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VOLUME X. (Original |fortnj. Written for the Visitor. FLOWERS. Children of Summer! cradled by Spring, Around me a spell of enchantment ye fling; In each leaf and blossom strange beauty I see, And your sweet laden breathing seems music to me I Daughters of loveliness! stars of the earth. Surely the spirit and witnessed your birth; Sojpe angel that wept o’er this dark world of ours, From bis tear drops created ye, beautiful flowers! Types of our happiness! bruiiant and frail, Yonr glory is scattered by every rude gaie; With the sunshine of.Summeryc vanish away, Like the '.)o|ies of life’s spring time, ye bloo:.'. and decay! Teachers of holiness! speak to the heart, Tell that its freshness like yours must depart— But the fragrance of virtue, like yours may arise, Iu incense of gratitude meet for the skies! Susis Ssownaor. Jfaduom, (7a. I REMEMBER. I remeieber thy 1 .ve, low it sank in my ’ roast Lbe the blase of the sti *. melting down iu tl,e west, Till its rabe o’er the clou Is of she fiilur. was rash And its dory hr.d , ;\\ and the dim halls of lbe pasr. .Jut I know that its gleam >vasa mocker;,* of truth, And I spurn tli falseid**ll w -rshipped in youth! 1 felt not, 1 feared not the depth f its power, Till the offerings for ears were refuse*! in an hour* Like a bright morning star to the billows dark strife Was the light of thy smile i the waves of my life— I was w.roed by thy glance in its -eaot • an 1 pride, As the ocean is ruled by the oyieon of its tide. But a storm rolled between the bright sie.r ad the sea, And Ihe smile of tbv mirth is unheeded by me; Thy spell has departed, the power is mine, And the tide of my heart heaves no longer t thine. I remember my rapture, when, chainless and light Thy spirit v ent forth, ! : ke a dove on its U<gt>t; And I deemed thy ahoctiOM more priceless in worth, Than the diamonds that glow in the mines of the earth*. But alas! thou shall feel that I love thee no more— T' ou shalt weep in thy wealth for the treasures of yore, Forthy spirit, once free, int bondage is sold, Aud the pearl of thy bosom is barters 1 for gold. Farewell I 1 shall meet thee, but not to restore The joy which thy brow in its purity w* re: Thou shalt think of mylove, thon .-halt mourn f *r its end, Till the world appears worthless, unblest with a friend, 1 1 will not upbraid thee, but Memory shall start [ lake a night-bird that lurks in tte shades of thy heart, And Ling round thy pathway through life’s deser* waste. Till the footprints of peace from its sai. Is are ed’acel. m- SMILE OER THE DEAD. BT JKXNY MARSH. Smile o’er the dead, Ch’de buck thy wild sorrow, Thy dread of the morrow. Dreary and long, When thon wilitbe missing One that is gone; But press the white brow More tenderly now. And thank thy kind Father For calling her home. Lift the cold hands, . And clasp the white fingers, As if there still lingered Welcome for tbee. Oh r clasp them more warmly, Though icy they be, For they have been near thee, To comfort and cheer thee. When thy bark was wrecking Afar on the sen. Smdeon the dead; Yes, smile when ye miss her— That pure, gentle sister: Weep that ye stay, To be but a mourner Os a dark day. But yearn in thy weakness For her holy meekness And her Angel spirit To guard thee alway. Smile o’er the dead; Not thine be the weeping O’er one that is sleeping * Unburdened of care; I N°v chide thy heart’s yearning | To rest by her there; But smile o’er the pillow Os her that is blest, And ask God to call thee When He thinketh best. A BROWN STUDY. I sat me down in thought profound This maxim wise I drew; Its easier far to like a girl, Than make a girl like you! But after all I don't believe, My heart will break with woe; Ii she’s inclined to lore “ that chap " Why, bless hsr, let her got 91 Sontljcrn Wtrltlij Citmm) nub Ittiscriluneons Smtrnal, for t\)t Ijomc Circle. 3L Capital Sianj. LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. No wooing had proceeded marriage, It was merely a marriage de convenance, both parties understood and regarded it so. It was not they that were married, but the broad lands and fertile estates of l their parents. Strange that any man, much more any woman, could stoop to so false an act! But Hugh Grandison might and would have loved his beauti ful bride had it not been for the stately coldness of her demeanor; he had been unsoilod by contact with the world and longed for happiness and home. Alice Charlton cared little for either, and still less for him. In her first girlhood she had plighted her faith to one who left her for a time, and died in a far off land of gold—died before one word or mes sage could be sent to her he loved—died alone and among strangers, and was buried where her tears could never mois ten the turf on his breast! They told the tidings to Alice, little dreaming that the lonely adventurer had ! been aught to her. She was in her own elegant home, surrounded by a brilliant circle of guests, while Hugh Grandison leaned over her chair, and bent his ad miring eye upon her queenly fucc and f >r(it. She heard the speaker through ; the rich col. r died slowly out of her cheeks, leaving her Alike and stern ; her lips shut firmly as if they would repress ; a shriek of agony ; her large dark eyes wandered round the