I did not say lie
had confided in me, in truth, indeed, he has
dons no such thing.”
i “ Did I then, Rose, misunderstand you in say
ing you 1 wire in' possession of a clue to the
secret cause of Albert’s grief, or am I to infer
that you have gained yoifr knowledge of it from
others?” ,z
“ I am perfectly ashamed of myself, and yet
will not seek to hide from you that such is the
case; I now feel it to have been wholly unjusti
fiable on my part, but must own that I not only
gained the clue to my husband's unhappiness,
but liavt actually sought it from others, and
when I obtained the knowledge I so eagerly
desired—”
“ It had only the effect of plunging you into
sorrow,” said Mrs. Sommerville; “anddepend,
my child, that this will ever be the case With
any secret that is gained in any unworthy man
ner ; think not, dear Rose, that I am angry
With you,” she continued, kindly, as Rose hung
her head at her mother’s reproof, “ although
you have acted Wrong, at the same time, I con
sider it was very excusable; it was certainly
but natural that, seeing your husband unhappy,
you should desire to know the cause, and not
being able to obtain it from him you innocently
applied to others. Had you seriously thought
on the subject for a short time, you would
doubtless have acted differently.”
“ I should indeed, dear mother, and in proof
of it, allow me to tell you, that I had an Oppor
tunity of pushing my inquiries much farther,-
but recollected myself in time to decline doing
so at the Very moment when the secret (for
there is a secret Connected with Albert’s grief)
seemed about to be unravelled to me.”
“ Did you indeed, dear Rose? then I am sure
I need not tell you that I highly applaud your
conduct. Rest assured, Rose, that it is not only
Wrong but foolish towards themselves for wives
too seek an acquaintance with things that their
husbands manifest a desire to keep from their
knowledge ; but this is foreign to what I was
about to observe at the commencement of our
conversation. You received, Rose, three let
ters this morning, and when I conversed with
you about their contents, I observed an agita
tion, not to say a confusion, in your counten
ance and manners, that (you must not feel hurt,
Rose, it my remark) created 1 a fear in my mind
I had never previously entertained towards
you.”
“ Dispel it instantly, dear mother,” said Rose,
the rich blood suffusing much her face with
crimson; “ I am willing, anxious to explain
to you everything concerning them: one,” she
added, trembling with her eagerness to banish
all doubt from her mother’s mind,. “ was, as I
told you, from Albert, another from a young
lady I was introduced to by Marian Trevors
while in London.”
“ And the third,” said Mrs. Sommerville.
“ Was from Mr. Trevors,” replied Rose, with
a slight blush, “ and was in reference to the
very secret concerning Albert that I have al
ready told you I am not at liberty to explain ”
“Rose,” said Mrs. Sommerville, seriously,
“ it was that letter which awakened fears in
my mind that I, for a moment, supposed it
possible you could be easily led astray, but con
necting your husband’s apparent carelessness
of you with your receiving a letter from an
other, about which there hung some little mys
tery, I was puzzled to account for it otherwise
than by fearing (I feel certain now unjustly)
that he might be endeavoring to wean your
affections from Albert.
“ You are indeed mistaken; Edward is de
voted to Marian, and would, I have reason to
know, be the first to shield me from the attacks
of others ”
“ You greatly relieve the anxiety I was labor
ing under, dear Rose, and will, I am sure, make
every allowance for the fear of your mother;
till lately you have never been exposed to
temptation, and though I know you to be amia
ble, virtuous, and good, yet, when I saw you
receiving letters from one of the opposite sex,
about which you observed an air of conceal
ment and mystery, I must confess I began to
tremble for my child; especially when I con
nected with the want of attention from your
husband, and in a great measure your exclusion
from his company.”
“ Oh! dear mother, do not ever entertain
such fears again even for a moment; Albert is
my first and only Jove, and never, never,” can
I by any possibility be brought ts> regard him
with less effection than I now feel, which, in
deed, is as fondly devoted to him as on the first
day he called me wife.”
“ You make me very happy, my love, by this
assurance, it is a great source of pleasure to
have our affections fixed on the object who has
a right to claim them, and I feel, my Rose, as
if I had wronged you in harboring a suspicious
feeling of you even for an instant, yet one word
more, my child, before we dismiss this subject
from our conversation, I hope, and fully believe,
for ever’; -it is this: never allow anything to
induce you to make a confidant of your secret
thoughts and feelings to any one but your hus
band ; if you find a difficulty in imparting all
to him, you had far better allow them to remain
concealed in your bosom, than unburden your
heart to others.”
