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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