group with a gaze of passionate despair. The wondering looks ot ail around recalled her to her self, and making a graceful apology for her sudden abstraction, she played her part so successfully, that no one guessed the secret she guarded with Spartan like firmness. Not until she was alone in her chamber did the storm burst forth. She mourned as she had loved, most deeply and paa ; sionately, but to the world she seemed i unmoved. A little colder—a little haugh tier—a little more impatient of out spo ken admiration and love, she seemed; but feeling was unfashionable in her ex clusive circle, and none knew, or cared to know, that the heart beating within her breast, was a heart of stone. A year passed away. The father of Alice seeing that she was in no way in clined to chose one from her many lovers, chose for her and selected Hugh Grand ison as his future son-in-law. The young man was only too eager and willing to accept the fair hand offered him, but when her father brought him to her as an acknowledged lover, she checked all his raptures and said coldly— 11 “ Mr. Grandison, let us have a perfect understanding. I do not love you; I : never shall love—" a look of pain shot over her calm face as she repressed the world “ again.” She paused for a mo ment, and then went on, with her cold dark eyes bent full upon his face. “ But my father wishes us to marry— your parents wish it—you wish it, and I am not opposed to the measure. But I beg you to understand distinctly that, while I give a wife’s duty, you must never look for her love or blind submis sion. From the moment we leave the altar, our lives must be seperate, though our home is one. On these conditions and these only, I will give you my hand' Are they accepted i" The young man stood for a moment bewildered. There was no mistaking her words or manner. Those clear dark eyes, that scornful lip and haughty brow, assured him that she had spoken the truth, and no love was there; but he had long cherished a passion for her, and hoping that his fervent love might win some affection in return, when they were one in the eyes of the world, he clasped the small, fair hand in his, raised it to his lips, and answered: “I accept. And it shall be the study of my like to make you happy.” “Be it so,” was her unmoved reply, and then she left him. MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1856. The engagement was soon made pub lic, and all eyes were curiously scanning the happy pair. They could find no fault with the ill ccncealed devotion of the lover; and the calm, unmoved way in which Alice received his attentions, or listened to his whispered words, was ac knowledged to be the very perfection of high breeding. “A queen could not be more tranquilly self-possessed,” was the general verdict, as all looked eagerly for i ward to the bridal. [ It came, ere long, on a bright sunny [ spring day. The splendid parlors v ero filled with the fashionable friends of both parties, and a murmur of congratulation greeted the lovely bride as she turned from the altar with cheeks and lips as white as the snowy satin robes she wore. She received that first caress as calmly as though be were but one of the glittering throng around her, and when all had wished her joy, she retired to her apart ments, preserved an unbroken silence, while her dressing maid robed her in her plain traveling dress, and joined the party once again, attired for her journey.— Calmly and coldly were all her farewells spoken; but when she came to her fa ther, her forced composure gave way, and throwing her arms around his neck> she clung to him a moment in silent, tearless agony. It was her Inst display of weakness. She heard his parting blessing, and sitting by the side of her husband, was whirled rapidly away from the home of her childhood. A month elapsed before the pair re turned to occupy their elegant mansion, far “up town." But in that month a change had taken place in' Grandison. He seemed restless, uneasy and agitated; he followed the stately movements of his wife with anxious eyes; he was un happy in her society, and wretched away from her side; iu short, he was little like the merry, light hearted bachelor, his dearest friends had known, and one and all foreswore matrimony on the spot since it had altered him so. It was not long ero Madame Rumor reported the startling fact that the prince ly household was carried on upon the European plan, that the gentleman ahd ! lady occupied separate apartments, and only met at stated hours in the great drawing rooms below. Great was the wonder of the “ upper ten;" many the surmises hazarded upon it, but no one dared question the parties most deeply interested, and they held their peace. In public and private Alice was uni formly kind and polite to her husband; but this was all, and the wondering city had an opportunity of witnessing that anomaly—a man violently in love with his own wife, and seekihg in vain to win her. I doubt if Alice saw the struggle in his mind. Her own feelings were benumbed—her own heart seemed cold and dead. Judging his nature by her j rigid observation of all wifely propriety and diguity—it was all he required of her—she was true to the letter of her vow, and her spirit was at rest. Two years had passed away. It was the anniversary of her wedding