“ Thank you, dear mother,” returned Rose,
“ this visit to you will be of unspeakable bene
fit to me, and I shall ever reflect upon it with
satisfaction; and when I return to town how
improved shall I be, not alone in health —that
will be but a secondary consideration —but I
feel that I shall be enabled to study more the
happiness of my husband, and by constant, and
unwearying exertions I may at length become
the means of securing it, and oh 1 then what
pure, unmingled joy will be mine.”
As she spoke these words, she raised her
eyes, beaming with the ardor ot her mind, to
her mother’s face. Mrs. Sommerville gazed
upon her with the rapture a parent alone can
feel, and as she looked full into her lovely coun
tenance, now lighted up with the smile of hope
and radiant with joy, the expression was so full
of innocence that it gave her the appearance
of almost infantile beauty; ana, while her
mother gazed upon her, a pang, by no rpeans
for the first time felt, mingled with the tiaffP
ral pride and delight of a mother. “ She is
innocent, I am confident, and will ever be so,”
was Mrs. Sommerville’s secret thought; “ and
I have wronged her by encouraging a doubt of
her purity, and never more will aught on earth
induce me to suspicion of the inno
cence of one who can thus look and speak; her
whole heart and soul is, I am convinced, devot
ed to Albert; a treasure she is in herself, and
should be doubly treasured for the sweet and
unselfish devotion with which she regards him.
But, alas ! I fear he knows her not, nor the
fond, trusting love she so lavishly bestows upon
him, the chosen of her heart. Poor Rose 1 who
. would have thought that you, so tenderly nur
tured, ever reposing on the love and care of
others, would thus, while yet so young, have
, nobly resolved to rise independent of all ob
structions, and stand as it were alone, endeavor-
> ing likewise, to support and cheer your hus
band; but oh!” and a sigh heaved from her
r breast, “ should your generous efforts prove
> unsuccessful; and Albert, unmindful of your
, love, still remain the moody, gloomy misan-
Ithrope. I fear this sad disappointment of your
fondest hopes will be too much for you: that
the recoil will be more than thy tender frame
can bear, and I may he doomed to see thee sink
into an early tomb. Oh ! just God, forbid that
this should be the end of all my maternal love
and care. Grant that the pure and trusting
love of this fair child may be rewarded by the
fulfilment of her proudest hopes.”
Busily engaged in these thoughts, Mrs. Som
merville had sunk into silence, and Rose like
wise followed her example ; but her thoughts
were not tinged with the painful melancholy
that marked her mother’s—her visions for the
future were painted in rainbow tints ; she felt
as if she were about to begin life anew, and in
a manner that could not fail to ensure happi
ness, both to herself and him she loved best on
earth. She was so young, and had known so
little of disappointment, that she could encour
age hope without experiencing the reeling,
which in after years creeps over our minds, and
tells of fairy hopes destroyed, and sweet ex
pectations blasted. In youth we are all hope,
nor doubt not the accomplishment of our de
sires, be they- ever so ardent, or to others even
unreasonable; trot as we approach to middle
age, we begin to hope with trembling, and to
desire, rather than expect; and when we reach
| to length of days, we look back upon the past,
and smile at the folly of our youth ; often, in
deed, even at the vain hopes too fondly clung
to of riper years; and yet how gladly would
we, if we could, recal that sweet friendship of
the heart, that fond, deep faithfulness with
which we willingly trusted in, and leant upon
our fellow-man.
The days that intervened previous to the j
wedding, flew rapidly by; all were happy, and
all busily engaged in preparing for the impor
tant event. Joy beamed on Henry’s counten
ance, and happiness reigned supreme in his
heart. Yet, this did not prevent him pursuing
his usual avocations. He accompanied his
father and brothers daily, as had been his went
in their walks and rides round the farm; con
versed with his mother and sister, with the same
affectionate interest in their welfare, as he had
ever manifested.
This happiness was not the intoxicating bliss,
which the possession of the one he so dearly
loved might soon be the means of restoring to
his senses, and with them, perhaps, a weariness
of the object, and a too quick perception of
her faults.
