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Deucjlcb to” Citeraturc, ijcicitce, anti tl)c SLits of ®nupctajice, (D>i jTdloiusljip, Jtlcisonro, ant) <snieral intelligence.
VOLUME I
5 m it E G T % D ysgjSWRT,
THE THREE CALLERS.
BY CHARLES SWAIN.
jyforn calleth fondly to a fair boy straying
’Mid golden meadows, rich with clover dew ;
She calls—but. he still thinksof nought, save playing,
And so she smiles and waves him an adieu !
Whilst lie, still merry with his flowery store,
Deems not that Morn, sweet Morn ! returns no more.
Noon cometh—but the boy to manhood growing.
Heeds not the time—he sees but one sweet form,
One young, fair face, from bower of jasmine glowing,
And all bis loving heart with bliss is warm,
go Noon, unnoticed, seeks the western shore,
And man forgets that noon returns no more.
Night tappeth gently at a casement gleaming
With the thin fire-light flickering faint and low;
fly which a gray haired man is sadly dreaming
O’er pleasure's gone, as all Life’s pleasures go.
Night.calls him to her—and lie leaves his door,
Silent and dark—and ho returns no more.
oml U I : sr Ai. TrA H 8
For aF.iend of the Family.
THE JOURNAL OF FLORENCE DE LACY.
BY MISS SUSAN’ A. STUART.
“It was not strange, for in the human breast
Two master passions cannot co-exist.”
“What a picture of delicious comfort dear
aunt Marv,” said Cora Norton as throwing herself
into the luxurious depths of a voltane chair, and
placing her feet on the low lender she looked
around her aunt Marv’s snuggery.
A cold wintry wind was blowing without, but
the crimson curtains were drawn closely, so that
nothin fr could be seen in the room as evidence of
it. The cheerful crackling blaze threw over the
chamber and its two inmates, “fitful gleams
amlred” as drawn close on the opposite sides of
the fireplace, they chatted cosilx together.
“ Yes, aunt M iry you have so much comfort, so
much repose, that I can enter cm a more into your
feelings as you thus sat so tranquilly in your well
lined little nest, arid have a bird’s eye view of our
hustling - world. 13itt dearest aunf v yom iftinbling
little ponv lias just tired me sufficiently to be
in that state ofquiescence in which one of your re
miniscences of hv-gone. davs would be verv ac
ceptable. T hope you know bow to take a bint,
and she crossed her little hands demurely on her
lap. settled herself still more comfortably, and
with an asking smile on her lively, girlish face,
said, “ commencey <lone .”
“Shall l tell you about Florence Dc Lacy’s
early girlhood and subsequent career? Tes,
continued the old lady musingly as -he rubbed
her spectacles with her silk apron, “ es, she is
given to ridicule herself, and might one day suf
fer from it as poor Florence did. \on have seen
Florence De Lacv here, J believe Cora, but you
must forget her looks if you wish to locall the
proud henuiiful girl of my narrative. A pelted
spoiled child was Florence, when she and myself
were schoolmates. An only daughter, beautiful,
talented, and with parents too ready lo yield to
her slightest wishes, how could it be otherwise.
1 remember, as though but yesterday, when
she was ushered in among us school girls, b\
Madame Gaspard, where we all sat and
restrained before the newcomer, who, herself little
used to the weariness of school duties, and in
the freedom of her home circle, had been m the
habit of uttering w’hatever came first into her
mind. I recollect it all as freshly as yesterday,
and see before me now the bright creature, as with
an impatient toss of her glossy ringlets she said
hall pettishly ; “Humph, school a pleasant place
indeed 1 I wish I were at home again Dm sure,
fur 1 feel very much as a cat might feel in a
strange garret,” and a smile parted her sa.uc\
lips as we broke into hearty laughter at the speech
of the new girl.
That quaint phrase of Florence de Lacy’s in
troduced her at once, and frolic and fun finished
tfie evening. Many and manv’s ihe scrape that
10 r vs it and laughter-loving propensity has brought
“r into, and through all her affairs beamed forth
the evidence of a noble, generous, bold, but quick
temper, impossible to daunt, and vet, like all im
pulsive temperaments, led child-like and trusting
through the affections.
