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TOLUME X.
Original poctn).
SOFTLY FALLS THE RAIN,
Softly, softly fulls the rain,
The trees stretch out their arms of green ;
The rery grass is upward springing,
The little birds iu concert singing.
A welcome to tho weltering sheen—
Trilling in notes of joy again,
A blessing on the summer rain.
The hot dry earth all silent lies,
And opens wide her russet vest,
Tho precious draught in rapture drinking,
As drop by drop the shower is sinking,
Like jewels on her swarthy breast—
And looks her blessing to the skies,
Like faith in holy ecstacies.
Each little flower lifts up its head,
A star amid the sprangled grass,
So more beneath the hot wind fainting,
Uut fresh again from nature’s painting,
To catch the showers that lightly pass,
Breathing from petals seared and dead
I license by lore niuTbcauty fed.
The watchful winds are laid to sleep,
The shallow brook no longer grieves;
But pauses iu its downward flowing,
To sing beneath your trees e’er going,
A tilting strain to dewy leaves—
And nature in that hush so deep,
Smiles while the skies above her weep.
THE MEADOW GATE.
UY CII Alt LBS SWIN.
Tho blue-bell peeps beneath the fern,
The moor tis purple blossom yields,
’Ti* worth lull six days work to earn,
A rumble ’mid the Woods and fields.
There is uu hour to silent dear,
An hour for which a king might wait;
It is to meet when no one's near,
My Mary by the nieddow gate.
When love inspires the linnet’s breast.
Dow swift lie speeds from spray to spray,
His song is his woodland nest,
Far hidden from the peep of day,
Would such a nest were my sweet lot!
Would I might be some dear one’s mate!
I'd ask, to share my lowly cot.
My Mary by the meadow gate.
There is a tide the streamlet seeks,
A full mile from its course it veers,
And into si’.v’ry music breaks
When from the 'vale the sea appears.
Oh! twenty miles my eager feet
Would wander long and linger late,
One happy moment but to meet
Mv Mary by the meadow gate.
THEEARLY DEAD.
BY Aj ULST V NOUTON.
Vliy weep for thee! -thou liveliest not.
The tear IbatoVr thy tofhb we shed,
fh-ai’rt happy, aiul thou needest not
Our tears for thee, the early dead !
Vhy weep for thee ?—thy caree arc o’er,
Forgotten now in yon bright skies,
’liv bark has reached its destined shore,
And lies safe moored, iu Paradise.
Vhy weep for thee? —thou’st only'shared
The smiles of youth’s most summer clime;
f short thy course, thou hast been spared.
The lengthened risks and storms of time;
ind if a cloud e’er tried to throw
A shadow o’er thy sunny day,
I’was like the tear of infaut woe,
Scare® seen e’er charmed by smiles away.
hen let us not shed tears for thee,
But check the vai.i and selfish flow,
hou should’st a cause of envy be
To struggling mortals here below ;
hen be thy tomb with roses twined,
And be thy grace with lillies spread,
et’s weep for those who are left behind,
But not for thee, the happy dead!
IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
he sun is bright—the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,
nd from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying Spring.
» blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
There waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
11 things arc new—the buds, the leaves;
That gild the elm tree’s nodding crest;
nd even the nest beneath the eaves;
There are no birds in last year’s nest!
11 things rejoice iu youth and love,
The fullness of their first delight!
nd learn from the blue heavens above
The meltiug tenderness of night.
uideu, that read’st this simplest rhyme,
Enjoy the youth, it will not stay’,
njoy the fragrance of thy* prime,
For oh! it is not always May!
ujoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good Angel leave the rest;
or time will teach thee soon the truth
There are no birds in last year’s nest!
)TH ONE HEART LOVE THEE
8 there a heart that loves thee!
Hold the rich treasure fast;
Mi, suffer not a breath of doubt
Its venomed shade to cast
Jpou that precious gem whose light
Jun make life’s darkest hours seem bright.