Agnes Forster was not, in his eyes, perfec
tion; he thought not extravagantly of her
beauty, nor loaded her with flattery or praise;
he expected not to find an angel in the woman,
bet knew she was not exempt'from faults and
failings any more than himself; but for those
faults and’failings he was prepared to make
every allowance. He was sure she would do
so as regarded him; and it was no less his duty,
to look with a tender eye’upon her failings.
He had known and studied her long, and felt
certain that she possessed an excellent and
amiable disposition ; that her heart was in the
right place, and that her many virtues and good
qualities overbalanced the few weaknesses she
had in common with her sex. This had deter
mined him on making her his wife, if by con
stant and affectionate attentions he could suc
ceed in winning' her heart; without that, were
she even ten times more lovely both in person
and mind, Henry would never have knelt with
her at the altar, but his effort* were not disap
pointed ; in the course of time he had drawn
from the lips of the blushing girl, a confession
of a reciprocal affection, and they were now
about to be united to each other, to share one
common fortune, be it good or ill; and Agnes,
like her lover, went round the little household,
overlooking the dairy and the farm, an obser
vant as ever that all were fully employed; she
indulged in no childish exultation over her
promised happiness; on the contrary, a more
serious air than usual sat upon her fair counten
ance ; no snatches of song might be heard, that
used to announce to all the part of the house
where Agnes might be found; she seemed to
perform all her duties with a more matronly
air, as if preparing, unconsciously, for the new
character she was so soon about to assume. The
evening before the day appointed for the wed
ding she sat alone, with her father fondly hold
ing his hand in her’s, as she gazed tenderly,
and with tearful eyes, in his face.
“ What ails thee, girl,” said the farmer', bend
ing down to kiss her cheek; “ye are sorry ye
have promised to marry the lad, eh, girl I”
“ No, —no, dear father,” replied Agnes,
hurriedly.
“ Then ye must not look sad, Agnes. “Ye
know that ye are not going to leave me and the
old house; no, no, that would never do,” he
continued, shaking his head and smiling, “ un
der this old roof ye were born, Agnes.”
“I know it, dear father,” she replied, serious
ly, “ and here I hope to live and die.”
“ Ye must not talk of dying, girl; ye are far
too young and blooming to think of death; and
yet,” continued the old man, “ your mother
was as young and fair when it pleased the Lord to
call her away; it seems, indeed, but yesterday,
that I brought her home to this very house, and
she looked so merry, Aimes, and skipped about
from room to room, just like you, my girl; and
we never thought that we should be obliged to
part so soon, but laughed, and sang, and talked,
as though we were certain of living together
for many, many years to come, instead of only
one short one; which was all that was allotted
to us of happiness.”
“ It was indeed, dear father, but a very short
space of time to spend with each other,” said
Agnes, and the tears which had been gathering
in her eyes, rolled slowly down her cheeks.
“ Ah !” replied the old man, mournfully, and
as if musing on the past, “ it is years ago, new,
Agnes; you were not then born, and now ye
have grown into a woman; and so like your
lost mother, that, as I look upon ye, I can al
most fancy it is her returned to me, fresh and
blooming as when we plighted our faith in yon
church, where to-morrow I hope to witness the
bridal of our child.”
[To be continued.]
An Incident of the Yellow Fever in
New Orleans. —We find in the Delta the fol
lowing beautiful description of a charity con
cert, given in one of the public parks in New
Orleans, for the benefit of the sufferers by the
present epidemic :
“ The concert of musical instruments that
took place yesterday evening, in the Place
d’ Armes, was, independent of its exquisite me
lody, one of the most beautiful and romantic
sights that we ever beheld. There, in front of
the wide Plaza, ran the golden-colored Missis
sippi. On its amber bosom, moored by their
cables fast to the Levee, hundreds of barks
poised themselves upon the almost silent waters.