1 have seen Florence in after years, for we were
school mates a long, long time —throw herself in
a u abandonment of tears on the bed after an
jwering saucily and with light laughter some
“tend whom she prized ; and vet, after remon-
! ‘ r ances from me and advice for’the future, would
a.n>w er , u vain dear Mary— ’tis talk, idle talk
\v.n “ ITie *° )e more careful for the future. As
■ ask the bird not to fly or the fish not to swim
a e : vv hen irritated, not to use m v only weapon,
ting repartee. 1 know mv besetting sin too
thus to promise. Mary it is my misfortune
[ than tauh,l have felt, keenly, bitterly felt
i ****g lam in acting thus—in casting from
ridicule and light jests friends whose af
ll°u 1 prize, and by words breaking ties exis-
ting for years striving to be more guarded, and
but, the next moment, from impulse doing the
very same. Alas, I wish 1 could not see so many
things to laugh at in my friends, for when they
reproach me then rises my temper, and I answer
so cuttingly, so proudly, that they all turn from
me.”
Many such conversations have we held together,
and each one seemed to bind the warm-hearted,
but erring girl, more closely to me. Time sped
on, working his changes as he ever does, and our
school days passed, like our girlhood, alas never
to return. Florence and I made every promise
of everlasting friendship when we parted, kept
too I believe as faithfully as if made in more ma
ture years. The first letter from her announced
the death of her father, which happened imme
diately after her return home. The newspapers
told ine some time after this of her second be
reavement, and 1 thought with increased affection
about her, poor tiling, for she was alone in the
world.
Years elapsed, and nothin g more reached me of
Florence. 1 married your uncle, dear Cora, and
spent many, many happy years with him here in
my little nest, as you term it, when death also
came and tore him from me. Then too, with my
sorrow, came the oftener thoughts of my girl
friend, Florence De Lacy, wondering bad she
ever married—was she a mother—a widow, and
still above all came the wish that 1 could see her
once again. 1 had written to her frequently but
my letters were never answered ; and so 1 began
to imagine that time had blotted my name from
“ memory’s page,” or that she had gone forth in
to the world under some other cognomen.
O
Other thoughts began to have influence over
me, when one day among letters and papers,
came one bearing my name in her hand-writing.
That old familiar penmanship .brought#hack, as
some strain of old music, thoughts of childhood’s
happy days, and my heart leaped towards the
writer ere I broke the envelope. How much
more so. when she wri run, pu££innfitn
Florence beamed forth in every line. She prof
fered a visit to me in “my nest,” telling me, she
too had known sorrow, deep and lasting, and
now calmed bv years, she wished and sought for
the pure gushing sympathy of her old friend. —
How gladly did I respond and urge her to come
quickly; and she came.
“ Yes, dear aunt,” said Cora, “ I recollect her
now. I was a tiny one ’lis true, but I remember
i hat lady who dressed in mourning, was accustom
ed to walk evening after evening up and down the
broad portico with you, whilst l too would en
deavor to keep pace with you till tired out; 1 have
thrown myself across the door step, and slept un
consciously ’till you became aware of my “ small
existence,” and gave me to Elsie to put in bed.”
“ Yes, dear Cos 1 plead guilty ; for the charm,
the freshness of Florence’s conversation was suf
ficient to make any one forget their own identity
almost. ’Twas during that visit she narrated all
that had happened to her during our seperation ;
but as 1 am but little skilled as a raamtense , I
will, after Elsie has brought in tea, submit her
journal which she gave me at that time, to your
inspection, “ I give it to you, dear Mary,” she
said, “ because 1 wish you to have me and mv
trials before you sometimes for fear of being for
gotten bv the one being who has ever loved me ;
anil because I think it sinful to remind in\ self, by
looking over these blotted pages —which I can
not bear to destroy—as they make me unhappy
and discontented by recalling tunes past, Unit
were better forever to lie buried in oblivion
stream ” There Cos is tlie meuiuauipt, latlier
formidable in its closely written pages, but to me
so full of interest, that I would have read it had
it been six times as long, So read it yourself
dear, after you have given me my tea, and I vail
attend to my little household, for though ’lis in
deed but a ‘ wee nest,’ yet the birds of the air do
not minister to me.”
“ Thank you, dear aunt. Elsie, good Elsie pray
hurry with the tea waiter for lam so hungry after
the yellow leaves of this journal, that it every
thing is not the nicest in the world I shall parc.oll
you if you only but hurry.” i
And now mv readers imagine the refreshment
past, the wick of the lamp raised, and the fair
Cora, with her head supported by one tiny hand,
hid ‘in a shower of curls,’ seated at the centie
table in the most comfortable of all chairs, and
deeply intent upon the pages of the
JOURNAL.
Tuesday nigh, June, Well, ’lis over! To day 1
arrived in mv new home, and selling aside my
longing after a home feeling I have always missed
since the death of my dear, dear mother, there is
no place that promises more domestic enjoyment
than Alton, if my cousin Clare will only love me.