The heart is like a silver lute,
That ith an answering tone,
Sends forth a gush of melody
To greet thy touch alone;
A.ud if thy hand one cord should sever,
I f s strains are lost to her forever
& Soiiiljcru lUcclilq Cilmnj om) itTisccllmwons Journal, for lljt fjomc Circle,
Cl Domestic (Talc.
The Sea Captain’s Adventure.
On my last voyage to Bristol, the
owners of the ship took passage with
me. The whole cargo belonged to them,
and they not only wished to do sotno
business in England, but they also bad
a desire to travel some. Besides the
three owners, I had four passengers in
tho cabin. The passage from New
Y ork to England on that occasion was
the most severe and stormy I ever made.
As soon as wo could get the cargo
out, the ship was hauled into tho dook
for repairs, and we found upon examina
tion, that it would be a week before she
would be fit for sea, and if she had all
tho repairs which she absolutely needed,
it would tako her nearer two weeks.—
A contract was made for tho job, and
one of the owners agreed to stay by
and superintend the work. This left
me at liberty, and I began to look around
for some place to visit. 1 had heard of
Salisbury Plain. The famous Stonehe
go was there, and so were there other
relics of Roman and British antiquities.
Accordingly to Salisbury Plain 1 resol
ved logo. When I went on board the
ship to make arrangements with tho
owner who had remained there, 1 found
one of the passengers just leaving—
His name was Nathan Lev mail. He
was a young man, not more than thirty
years of age, and I supposed him, from
his features and idiom, to be an English
man. I told him I was going to Salis
bury, and lie informed me ho was going
the same way.
Leetnan bad been intending to take
the stage to Devizes, and thence tako
some of tho cross coaches; but I had
resolved to take a horse and travel whore
and how, and when 1 pleased, and he
liked the plan so well that ho went im
mediately and bought him a good horse
and saddle.
It was about the middle of tho fore
noon when wo set out, and I found that
Leeman intended to visit the curiosities
w ith me, and then keep on towards Lou
don, by the way of Andover and Chert-
Bey, be having sent his baggage on ahead
to Salisbury by the great mail route,
which ran many miles out of the way.
I found my companion excellent com
pany, and on the way he told me some
passages from his own life. He was
bom in England, but this was the first
time he had been in tho kingdom sinco
he was fourteen years of age, and I was
led to infer that at that tine he ran
away from his parents. During the last
six years of his residence in the United
States, he had been engaged in western
land speculations, and he was now inde
pendently rich.
We took dinner at Bradford, a large
manufacturing town, six miles southeast
of Bath, and as soon as our horses were
rested, wo set out again. Towards the
middle of the afternoon the sky began
to grow overcast, and we had promise
of a storm. By five o'clock the great
black clouds were piled np in heavy
masses, and-it .began to tbuuder. At
Warminisler we bad taken the direct
road for Amesbury, a distance of four
teen miles, and when this storm had
closed upon us we were about half way
between tho two places. I was in no
particular burry, and as I had no desire
to get wet, I proposed that we should,
stop at the first place we came to. In
a few moments more wocaine to a point
where a small cross road turned off to
the right, and where a guide-board said
it was five miles to Deptford Inn.
Iproposed that we should turn into
i this by-way and make for .Deptford Inn
I as fast as possible, and my companion
• readily consented. Wo had gone a mile
when the great drops of rain began to
fall; but as good fortune would have it,
we spied a small cottage, not more than
a furlong ahead, through a clump of
pjoplars. Wo made for this place, and
reached it before wo got wet. There
! was a good sized barn on the premises,
! and a long sheep shed connected it with
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1856
the house. Beneath this shed wo rode,
and just as wo alighted, an old man
came out. Wo told him that we had
got caught in a storm, and asked him
if ho could accommodate us over night,
lie told us that wo should have the best
his humble place could afford, and that
if we would put up with that we should
be welcome.
As soon as tho horses wore taken care
of, we followed tho old man into the
houso. Ho was a groy-hoaded man,
certainly oa the down-hill-side of three
score, and his form was bent by hard
work. His countenance was naturally
kind and bonevolent, but there were
other marks upon his brow than those
of old age. The moment I saw him I
knew he had seen much of suffering.—
It was a neat room to winch wo were
led, a living room, but yet free from
dirt and litter. An old woman was just
building a fire for the supper, and as wo
entered she arose from her work.
