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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
(’. RICHARDS, Editor.
©riginal jPoctrg.
F or the Southern Literary Gazette.
ISOLE.
BY JACQUES JOUR. NOT.
Alone!
Though busy crowds are thronging
Market, saloon and street;
For soul-communion longing,
No kindred soul I meet:
Lashed by the suiging tides of life—
Au island ’mid a sea of strife—
I stand alone!
Alone!
I've no sweet voice to cheer me,
No hand to press in mine—•
No one to say, “ Ilove thee,”
No dark eyes on me shine :
My yearning soul, sent forth in vain,
Like Noah’s dove, returns again,
Unblest, alone!
Alone!
Around is hellish striving,
Cain-like struggle, ceaseless toil;
Each by a brother's ruin thriving,
Each seeks a brother’s plans to foil:
Sick, sick at heart, I pine to rest
My head upon some loving breast,
No more alone!
0 .
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
INVITATION.
Como from thy cold and cloudy clime,
For softest airs are whispering here,
And Winter, now, is past his prime,
And Love’s own leafy time is near.
Come bask benea th our smiling sky,
Come drink the balmy breath of Spring,
And give thy cheek of damask dye
To Zephyr’s fondly-fanning wing. *
Here hearts are warm—here hands are free —
Each eye shall cordial welcome beam ;
And thou our sylph and grace shalt be,
And nymph of old Oconee’s stream.
And Love shall lead thy steps along,
And Pleasure follow in thy train —
While Music pours her sweetest song,
To welcome Beauty back again.
Athens, Ga. EREMUS.
1 i
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TO LITTLE SOPHIE.
When ’neath a sister’s amplo roof
A moment I beguile,
Who first, with sweet affection, runs
To cheer me with a smile 1
And throws her lit tle arms around
My neck, with tenderness ;
While on my cheeks, with fervor, prints
Her sweetest —sweetest kiss!
Till rapture, thro’ my bosom stealing,
Thrills my soul with holy feeling !
Who fondly sits upon my knee,
And lays, in gentle rest,
Her little head with innocence,
Upon my heaving breast 1
And looks up in my eyes,
And sheds the sparkling tears,
As, one by one, with sorrowed heart
My nameless wrongs she hears ;
And wonders how the world can be
Guilty of such treachery!
Who, e’en if every heart around
Should coldly cease to love me,
Would cheer me still, with tonder smiles
My dearest little Sophie!
Then, e’en as heart to heart should turn
With mutual fervenoy,
O’erflowing with its purest love,
So turns my heart to thee!
And, oh ! mayest thou a mothers pride
lu bliss perpetual o’er life's waters glide!
ALTON.
1 ■ i
AHAPPY NEW YEAR.
*’ A happy -new year! ” and may bountiful cheer
Bo your portion kind reader and friend;
May no dark to-morrow bring trouble and eorrowj
But Joy all thy future attend!
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
Popular ®alcs.
THE TEMPTERS AND TEMPTED.
A STORY IN TWO CHAPTERS.
BY CAMILLA TOULMIN.
CHAPTER I.
It was an exceedingly comfortable dining
room, in an exceedingly comfortable house.
The month was January, and the air was so
clear and frosty, that every step which pass
ed seemed to ring upon the pavement. Thick
warm curtains, however, excluded all draught,
and the brightest of tires blazed in the polish
ed grate; while the clear light of a pendant
lamp shone upon the dessert of chestnuts, in
their snowy napkin, and golden oranges.—
Amber and ruby-tinted wines sparkled through
the rich glass which held Ihem: but the
“comfortable” party were only a trio-—Mr.
and Mrs. Dixon, and their son. They were
people whom the world had used very kind
ly, who had never had areal trouble in their
lives. No doubt they had imagined a few;
and imaginary sorrows differ from real ones,
I believe, chiefly in this—that they teach no
thing, unless, indeed, their indulgence teaches
and strengthens selfishness.
Mr. Dixon was a fine-looking man, of
about fifty, with rather a pleasing expression
of countenance. He was often visited by
good, kind impulses, but a certain indecision
of character had made him fall underthe rule
of his partner early in their married life; and
the instances, during twenty-five years, in
which his best inclinations had been check
ed, were beyond all numbering. The lady,
who was about five years his junior, bore
every trace of having been a pretty woman,
though on the petite scale. Yet there were
people who did not like her face; and cer
tainly, bright as her eyes were, they put you
in mind of March sunshine, with an east
wind blowing all the time. Her lips were
thin, and she had a trick of smiling, and
showing her white teeth very ©ften, even
when she said the most disagreeable things.
Richard Dixon, the son, bore a strong resem
blance to his mother; though, if the mouth
were indicative of rather more sentiment than
she possessed, it also betrayed more sen
suality.
