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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.