The watcher saw the white sails of the vessels,
and there was a hum, something like that which
steals through the cordage of a vessel when all
but the man at the helm i? dead on board. The
vessels moored at the Levee, looked like spec
tral ships, and echoed no sound. The masts,
seen in the dim twilight, looked like spars made
of vapor, and the ropes like thin veins drawn
against the leaden sky The grey old Cathedral,
reared more than fifty years ago, looked upon
the Square with the air of one who knew what
time was a “ long time ago.” It was a solemn
and impressive sight. At the front gate two
or three of our most influential citizens stood,
with little baskets on a table, for the purpose
of receiving the contributions. Persons came
in—some presented their tickets, and others
threw their dollars and half dollars into the
baskets. In the centre of the Square a plat
form was raised, and the musicians were there
with their instruments. Around the platform
stood a number of fixtures, raised to the height
of the musicians’ heads, and burning glaring
lights. Suddenly and solemnly the sound of
music arose. The band played one of those
sweet German strains, that seem to fix the
heart on rhapsody. The dark-green leaves on
the trees in the Square stood still, and there
was scarcely a sigh to be heard murmuring
amongst their boughs. The sky above was mo
tionless, and not a star peeped out upon our
poor, poor city. All seemed death-like —all
was winter, save the summer souls that came
crowding in. There was the aged woman, lean
ing on the arm of her grey-haired husband; the
jmine spouse Jopkipg with eyes of fondness and
uelight on cotmffrhm'eF'O'f her stahyart,
handsome leige lord, and the young maiden,
with cherry-colored lips and down-cast eyes,
who scarcely dared to rest her little white hand
on the arm of her intended. Still the noble
tide of human sympathy flowed through the
gates. The old husband had his time-worn
wife by his side; the young Benedick had his
precious charge under his keeping, and the
timid lover watched his beloved, “ even like
one who loveth flowers, and hath but a single
rose.” Again the music struck up, and the
sounds of the instruments went like colored
thoughts to the hearts of those present—rain
bows of hope were woven, and the “ bow of
promise” seemed to be arched over all who
were present. Music for the dead—music for
the living —harmony for us all! May the gal
lant example set last evening be followed up.
(jg- Who has not, even in the most casual re-
■ mark, traced an application to the subject pa-
■ ramount within his bosom ? How many have
; betrayed themselves trom believing that they
Iwere discovered, when all idea of the truth
was remote from the mind of the supposed de
tector.
el O’CONNELL'S FUNERAL.
< From Genoa’s streets of palaces,
f Which sparkle o’er the azure deep,
The sad cortege at length arrives
j Where Liffey’s waters calinlj” sleep.
r Then voicelessly the myriads weep,
> Who lately shouted forth nis name;
» Deeming their lives a world too cheap
j To vindicate O’Connell’s fame
. ‘ ’Neath the Conception’s sacred dome '
The reliquesof the great are laid;
And, ere they reach their lowly home,
; The mass and eulogy are said;
The holy, tearful tribute paid.
Along the noble streets proceeds
The multitude of every shade,
01 politics, race, rank, or creeds.
Alas ! what mockery of the dead
Before the hearse the triumph car ’
Death smiles in triumph o’er the head
Of him, whose great heart sleeps afar;
Broken when fell his fiery star
From the ascendant, and the Land
Saw Pestilence and Famine war
Triumphantly on Erin’s strand.
Thus ends the fitful, gorgeous dream !
It died with him now sleeping there;
Glasnevin Trophies beam
Of marble o’er him, pure and fair.
Whate’er his faults, yet virtues rare
Shone like a halo through the gloom;
And every generous breast will spare
lo plant one nettle near his tomb.
GROWING OLD TOGETHER.
You have promised that through life ,
We shall journey heart-united,
Husband fond, and faithful wife,
And I trust the vow thus plighted:
Hdnd to hand, and side by side,
Through life’s storms and sunny weather,
vve will our one fortune bide,
And at last grow old together.
What if Time’s unsparing wing
Of some pleasures has bereft us I
Let us not by murmuring
Lose the many that are left us.
W hat though youth and bloom depart,
, T „ wl ft as birds of lightest feather !
Why repine with feeble heart ?
Shall we not grow old together?
Few indeed have been our years,
Yet enough our hearts to bind, love;
And to show our many tears
In life’s brightest cup we find, love !
Since in bur united youth,
We twain sported on the heather.
Dearest | it is meet, in truth,
That we should grow old together ’
[Original.]
Mrliginns of tl)e toorßr.
number thirty two
Universalism.
The creed of universal salvation is one of
the oldest connected with the Christian faith ;
though as first entertained by some of the early.
Fathers, it appears to have been in the form of
Restorationism, or the belief that unrepenting
sinners will be punished in the future state, in
proportion to their sins, and then restored to
eternal happiness.