night, and Alice Grandison sat in her boudoir, robed for a party and only waiting the arrival of her husband, who was to escort her. The years had changed her little- j She was fair and proud as ever. Her robe of azure velvet—her coronet of pearls and diamonds—her necklace, with its heavy diamond crosa, her bracelets, and the single ring she wore, were fit adornments for an empress, and right well did she become them. She was alone, and touching a secret spring in her private escritoire, she took from a small drawer, two miniatures cased in gold, and laid them side by side. One was that of her dead lover—the other of her husband. Leaning her head upon her hands, she gazed long and earnestly at the two, and as her dark eyes dimmed with tears, the could not but acknowl edge the shadowy likeness that existed between the loved and the unloved. It was a faint and shadowy one, but still it was no fancy. A something on the lip, cheek and brow—the same careless arrangement of the waving hair—and more than all, the same earnest loving intensity of look and expression in the deep blue eyes. This, never seen before, was what now chained her attention to both. The small pendule over the mantel piece struck the hour of nine, and with a deep sigh she replaced the portraits in the drawer, and left the room. She rang, on reaching the drawing room, to ask for her husband. There was a bus tle and the sound of many feet in the hall bolow, before her summons was answered, and then the servant who en tered looked pale and frighteuod. A strange, sickening sensation crept over her as she asked— “ Where is your master ? ” The servant stammered, hesitated, and cast strange looks towards the door. Dreaming she knew not what, she step ped out into tlie hall, and looked down the wide stairs. Four men were ascend ing, bearing a motionless form between them. The long hair hnng down to wards the floor, and from a wound in the forehead the dark red blood was flowing freely. They stopped short when they saw her awaiting them ; they evi dently dreaded the scene, but she was firm aud calm, though heavy at her heart lay the thought, “If he is dead, how can I forgive myself for the unhappi. ness I have caused him! ” Obeying her calmly 3poken orders, they laid him down upon a sofa, in the splendid drawing room. lie had been struck down, before his own dwelling, by a runaway horse, and the family phy sician, who was instantly summoned, gave little hopes of his recovery. The wretched wife sat close beside him while the unsightly wound was closed; his blood flowed unheeded over her rich attire, and one small white hand was crimsoned, as it held his head ; for the first time her pale lips pressed his own ; for the first time she laid her cheek to his, and called him by a thousand endear ing names; for the first time the knowledge that she loved him caine to her in tenfold misery. The estrang3ment of years was forgotten ; the stone rolled away from the door of her heart, and its living waters gushed out once more. But he who would have per’e'ed lifo aud limb for one unsolicited carrcss from her, now lay pale and still while she pressed him to her heart; and the love that he had sought in vain during life, seemed given only too late—only to waste itself upon a palid corpse—a gild ed coffin and a lonely grave! She watched beside him, day and night, in the chamber where ho bad spent so many lonely bours. Into this room she had scarcely entered since he had installed her mistress of his house hold ; and everywhere she saw such traces of his love for her, as pierced her very heart. In a small alcove beyond his bed, hung ber portrait, the first and last thing he saw as he opened and closed his eyes. A small inlaid cabinet held the gifts she had bestowed upon him from time to time; a favorite book—a picture—a tress of dark brown hair— withered bouquets—a small golden star and many things which she bad given ceremoniously or lightly, which he had treasured as his choicest possessions. The glitter of a golden chain upon bis neck attracted her attention, as she bent above him one-night. Safely she drew it forth, and gazed upon a splendid picture of her self, set in a small gold frame. She gazed in silence for a mo ment, but when upon the other side she noticed a ring,—the wedding ring that she had never worn—her composure gave way. Pride had left her heart, and love usurped its place. Sinking upon ber knees by the bedside, while her tears fell fast upon the dear hand that lay feebly on the counterpane, she pray ed as she had never prayed before, that God would spare his life, that she might atone for her sin by yean of patien; and enduring love. Her prayer was heard, for God is mer ciful even when we sin most deeply. All night she watched beside him. With the early dawn the physician (now do mesticated in the house,) entered the room. He held the shrunken hand in his for one moment, gave one searching glance into the marble like face, and turning to her, said briefly— “ Your care lias saved him ; he wi6 live ! ” Late in the afternoon of that day Alice sat beside the bed, waiting for the long deep slumber to be broken, that she might see those blue eyes look up at her once again. Site was dressed as for a bridal, in a robe of pearly satin, with no ornaments save a single white