“Some travellers, wife,caught in tho
shower,” said tho old man.
“ Surely, gentlemen you’re welcome,”
the woman said, in a tone so mild and
free that I know she spoke only the feel
ing of her soul. “ It’s a poor fare we
can give ye, but the heart of the giver
must e’en mako up for that.”
1 thanked tho good people, and told
them that I would pay them well for all
they did for us.
“ Speak not of pay,” said tho old wo
man, taking her tea kettle from tho
hob, and banging it on the crane.
“Stop, wife,” uttered the old man
tremulously. “ Let not your heart run
away with ye. If the good gentlemen
have to spare out o’ their abundance, it
becomes not such sufferers as we to ro
fuso the bounty.”
I saw tho poor woman place her apron
to her eyes, but she made no reply.—
Tho door close by the liro place, stood
partly open, aud I saw iu the room be
yond, a bed, and I was sure there was
someone in it. I asked the old man it
he had sickness I
“ Yes,” he said with a shako of the
head. “My poor boy has been sick a
long while. Me’s tho only child I have
—the only helper on the little farm, and
he’s been sick now all tho spring and
summer. I’ve taken care of tho sheep,
but I couldn’t plant. It’s bard, but we
don’t despair. My good wife—God
bless her, shares the trail with me, and I
think she takes the biggest share.”
“ No, no, John, don’t say so,” uttered
tho wife. “N* woman can do the work
that you do.”
“ I don’t mean to tell too much, Mar
garet, only you know that you’ve kept
me up.”
A call from the sick room took the
wife away, and the old man then began
to tell me, in answer to my questions,
some of the peculiarities of tho great
Plain, for we were on it now; and I
found him well informed and intelligent.
At length the table was set out, the clean
white cloth spread, and we were invited
to sit up. We had excellent white
bread, sweet butter, some fine stewed
damsons, and a capital cup of tea.—
TANARUS! cro wore no exett «, no apologies —on-
ly the food was before us, and we were
urged to help ourselves. While we
were eating, the rain coased falling, but
the weather was by no means clear,
though just as we moved from the ta
ble a gleam of golden light shot through
the window from the setting sun,
It may have been an hour after this
it was not mere than that—when a
wagon drove up to the door, in which
were two men. The old man had come
it from the barn, and it was not so dark
but we could see tho faces of tlio men
iu the wtigon. They were middle-aged
men, one of them habited in a sort of
jockey huntiug garb, and the other
dressed iu black clothes, with that pecu
liar style of hat and cravat which marks
the officer. I turned towards the,host
for the purpose of asking if ho knew
the new comers, and I saw he was very
pale and trembling. A low, deep groan
escaped hinyand he arose from his chair.
Ho in tho jockey coat came first, and
his eyes rested upon Loeman and my
self.
“ Only sotno travellers, Mr. Vaughan,”
said our host.
So Mr. \ aughan turned his gaze else
where about the room, and at length it
was upon the old man.
“ Well,” said lie, ‘ what about tho
rent ? ”
“Wo havn’t a penny of it yet, sir,’’
answered the host, trembling.
“Not a penny 1 Then how’ll you pay
me twenty pounds ?”
“Twenty pounds?" murmured tho
old man, painfully. “Alas! I cannot
pay it. You know that Walter has long
been sick, and evory ponuy I could earn
lms been paid the doctor. You know
ho was to have earned the rent if he
had been well.”
“T don’t know anything about it,” re
turned tho landlord doggedly—for Mr.
Vaughan owned the little farm, it after
wards appeared.
“ All 1 know is, that you have had
the house and land, and that for two
whole years you haven’t paid me a pen
ny. You know I told you a month ago
that you should have just one more to
pay me. That month was up last night.
Can you pay me ?”
“No! No!—0, God knows I can't.”
“Then you must leave the house.”