“This is a very serious charge, my dear,”
said Mr. Dixon, putting down the glass he
had raised half-way to his lips; “are you
sure there is no mistake I”
“Quite sure,” replied the lady; “ quite cer
tain Mary must have taken it. I put the
piece of lace at the top of the drawer, and the
key was never out of my possession, except
when [ entrusted it to her.”
“We never had a servant I should so lit
tle have suspected,” returned Mr. Dixon.
“Nor I either,” said the son; “and she is,
out and out, the best housemaid we ever had
—at least, the best that ever has been willing
to stay.”
Truth always hits hard, and the color rose
to Mrs. Dixon’s cheek. She was one of
those ladies who cannot “ keep their ser
vants.” Then bad is the best, I am sure,”
she exclaimed angrily; “and for my part, I
am glad she is going.”
“ And I am very sorry,” said her husband.
*• But why did you not tell me a month ago
that you had given her warning, instead of
leaving it in this way to the last moment?”
“Really, I cannot see, Mr. Dixon, what
you have to do with these arrangements. I
mention the circumstance now 7 , because the
girl is leaving to-night, and because you will
see a strange face to-morrow, and would wish
to know all about it.”
“But what did she say, wYienyou accused
her of theft ?”
“Accused her! You don’t suppose I should
have done such a foolish thing. A pretty
scene there would have been. I know the
fact, and that is enough ; you don’t believe I
should have got hack the lace, do you ?”
“ But justice, my dear, justice; surely you
should tell her your suspicions.”
“Oh ! now that I have engaged another
servant —now that she Is going, you can tell
her if you like. But I don’t see; myself, what
use it is. She is sure to deny it, and then
there will be a scene —and I hate scenes as
much as you do.”
At that moment there was a slight tap at
the parlor-door, and, obedient to the “come
; in” of Mrs. Dixon, the discarded Mary enter-
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1819.
ed. She was a gentle-looking girl, of about
twenty, attired in a dark cloak and straw
bonnet. She came to take a dutiful leave of
the family, and to ask a question which seem
ed not to have occurred to the party before.
In engaging herself with any future mistress,
and referring to Mrs. Dixon for a “ charac
ter,' ’ what was she to give as the reason that
she was discharged ?
So innocent, so interesting did Mary look,
the tears just starting to her eyes at the
thought of leaving the home of many months,
and her cheek slightly flushed—that neither
of the gentlemen could believe her guilty.
But Mrs. Dixon was in the habit of engaging
and discharging about a dozen servants a
year, of one sort or another, and was quite
hardened against “appearances.”
Mr. Dixon evaded an immediate answer to
Mary’s question, by asking her whither she
was going ?
“I am going into a lodging, sir.”
“ That is a pity : have you no friends to
stay with ?”
“My friends are all in Wiltshire,” said
the girl, with a sigh ; “and besides that, it
would cost me a great deal of money to go to
them; I would rather look out for a place
than make a holiday.”
“ Your wages which I sent down to you,
were quite right, I believe?” said Mrs. Dixon,
with an icy dignity that was intended to
close the conference.
“Quite right, thank you, ma’am,” replied
Mary, with a curtsey; “but, if you please,
when I go after a place, what shall I say
was the reason you discharged me ?”
“ I should think your own conscience must
tell you,” replied the lady, smoothing her
braided hair with her hand, as she had a
trick of doing when she was growing angry.
Poor Mary turned pale at these words, indefi
nite as they were, and could hardly murmur,
“Tell me, oh! tell me, what is it I have
done ?”
Her change of color was to Mrs. Dixon
evidence of guilt; and with a sort of horrible
satisfaction at this proof (to her) that she was
right, the lady charged the poor girl with the
theft which she had just mentioned to her
husband. It was, indeed, a scene which fol
lowed, a very piteous one. Mary uttered hut
a lew words of brief and emphatic denial—
far removed from the loud asseverations which
the guilty can sometimes deliver. Tears
seemed driven back to her heart; and as she
stood for a moment with clasped hands and
rigid features, she looked like a statue of woe.
Richard Dixon was by no means unmoved.
He had his own reasons for believing her a
girl of good principles. Like many other—
more thoughtless, perhaps, than heartless—
young uien, he never disguised his admira
tion of beauty to the object, even if the re
vealing it bordered on insult. And he re
membered that Mary had always received
his idle compliments with a dignity that re
pelled further rudeness, and with a deport
ment that he should have admired In a sister.
He placed a chair near Mary, and begged her
to be seated; but absorbed in her own mise
ry, she took no notice of the attention.—
Meanwhile, Mr. Dixon had poured out a
glass of wine, and offered it to her, exclaim
ing— “I must hope there is some mistake. I
cannot believe this of you.”