rose in her dark hair, another on her breast. The color deepened in her cheeks as the eventful hour drew near; her fine eyes glowed and sparkled with the love so '°ng imprisoned, and so suddenly set free. The golden hands of her watch point ed to the hour of seven, when the sleep er moved slight _ , drew a long sigh, and opened his eyes. She bent above him with a beating heart*; his gaze wandered uneasily around the room, fixed upon her—kindled, and ho tried to smile. Very gently she passed her arm beneath the aching head, and drew it towards her, till it rested upon her breast; very gently her warm lips fell upon his brow; very gently the tears, which she could not quite repress, fell upon his watered cheek. lie looked up in a strange, surprise, and asked faintly— • “ Alice, what does this mean ? ” “It means that you must live to for give me,” she sobbed. “ That I love you : with my whole heart, and none but you! ’> j Ah, his tears were falling now ! Too weak to feel astonishment, he could only s thank God silently. He drew herwitha feeble hand to bis heart, and whispered— “My wife! God bless you. Life is worth the living now !” Tbeir lips met in a long, long kiss of reconciliation and forgiveness. AH was silent in the chamber: for happiness like their’s there is no language. A Daring Feat. —The Rochester Advertiser states that a few days ago, a man cut a cane from Blackbird Island, overhanging Niagara Fails. The feat was performed in this wise: The ice had made from shore a considerable distance, until it was almost met by the ice from this island; but still there was a fright ful space between, where the water was boiling and surging over the cataract. Nothing daunted at this, he procured an eighteen foot ladder with which he crept along the ice, and managed to throw it over, so that both ends rested on the edge of the ice across the gulf, and then went across himself on the rounds of the ladder. After cutting a stick of red cedar sufficient to make three or four oanes, he fastened it over his shoulder and then made the perilous return over the rounds of the ladder, in the same way he went. The slightest giving way of the ice, his frail bridge and himself would have been burled into instant de struction ; or had he missed his hold in the least, certain and instantaneous death would have been the consequence. The river has never been so fiilled with ice above the falls as at present, and a cen tury may roll around before this perilous teat could be accomplished again.” Luxuries for Cattle. —Sidney Smith used to say: “I am full of cheap lux uries, even for animals; now all animals have a passion for scratching their back bones ; they break down gates and pal ings to effect this. Look there is my universal scratcher, a sharp-edged pole, resting on a high and low post adapted to every height, from a horse to a lamb. Even the Edinburgh Reviewer can take his turn; you have no idea how popu lar it is. I have not had a gate broken sin re I put it up. I have it in all my fields.” Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. ittiscelltmcotts. Invention of Printing. The following account of the inven tion of Printing is given by an ancient German chronicler of the name of Tri themius who appears to have personally known one of the three persons wbo clearly seem to have the best title to be called the inventors of printing. “At this time, in the city of Mentz on the Rhine in Germany, and not in Italy, as some have erroneously written, that wonderful and then unheard of art of printing, and "characterizing books was invented and devised by John Gutten berger, a citizen of Mentz, who, having expended almost tho whole of his pro perty in the invention of this art, and on account of the difficulties which he ex perienced on all sides, was about to abandon it altogether; when, by the ad vice and through the means of John Fust (or Faust), likewise a citizen of Mentz, he succeeded to bring it to per fection. At first they formed (engraved) the characters or letters in written order «i blocks of wood, and in this manner eyjprinted the vocabulary called a “ Catholicon.” But with these forms they could print nothing else, because the characters could not be transposed in these tnblets, but were engraved thereon as wo have said. To this inven tion succeeded a more subtle one, for they found out the means of cutting the forms of all the letters of the alphabet which they called matrices, from which again they cast characters of copper or tin of sufficient hardness to resist the ne cessary pressure, which they had before engraved by hand. And truly, as I learned thirty years since from Peter Opilio (Schoeffer) de Gernsheirri, citizen of Mentz, who was the son-in law of the first inventor of this art, great difficulties were experienced after the first invention of this art of printing, for in printing the Bible, before they had completed the third quarternion (or gathering of four sheets), 4000 florins were expended.— This Peter Schoeffer, whom we have above mentioned, first servant and after wards son-in-law to the first inventor, John Fust, as we have said, an ingenious find sagacious man, discovered the more easy method of oasting the types, and thus tho art was reduced to the complete stale in which it now is. These three kept this method of printing secret for some time until it was divulged by some of heir workmen without whose aid this art could not have been exercised; it was first developed at Strasburg, and soon became known to other nations.