She is a pretty girl, not beautiful I admit, but still
nfficienllv pretty. Mv good, kind uncle too, i
can love him I know, for how careful, how very,
SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1849.
very careful was lie of my feelings on our road
i hither. My room, too, how nicely ’tis arraigned,
and as I glance around 1 think I may again be
happy even if Ibe a dependent on my uncle’s
bounty. I must to sleep now for I am too tired
for aught else.
Monday, Several days have elapsed since I last
wrote, and I begin to love my old uncle in realty. 1
There is another member to our small family cir
cle, whom 1 did not see the first day of my arri
val. It is an old lady, claiming cousinsbip with
my uncle Alton, and carrying herself with quite
an air tome. Very strict, too, she seems in her
religious views, and yet, lacking much, that charity
for others which in my eyes is the “light, pure,
undefiled.” Ah me ! 1 must stop, or 1 shall my
self be wanting in that which 1 am so praising.—
How lonely, how very lonely do 1 \et feel. Not
nearer my home of the heart 3 T et. My uncle I
love, but my cousin Clare is so strange, can she
love, or is she like one of those incomprehensible
characters of whom I have read, who keep all those
feelings hidden deep within her heart of hearts,
until they die away of themselves, leaving her in
reality, as callous as she now seems to me. 1 have
tried to settle myself to my usual employments, 1
sew, read, tune my guitar occasionally, and often
wander out with my books into these grand old
woods around Alton, and sitting there undertheir
deep, dark shadows, find companionship in my
thoughts. Mv cousin Clare, 1 did ask once to ac
company me, but was refused, on account of
household duties, and Mrs. Dudley added with an
expression of countenance to emphasize her
speed): “Clare, Miss De Lacy, thinksof others,
besides herself. For my part, I never admired
those tramps through the woods, that some young
ladies are too fond of,” —and her mouth settled in
to that self complacent expression, as if perfectly
satisfied of the effect produced on me, imagin
ing I must be abashed into utter prostration before
the majesty of her disapproval. Nevertheless 1
still walk, and will continue doing so.
Thursday night , What a difference in a country
house, will the arrival of an. agreeable person
make. Now yesterday and to-day are so rapid,
compared to the preceding week. For there has
been an arrival; no less a personage than Colonel
Dudley, nephew by marriage, to my old plague.!
His health, it seems is not very good, and he pass
es the summer here to re-establish it. He lives
m the “Sunny South,” and gives me some glow
ing descriptions of it. I have someone, now,
who is in reality a companion ; but, though ap
parently agreeable to himself, and also to me, it
docs not seem to be relished as well by Mrs. Dud
ley.
Sunday, Ma n y wee kshave el a p sed sin ce Iha ve
written in my journal. 1 have been so happy, that
1 took no note of lime. Col. Dudley has been my
constant companion : and Mrs. Dudley his aunt,
i hough she was always making plans to draw him
unto her own and Clare’s society, has not succeed
ed. I always find him at my side, whether in a
walk or ride. And these same glorious woods, so
old and grand, how beautiful they are becoming
now, as summer draws to an end. 1 know, I feel,
that Hugh Dudley loves me, and } T et why does he
not ask me to be bis. Perhaps lie waits for a
maifestation of my feelings for him, but that I
shall never evince, dearly as I love him. I know
he is proud, so much so, that it almost becomes a
fault in him, dearly as I love a proud man ; but I
also am possessed of the same feeling : and where
1 most love, there am I always moat reserved.—
“1 would be wooed, and not unsought, be won.”
Wednesday night, Sept. How happy ! how im
measurably happy am I! 1 can hardly realize
my feelings. 1 have just entered my chamber too
excited for sleep : and seeing my journal have
opened it, to put in words, my joys. It appears
unaccountable to me, how for one moment I could
have imagined myself happy, when I compare
my feelings now, to what I remember of them at
that time. It seems my heart is opening in love
to the whole world. I could even take Mrs. Dud
ley with the kindest affection to my heart, if she
would allow me; but why or wherefore, she dis
likes me, and will manifest that feeling for me.—
Even my perceptions of the beautiful have grown
so much livelier, and the meanest thing of earth,
ihe mossy trunk, thecloudlet, the sky, the stream,
the wild flower, are all floaiingin an atmosphere
of light and beauty. And why, is all this? Oh!
iny proud heart, you are now satisfied, and you
can answer to yourself, why this ecstatic feeling;
Hove! lam beloved! Hugh Dudley has told me
so in words, and, at last, sued me to become his
wife. He wished our marriage to take place at
once, and though I love him better than myself,
I have refused, until next summer; then, will I
ratify my engagement to him. I could not bear
to owe the verv dress in which I should be decked
at the altar, to the bounty of my uncle, bow much
less to Dudley. Though I have a home with them,
my right hand should been! off ere I would take
any pecuniary help from any. They all bear cold
looks towards me now, even my uncle. I have
undoubtedly thwarted some plan, some cherished
plan of his relative to Clare and Dudley : but even
my gratitude to him will not allow me fur a mo
ment to regret it. Oh! so contented, so blest am
I, that cold looks from the world are unregarded
so long aa lam consciousof his love. 1 had been
sick and sad for two days and more ; my heart
and head seemed bursting * and 1 could hear, in
my chamber, where sickness kept me prisoner,
the sound of mirth and enjovment going on below.