“ When 3"
“To night."
“You do not mean that. You will
not turn us out so quickly as ”
“ Out upon your prating 1 What do
you mean by that ? You had notice a
month ago. llow long a notice do you
suppose I give ? If you haven’t had
time in a month to move, then you must
look out for tho consequences. 'To
night you move ! If you want a shel
ter you may go into tho old houso at the
horse pond.”
“ Blit there is not a window in it.”
“ Beggars shouldn’t bo choosers,” re
marked Mr. Vaughan. “If it hadn’t
been for hunting up the officor, 1 should
have been bore this morning. But ’tian’t
my fault. Now I can have a good ten
ant right off, and lie wants tho house to
morrow. So there is not a word to be
said. 1 shall take your two cows and
vour sheep, and if they go for more
than twenty pounds after taking out the
expenses, you shall have tho balance
back."
The poor peasant gazed fora moment,
half wildly, into tho landlord’s face, and
then sank into a chair, and covered his
face, with his hands.
“ My cows ! my sheop ! ” he groaned
spasmodically, “O, kill me, and have
done with it! ”
“In God’s name, Mr. Vaughan,” cried
the wife, “spare us them. We will leave
the cot, and wo will work with all our
might, until we pay you every farthing,
but do not take away our very moans of
life. My poor boy will die! 0, you
aro rich, and we are poor ! ”
“ Nonsense 1” littered tho unfeeling
man! “ I’m used to such stuff. I make
a living by renting my farms, and this
farm is one of the best I have. A good
man can lay up more than ten pounds a
year here.”
“But we have been sick,” urged the
woman.
“ That isn’t my fault. If you aro pau
pers, you know where to go and get
taken care of. Now 1 don’t want anoth
er word. Out you go, tonight, unless
you pay me tho twenty pounds, and
your cows and your sheep go too. ’
I was just upon tho point of turning
to my companion to ask him if he would
not help me make up tho sum, for I
was determined that the poor folks
should not be turned out thus. The
woman had sunk down and, she too,
had covered her taco with her hands.—
At that moment Leeinan sprang to his
feet. His face was very pale, and for
the first time I saw that tears had been
running down bis cheeks.
“Look ye, sir,” he said to Vaughan,
“how much do these people owe you ?”
“Twenty pounds,” returned ho, rc
trardiner his Interlocutor sharplv.
“And when did this amount come
due in the year ? ”
“It was due a month ago. Tho rent
is twelve pounds, but I allowed him four
pounds for building a bridge on the riv
or.”
“Show mo the bill.”
The man, pnlling out a largo leather
pocket-book, from it took a bill. It was
receipted. Leeinan took out his purse,
and counted out twenty gold sovereigns,
lie handed them to tho landlord, and
took tho bill.
“ I beliove that settles the matter, sir.
my companion said, exerting all his pow
er to appear calm.
“Yes sir,” he repeated. “Thismakes
it all right.”
“Then I suppose we can remain hero
now, undisturbed ?"
“ I have no surety of pay for the fu
ture. A month has already run on an
unpaid term.”
“It is right you should have your
pay, surely. Como, air, to morrow, and
l will arrange it with you—only leave
us now.”
Mr. Vaughan cast one glance about
the room, hut without speaking further,
he left, and tho officer had to follow him,
without having done anything to earn a
feo. As soon as they were gone, tho
old man started to his feet.
“Sir,” ho uttered, turning towards
Leeinan, “ what means this ? Do yon
think 1 can ever pay you back again?”
“Sometime you can,” returned my
companion.
“ Yes—yes, John,” said tho wifei
“sometime we will surely pay him.”
“ Alas! when ?”
“Any time within a month will an
swer,” said Leeinan.
Both peoplo looked aghast.
“0, you have only planted more mis
ery for us, kind sir,” cried the old man,
“ We could have borne to bo stripped
of our goods by tho landlord, better
than we can boar to rob a noble friend.
You must tako our stock—our cows and
sheep.”
“ But not yet,” resumed Leeman.—
“ I have another way. Listen. Oneo
you had a boy—a wild, reckless, way
ward child.”