The word and act of kindness seemed to
melt the statue, and she burst into tears. —
But Mrs. Dixon felt this would never do. It
was time now for her to play a more interest
irg part in the drama, and applying her filmy
lace-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, she
leaned back in her chair, and sobbed out re
p'oaches to her husband for his cruelty in
doubting her word. Poor man! what could
h; think—what could he do ? Chiefly, l be
liive, he resolved never —never again—to in
terfere between two of womankind; and hur
raing poor Mary to the hall-door, where a
cab and her boxes awaited her, he put a sov
e>eign into her hand, as a remembrance of her
kind attention to the buttons of his shirts, and
sich et ceteras. The gold dropped from her
g’asp, as she exclaimed, “No, sir—mychar
a:ter! my character!”
Mr. Dixon stooped for the money, and
pressed it upon her again, till, trusting to his
•assurances that he did not believe her guilty,
and that he would see her righted, she con
sulted to accept it.
It is asuhjectof painful interest to ask how
tie hundreds and thousands of female ser
vants “out of place” in this palpitating heart,
tlis Great Metropolis, contrive to exist for
weeks, and even months together, as they do,
VOLUME I —NUMBER 34.
upon the scanty savings from their scanty
wages? And plain as the duty isof employ
! era not to deceive one another, by giving an
unjust character of a servant, or hiding glar
ing faults, there is a terrible responsibility in
depriving a young woman of a situation,
which is not, 1 fear, generally sufficiently felt.
It seems too often forgotten that servants
have peculiarities of temper and disposition
as well as their mistresses, and that sne who
would not suit one family might be admira
bly adapted to please another. Surely, it is
the most truthful, as well as the most hu
mane plan, in a mistress, to allude only to
the moral attributes of character; judging
charitably—if there he no knowledge darker
than doubt—of the general acquirements.
Sensible people may commonly get on well
with servants who speak the truth, and have
a tolerable share of brains: so much that is
valuable must follow in the wake. If one
cannot have both, truth is even more precious
than sense. But all this is by the way.
What was poor Mary to do, robbed of her
character for honesty ?
A day or two after her dismissal, she call
ed upon Mrs. Dixon, re-asserting her inno
cence, and imploring her mistress to give her
such a character as would procure her a situ
ation. But the mistress was firm in her re
solve to tell the circumstance to any lady who
might call, just as it had occurred. It would
be tedious to narrate the trials of the friend
less girl. How one stranger would have re
ceived her into hia house, but for this unfor
tunate episode revealed by Mrs. Dixon; and
how, on Mary defending herself with tears
and entreaties, the halt-convinced lady de
clared she would have taken her, had Mary
told the story at first. Prompted by this as
sertion, in her next application she confessed
the suspicion which attached to her; but
there is a very strong esprit (le corps among
mistresses, and they very seldom think each
other wrong. The lady could not fancy Mrs.
Dixon had been mistaken. It was after these
sorrows that the thought occurred to her of
applying to the mistress with whom she had
lived previously to her service with Mrs.
Dixon, and who had discharged her only in
consequence of reducing her establishment.
Alas! she had left the neighborhood, to re
side near a married daughter; but, as they
had paid every hill with scrupulous exact
ness, not one of the trades-peoplc could tell
her whither they had gone. The nearest in
telligence she could gain was-—“ Somewhere
in Kent.” Poor Mary! her last anchor of
hope seemed taken from her.
CHAPTER 11.
Winter had given place to Spring; but
though the Irost no longer bleached the pave
ment, or crisped all moisture, and though the
sun seemed struggling to warm the atmos
phere, there was a cold wind which would
have rendered warm garments very accepta
ble, and which blew through the thin shawl
of a young girl, as she stood at the corner of
a street, talking to a friend a few years older
than herself. The latter appeared more a fa
vorite of fortune than poor Mary, for she
was the shivering girl. Now millionaires
can afford to dress in rusty black, and a great
many of the sterner sex are either careless to
slovenliness about their equipments, or dis
figure themselves by a horrible taste ; but it
may he taken as a general rule, subject to
but few exceptions, that women—especially
young and pretty ones—dress as well as
their means will permit. Hence the warmer,
richer clothing of Mary's companion, pro
claimed her better of! in the world.
“It must come to that, or worse,” said
Mary, with a shudder, and the tears stood in
her eyes, which shone with that strange,
glassy lustre, that often accompanies, perhaps
reveals, intense mental suffering. “ After
all, as you say,” she continued, “it would
not be a false character, for I never wronged
any one of a farthing’s worth in my life, If
it could be managed—if 1 could but get a
place!”
“Oh, it can be managed ; never fear. Do
you suppose that I could not act the line la
dy, when I have acted at a real theatre for
three seasons, and done much harder things,
I can tell you. I don’t say but what I shall
expect you to do me a good turn some of
these days, if I should want it.”
“ What can I ever do for you,” exclaimed
Mary—“ you, who are so much above me *1”
Poor Mary! how sadly had her heart been
warped by Temptation, how sadly must her