One ceremonious visit for the day, from Clare—
one message of inquiry was the sole interest that
was bestowed on me. How mmy bitter thoughts
careered through my brain, increasing its ache,
and making me sigh for the rest of the grave. —
“For the living know that they shall die : but the
dead know not any thing, neither have they any
more a reward; for the memory of them is forgot
ten. Also their love, and their hatred, and their
envy, is now perished ; neither have they any
more a portion forever in any thing that is done
under the sun.” I snatched m y journal, and penn
ed this page (in my longing to unburtheu myselt
of my weight of woe,) which 1 will here tran
scribe, but which I had subsequently torn out It
was written after hearing, what my imagina
tion, heated* with fever and jealousy, construed
into a light laugh from Dudley, immediately un
ider my window. I knew it was him, tor l heard
the crashing sound of his boot heel on the j ravel,
and the mingling tones of his aunt and Clare. —
They had been walking, for 1 sprang from my
couch to ascertain the fact. Yes, walking, tor
Clare w r as leaning on his arm, and they had stop
ped to admire a liower, over which Mrs. Dudley
bent. I felt utterly alone, l washed for some kind
one to pour the oil of sympathy into my bleeding
wounds. ’Twas then I wrote, in my agony of
soul, for I felt that all was vanity, and bitterness,
and that I had deceived myselt entirely ; blindly
deceived myself. That he cared nut tor me, did
not spend one thought on me, that whilst I was
writhing in pain, he was merrily and gleefully
laughing with one whom he knew loved me not.
“Why, oh! my God, was 1 thrown into the
world to struggle and suffer alone. Alone have
I suffered, alone am I in my love, my despair:
and alone must I be borne to the rest of the grave;
unwept, unthought-of, and to which I look as the
storm-tossed mariner to • his haven ot safety;
“where the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at rest.” No one knows, and but few
care, what the motherless one, cut off from the
world bv poverty, and other suffering, endures. —
My wishes and hopes are mine, and mine alone. I
feel like the deaf and dumb one must feel, whose
heart is full of love, and bright, warm, beautiful
imaginings: and who cannot give them words. —
To whom can I utter them ? All, all these feel
ings must be forever buried in the depths of none
own sad heart: and nothing but the froth, (he
foam, and the w : eeds, be thrown on*the surface,
for the world’s gaze. Oh ! how I envy those who
have fond parents, a dear brother, a loving sister.
How I long for a home of the heart , which 1 will
never find on earth, but which I hope I may real
ize with Him, the Father, who has given me the
capability of loving.”
Such was the melancholy scribbling in my jour
nal, when the sensitiveness of jealousy .and de
spair caused me to write. How changed now!
’Tis like I had-been groping alone, in some dark,
noisome cave ; ave, alone and fearful, and had
suddenly come into an inner chamber, where a
thousand ligbta arc danoing and reflecting against
its brilliant columns, and gem-like stalactites, pen
dant from its dlumined dome, and sides; so beau
tiful, so sudden is the change. Well las 1 said be
fore, 1 had been sick. The tbirel evening 1 stole
out, unobserved, as I thought, and made my way
to the sombre old forest, my favorite haunt, where
under its dark umbrageous trees, amid its gioorn
and solitude, I sought for companionship for my
own sad thoughts. Seated on a fallen tree, turn
ing with my foot, listlessly, the dry leaves, 1 heard
not the step, but started wildly up as a hand was
laid on my arm, and a loved voice said in a ten
der tone :
“ I hope I have not frightened you, dear Flor
ence ? How do you lee! t
“I am better this evening Col. Dudley, “ but I
have still some remains of my headache left,”
and 1 closed my eyes which were rapidly tiffing
with tears, and turned from him my head, lest he
should see them.
“Your sickness has been a sad trial to me
also,” said he softly. “ 1 missed you more than 1
can tell you. Last night I could not sleep, I had
not heard your glad tones for three days, which
seemed an age to me. I sighed for your com
panionship to which I looked always forward, and
so, restlessly I wandered hereto this place that I
knew you loved. Here indeed, I could enter
NUMBER 40.