Universalism is based'upon a profound belief
in the Supreme love and benevolence of the
Deity. The Universalis't finds it impossible to
believe that a God of boundless and everlasting
love, full of mercy and compassion can have
doomed any soul that he has made to an eter
nity of hell torments. To this, other sects op
pose the idea that God is a being of justice as
well as mercy —of vengeance, as well as benefi
cence, and that his character requires the eter
nal torture of such as do not, or cannot accept
the terms of salvation.
The idea of the punishment of the wicked in a
future state of existence, is not original with
the Christian faith. It existed in the religions
of the East, thousands of years before the Chris
tian era; but it is not to be found in the Jewish
religion, which as given in the books of Moses,
does not even recognise a future state of exist
ence. It is remarkable—and some think it
very strange, that nowhere in these books is
any allusion to the immortality of the soul, or a
future state of rewards and punishments. Obe
dience to the divine law was to be rewarded
with long life and temporal prosperity, and dis
obedience with various calamities, war, pesti
lence, famine, and violent death.
The Gospels, literally interpreted, according
to our common versions, certainly convey the
idea that Christ taught that all who did not
avail themselves of the terms of salvation of
fered by him, should be everlastingly punished
in a hell of unutterable torments, and such has
been the professed belief of the greater portion
of the Christian world.
The Universalists, however, contend that the
passages of the New Testament, upon which
this belief has been founded are improperly ren
dered, and have really a much milder significa
tion, and a more temporary application. They
contend that to doom a large proportion of the
human race to an eternity of tortures for a fault
which was not their own, and on account of
circumstances over which they have no control,
is inconsistent with any proper idea of the be
nevolence of the Supreme Being; and with a
just conception of the value of Christ’s atone
ment. They think that such a sacrifice was
sufficient for the complete salvation of the whole
human rtice.
Impressed with this belief,the Restorationists
ingeniously explain away the common meaning
attached to such terms as forever, everlasting,
&c., making them signify a long, but not an
eternal duration, and the Universalists who
believe in no future punishment whatever,
while they adopt these explanations, make
similar ones in regard to such words as damned,
damnation, devil, hell. Thus damnation they
consider but as a term for temporal destruction
—the Devil is but an ideal personification of
the evil principle in man, and hell is either a
valley near Jerusalem, or a vague term for the
grave or the place or condition of departed
spirits.
The Universalists, being the most tolerant of
Christians, are, aside from their disbelief in an
eternal punishment hereafter, of various beliefs.
Some are Trinitarians, some Unitarians; but all,
we believe, Predestinarians, so far as believing
that the Almighty has destined every soul that
he has created in his own image, to an eternity
of progress through states of increasing know
ledge and happiness.
In their forms of worship, the Universalists
do not differ from most other sects of dissenters.
Their sermons are usually of a practical char
acter, and they appeal to the principle of love,
rather than that of fear. They speak of the re
lation of man to God, as that of erring children
to an all-merciful Father, whose love is as
boundless as his power is infinite. They teach
that of necessity, and from the constitution of
the human mind, every sin carries with it its
own sufficient punishment. Their prayers are
filled with ascriptions of praise to God for his
infinite mercy and goodness, and appeals to his
fatherly care and protection. Their singing is
of the same character.
As may be supposed, the Universalists are
generally an exceedingly tolerant and amiable
sect, yet they sometimes display considerable
warmth of indignation towards what are called
the orthodox sects; who, they allege, threaten
people with future torments, to frighten them |
into religion, and appeal to the base and cow
ardly principle of fear, when that of love is
much more potent. In accordance with their
creed, the Universalists are, generally, warmly
engaged in benevolent enterprises, and those
who.live up to their creed endeavor to imitate
the beneficence of the Heavenly Father, upon
whose infinite love they rely for the future sal
vation and happiness of the whole human race.
Universalism, as the creed of a distinct re
ligious body, flourishes chiefly in the United
States, and as extremes meet, and often pro
duce each other, the fountain head of Univer
salism is in Puritan New England.
Lusus Natuka:. —There is in Matamoras a
litter of little animals, combining both the fe
line and canine race, being the offspring of the
common house cat, and the small lap dog. The
mother is now rearing these singular animals,
and bestows upon them as much affection as
though they were fully her own race. The
ears and feet are purely feline, but all other
portions canine. The whine is more like the
kitten than the puppy, and in their efforts at
play or fight, they have the traits of the cat.