— And thus much of the admirable and subtle art of printing may suffice—the first inventors were citizens of Mentz.— These three first inventors of Printing, (videlicet) John Guttenberger, John Fust, and Peter Schoeffer his son-in-law, lived at Mentz, in the house called Zum Jun gen, which has even since been called the Printing-office.” The invention of Schoeffer, which, whatever might have b in its first me chanical imperfections, undoubtedly com pleted the principle of printing, is more pasticularly described in an early docu ment, which is given in several learned learned works on typography, as pro ceeding from a relation of Fust. It is as follows:—Peter Schoeffer, of Gernsheim, perceived his master Fust’s design, and being himself ardently desirous to im- prove the art, found out, (by the gooc providence of god) the method of cutting (incidendi) the characters in a matrix, that the letters might each be singly cast, instead of being cut. He privately out matrices for the whole alphabet; and when he showed his master the letters cast from these matrices, Fust was so pleased with tbe contrivance, that he promised Peter to give him his only daughter Christian* in marriage; a pro mise which he soon after performed.— But there were as many difficulties at first with these letters, as there bad been before with wooden ones; the metal being too soft to support tbe force of the NUMBER 17 impression; but this defect was soon remedied by mixing the metal with a substance which sufficiently hardened it.” John Schoeffer, the son of Peter, who was also a printer, confirms this ac count, adding, “Fust and Shoefler con cealed this new improvement by admin istering an oath of secrecy to- all whom, they intrusted, till the year 1462, when,, by the dispersion of their servants into different countries, at the sacking of Mentz by the Archbishop Adolphus, the invention was publicly divulged”— Charles Knight. “The Old Woman ” It was thus, a few days since, wo heard a stripling of sixteen years desig nate the mother who bore him. By coarse husbands we have heard wives so called occasionally, though in the lat ter case the phrase is more often used endearingly. At all times, as common ly spoken, it jars upon the ear and shocks the sense. An 1 old woman ”is an ob ject of reverence above and beyond al most all phazes of humanity. Her age should be her surest passport to courte ous consideration. The aged mother of a grown up family needs no other cei tificate of worth. She is a monument of excellence, approved and warranted. She has fought faithfully the “good fight,” and comes off conquerer. Upon her venerable face she bears the marks of the conflict in all its furrowed lines. The most grievous of the ills of life have been hers; trials untold and un known only to God and herself she has borne incessantly; and in her old age— her duty done, patiently awaiting her appointed time—she stands more truly beautiful than in youth, more honorable and deserving than he who has slain his thousands, and stood triumphant upon the proudest field of victory. Young man, speak kindly to your mother, and even courteously—tenderly of her 1 But a little time and you sha I see her no more forever! Her eyes is dim, her form is bent, and her shadow falls graveward! Others may love you when she has passed away—kind heart ed sisters, or she whom of all the world you may choose for a partner—she may love you warmly, passionately—children may love you foudly ; but never again, never while time is yours, shall the love of woman be to yon as that of your old, trembling, weakened mother has been. In agony she bore you through pul ing, helplesi infancy her throbbing breast was your safe prolection and sup port —in wayward, tetchy boyhood she bore patiently with your thoughtless rudeness, and nursed you safely through a legion of ills and maladies. Her hand it was that bathed your burning brow or moistened the parched lips; her eye that lighted up the darkness of wasting night ly vigils, watching always in your fitful sleep, sleepless by your side as none but her could watch. Oh! speak not her name lightly, for you cannot live for so many years as would suffice to thank her fully. Throogh reckless and impatient youth she is your counselor and solace. To a bright manhood she guides your improvident steps, nor even then forsakes or forgets. Speak gently, then, and reverently of your mother; and when you, too, shall be old. it shall in some degree lighten the remorse which shall be yours for other sins, to know that never wantonly have you outraged the respect due to “Old woman.” Sydney Smith being annoyed one evening by the familiarity of a young gentleman who, though anew acquaint ance, was encouraged by the canon's jocular reputation to address him by his surname alone, and hearing him tell that he must go that evening to visit for the first time thejArchbishop of Canter bury, the reverend gentleman patheti cally said, “ Pray don’t clap him on the back and call him Howley.” A wag states that he always looks under the marriage head for news of the weak.