Or, EXTRACTS PROM AN OLD JOURNAL.
By B. W. Dewees.
Rockland, Hudson River, May 1st, 1802.
Mt eighteenth birthday—and this beautiful, bright morning is not more radiant than my sunny hopes. What joy passes that of loving, and being loved ? I know not how I could have lived before I knew Edward. I date my existence but one happy year—the previous period seems bnt a dull, blank monotony, which I can scarcely remember.
How fresh and preen the foliage and verdure are this morning, after yesterday's shower. Sunshine within and about me. Ah, I am too happy!
May 4 th, 1802.
I have heard love described as a restless, turbulent passion, full of torturing doubts and fears, wild joys and causeless agitations. Not such has been my experience. When I am with Edward a deep peace falls on my soul. A happiness too profound for expression settles on my heart It seems as though no sorrow could touch me in that presence—"no wave of trouble roll across my peaceful heart."
It matters not to either of us, that no articulate words of love have ever yet been exchanged between us. There is a language more delicate, and subtle, than speech, and Edward's eyes—his voice—his every look, tone, and gesture, have long since spoken to me in love's own language. The very flowers, with which he daily surrounds me, breathe his love in fragrant sighs.
I expect my old schoolmate, Julia Gray, here to-morrow, to spend a week with me. Edward whispered me to-night that he was vexed at her coming, and in truth the anticipation of her visit does not give me the pleasure it did when the invitation was given, a year ago. I fear Edward guessed as much from my tell-tale face, which he knows so well how to read.
May 5th, 1802.
How shall my happiness find words? Edward has told me—no, not quite, but almast told me of his love. It is sweet to find assurance doubly sure.
We were walking in the maple avenue, and were so happy, when he turned toward me with a look which made my cheeks flush, and my heart
beat, from a consciousness of the import of the words he was about to utter. I turned from his gaze in some confusion. He took my hand in both his, and said earnestly,
"Fanny, there is something I have long wished to say to you—something that should have been said long ago, had I not felt we understood each other as well without. Dearest Fanny, you love me, do you not?" I did not deny it—how could I? Edward was about to say something more, when we were interrupted by the approach of a servant, who came to announce my friend's arrival, and my mother's summons for me to return to the house. My cheeks were still dyed with blushes, and my heart beating wildly with delight when I greeted my friend, and hastened to conduct her to the room prepared for her. Perhaps a selfish consideration made me hurry her thither. I felt the imperative need of a few moments of solitude to relieve my swelling bosom, of its burden of bliss by a shower of joyful tears. Happy, happy Fanny, to weep for too much joy— while so many, as I am told, weep tears of bitterness and sorrow.
May 6th, 1802.
I find my old friend but little improved since our school days. Indeed, I begin to understand her character for the first time, and she seems to me wanting both in head and heart. She has, however, grown personally very pretty. Her features are delicate, and her face would be really attractive had she more soul to animate it Edward has scarce been civil to her, so inopportune does he deem her arrival. I must speak to him about it
May 7th, 1802.
I was roused from my slumbers last night to attend my mother who was suddenly taken ill. Pray God no harm may come to her, for she is not strong, and I fear the attack is serious. The physician looks grave. Edward is bright and hopeful. He cheers and sustains me. What a comfort to have him near, in this time of trial, to rest my weak, fearful heart on his strong, manly one. He is all tenderness and devotion, and begs me to make him useful. 1 have commissioned him to amuse and entertain Julia for me, so as to release me from all care on her account, and leave me free to devote all my time to ray dear mother. I fear the poor girl finds the house intolerably dull and lonely.