I composed the music of a hymn in
honor of the Pope, w’hich was lately performed
at Milan.
PRICE. THREE CENTS.
Suttle of
Lannes, anxious to apprise Napoleon of wh
was passing, had sent to him almost all h
aides-de-camp, one after another, orderii
them to get back to him without loss oftiin
~ if they killed their horses They found hi
coming ata gallop to Friedland, and full of
w , as expressed in his countenanc
This is the 14th of June,” he repeated ■
those whom he. met; “it is the Anniversai
of Marengo ;itis a lucky day for us!” Nani
leon, outstripping his troops through the suet
of his horse, had successively passed the lor
files of the Guard, of Ney’s corps, ofßernado
te’s corps, all marching for Posthenen. He hi
saluted in passing Dupont’s fine division, whit
1-om Ulm to DiauusPerg, had never ceased ;
distinguish itself, though never in hispresenci
and he had declared that it would give hii
great pleasure to see it in fight for once. Th
presence of Napoleon at Posthenon fired h
soldiers and his Generals with fresh ardoi
Lannes, Mortier, and Outinot, who had bee
there since morning, and Ney, who had ius
arrived, surrounded him with the most livel
joy. The brave Oudinot, hastening up witi
his coat perforated with balls, and his hors
covered with blood,exclaimed to the Emperor
“ Make haste, Sire, my grenadiers are knockec
UP.i but, give me a reinforcement, and J wil
drive all the Russians into the water ” Napo
leon, surveying with his glass that plain,when
the Russians, backed in the elbow of the Alle
were endeavoring in vain to deploy, soon ap
preciated their perilous situation, and the
unique occasion offered him by Fortune, sway
ed, it must be confessed, by his genius ; for the
fault which the Russians were committing- had
been inspired, as it were, by him, when he
pushed them from the other side of the Alle.
and thus forced them to pass it before him, in
going to the relief of Konigsberg.
The day was far advanced, and it would take
several hours to collect all the French troops,
borne of Napoleon’s lieutenants were,therefore,
of opinion, that they ought to defer fighting a
decisive battle till the morrow. “ No, no,’’re
plied Napoleon, “ one does not catch an enemy
twice in such a scrape.” He immediately made
his dispositions for the attack. They were wor
thy of his marvellous perspicacity. To drive
the Russians into the Alle was the aim which
every individual, down to the meanest soldier,
assigned to the battle But how to set about
it, how to ensure that result, and how to render
it as great as possible, was the question. At
the furthest extremity of this elbow of the
Alle, in which the Russian army was engulph
ed,there was a decisive point to occupy, name
ly > the little town of Friedland itself, situated
ri OUr ht ’ between the Mill Stream and the
. i T X ,erethe four bridges, the sole
retreat of the Russian army, and Napoleon pur
posed to direct his utmost efforts against that
point. He destined for Ney’s corps the diffi
cult and glorious task of plunging into that
gulf, of carrying Friedland at any rate, in spite
of the desperate resistance which the Russians
would not fail to make, of wresting the bridges
from them, and thus barring against them the
only way of safety. But at the same time he
resolved, while acting vigorously on his right,
to suspend all efforts on his left, to amuse the
Russian army o n that side with a feigned fight,
and not to push it briskly on the left till the
bridges being taken on the right, he should be
sure, by pushing it, to fling it into a receptacle
without an outlet. Surrounded bv his lieuten
ants, he explained to them, with that energy
and that precision of language which were usual
with him, the part which each of them had to
act in that battle. Grasping the arm of Mar
shal Ney, and pointing to Friedland,the bridges
the Russians crowded together in front, “ Yon
der is the goal,” said he ; “ march to it with
out looking about you; break into that thick
mass, whatever it costs you; enter Friendland,
take the bridges, and give yourself no concern
about what may happen on your right, on your
left, or in your rear. The army and I shall be
there to attend to that.”
Ney, boiling with ardor, proud of the formi
dable task assigned to him, set out at a gallop to
arrange his troops before the wood of Sortlack.
Struck with his martial attitude, Napoleon, ad
dressing Marshal Mortier, ‘That man is a lion ’
* ****** Itwashalf
past ten at night. The victory was complete
on the left and on the right. Napoleon, in his
vast career, had not gained a more splendid
one. He had for trophies SO pieces of eannon ;
few prisoners, it is true, for the Russians chose
rather to drown themselves than to surrender,
but 25,000 men, killed, wounded, or drowned,
covered with their bodies both banks of the
Alle. The right bank, to which great numbers
of them had dragged themselves, exhibited al
most as frightful a scene of carnage as the left
bank. Several columns of fire, rising from
Friedland and the neighboring villages, threw
a sinister light over that place, a theatre of an
guish for some, of joy for others. On our side
we had to regret upwards of 7,000 or B,OCO
men, killed or wounded. Out of about 80,OtO
French, 25,00 had not fired a shot. The Rus-'
sian army, deprived of2-5,000 combatants,weak
ened, moreover, by a great number of men who
had lost their way, was thenceforward incapa
ble of keeping the field. Napoleon had owed
this glorious triumph as much to the general
conception of the campaign as to the plan of the
battle. In taking for several months past the
Passarge for base, in thus securing to himself
beforehand and in all cases the means of sepa
rating the Russians from Konigsberg, in march
ing from Guttstadt to Friedland in such a man
ner as constantly to outwing them, he had
obliged them to commit a great imprudence in
order to reach Konigsberg, and had deserved
from fortune the lucky chance of them at Fried
land backed upon the river Alle. Always dis
posing his masses with consummate skill, he
had contrived, while sending sixty and and odd
thousand men to Konigsberg, to bring forward
80,000 at Friedland. And, as we have just
seen, there was no need for so many to over
whelm the Russian army. Napoleon slept on
the field of battle, surrounded by his soldiers,
joyous on this occasion, as at Aus'terlitz and Je
na, shouting, Vine VEmpereur! though they
had nothing to eat but a piece of bread'brought,
in their knapsacks, and contenting themselves
with the noblest of the acquisitions of victory
—glory.
Miss Martineau on Egypt.—One im
pression has taken me by surprise. I used to
wonder, and always did till now, at that stupi
dity of the Israelites which so angered their
leader—their pining after Egypt after finding
it impossible to live there. It was inconceiva
ble how they could long to go back to a place
of such cruel oppression for the sake of any
thing it could give I now w'onder no longer,
having seen and felt the desert, and knowing
the charms of the valley of the Nile. One
evening lately, just at sun-set, the scene struck
upon my heart, oppressing it with the sense of
beauty. A village was beside an extensive
grove of palms, which sprang from out of the
thickest and richest clover, to the height of
eighty feet. Their tops waved gently in the
soft breeze which ruffled the surface of a blue
pond, lying among grassy shores. There were
golden lights, and sharp shadows among the
banks, where a stream had lately made its way.
The yellow sand-hills of the desert just showed
themselves between the stems of the more
scattered palms. Within view were some care
fully tilled fields, with strong wheat, lupins,
and purple bean blossoms, and some melon and
cucumber patches were not far off; cattle were
tethered beside the houses, and on a bank near
sat an old woman, and a boy and girl sat bask
ing in the last rays of the sun, with evident en
joyment, though the magical coloring given by
an Egyptian atmosphere could not be so striking
as to English eyes. But what must it have
been in the memory of the Israelites wandering
in the desert, where there is no color except
at sunset, but only glare—parched rocks and
choking dust or sand. I will not attempt now,
for no one has ever succeeded in such an at
tempt, to convey any impression of the appal
ling dreariness of the depths of the desert. I
can only say that when it rose up, before me in
contrast with that nook of a valley at sunset, 1
at last understood the surrender ot heart and
reason on the part of the Israelites, and could
sympathise in their forgetfulness of their past
woes—in their pining for verdure and streams
for shade and good food, and for a perpetual
sight of the adored river, instead of the hateful
sands which hemmed them in whichever way
they turned.
A Disagreeable Bed Fellow.—An inha
bitant of the commune of Philo, France was
suddenly a lew nights ago in a manner which
put his courage to the proof. He was sleeping
in an outhouse when he was suddenly awaken’
ed by the loud barkifig of the house dog Al
most immediately, however, being' pursued by
an enormous wolf, which ruffied upon him and
began to light with him on the bed. It may be
supposed how uncomfortable the poor fellow
felt himself. He sprung up with a howl louder
than that ol the wolt, and in the confusion
seized him by the paw. At this sudden ag
gression, the-wolf in his turn became equally
trightened, sprung off the bed, and fled at full?
1 speed, followed by the dog.

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