“ Yes,” murmured the old man.
“And wliat became of him?”
For somo moments tho father was si
lent, but at length said :
“Alas 1 lie fled from homo long years
ago. One night—wo lived then far oft
in Northamptonshire—my boy joined
with a lot of other youths, most of them
older than himself, and went into tho
park of Sir Thomas Boyle, and carried
away two door. Ho was detected, and
to escape punishment, he fled, —and 1
have—not—seen him since. But Sir
Thomas would not have punished him,
for ho told mo so afterwards.”
“And tell me, John Leeman, did you
over hear from that boy ?”
“ Never! ” answered the old man.
As soon as I heard my companion
pronounce the old man’s name, the truth
flashed upon mo in an instant; and I
was not alone in this conviction. Tho
quick heart of the mother had caught
the spark of hope and love. At that
moment tho fire on the hearth blazed up
and as the light poured out into the
room, my companion’s faco was fully
revealed. Tho woman arose and walk
ed towards him. She laid her hand
upon his head, and trembling, she whim
pered—
“ For the love of Heaven don’t de
ceive me. But speak to me —let in
call you—Nathan —Nathan—Leeimn ?’
“And I shall answer, for that is my
name ! ” spoke the man, starting up.
“ And what would you call me,” the
woman asked ?
“My mother 1”
T-he fire gleamed more brightly upon
the hearth, and I saw that aged woman
upon tho bosom of her long lost boy,
and I saw the father totter up and join
them—and I heard murmured words of
blessing and joy. I arose and slipped
out of the room and went to the barn. —
It was an hour before I returned, and
then I found all calm and serene, save
that the mother was still weeping, for
the head of her returned boy was rest
ing upon her shoulders, and her arm
was upon liis neck. Nathan arose as I
entered, and with a smile he bade me
bo seated.
“ You know all, as well as I can tell
you,” said bo. “ When you first stopped
here I had no hope of finding ray pa
rents here, for when I went away, six
teen years ago, 1 left them in King’s
thrope upon the Ken. I knew them of
course, but I wished to see if they knew
mo. But from fourteen to thirty, is a
changing period. I think God sent mo
here,” ho added in a lower tone, “ for
only think what curious circumstances
had combined to bring mo to this cot.”
On the following morning, I resumed
my journey alone, but bad to promise
that 1 would surely call there again on
my return, which I did iu eight days,
and speiit a night there. Money pos
sessed some strange charms. For it had
not only given to the poor peasant a sure
home for tho rest of his life, but it bad
brought health back to the sick boy.
An experienced physician from Salisbury
had visited him, and he was now able to
bo about. I remained long enough to
know that an earthly heaven had grown
up in that earthly cot. Nathan Leeman
told mo thatjio had over a hundred thou
sand dollars, and that he should tako his
parents ami brother to some luxurious
home, when he could find one to his
taste.
That was some years ago. I have
received some letters from Leeman since,
aud ho lias settled down in tho suburbs
of Bradford, on the banks of the lower
Avon, where lie has bought a large share
in several of the celebrated cloth facto
ries in that place, and I am under a
solemn promise to visit him if I ever
land in England again.
itlbccllaucoißr
Power of Music.
One stormy night a few weeks since,
we were wending our way homeward
about midnight. Tho storm raged vi
olently, and tho streets were almcst do
.serted. Occupied with our thoughts
we plodded on, when tho sound of mu
sic a brilliantly illuminated mansion,
for a moment arrested our footsteps. A
voice of surpassing sweetness and bril
liancy commenced a well known air.—
We listened to a few strains and were
turning away when a roughly-dressed,
miserable-looking man brushed rudely
past us. But as the music reached his
ears, lie stopped and listened intently,
as if drinking in the melody, and as the
last sound died away, burst into tears.
We inquired the cause of his grief.
For a moment, emotion forbade ut
terance, when he said:
“ Thirty years ago, my mother sang
ine to sleep with that s6ng; she has
long been dead, and I, once innocent
and happy, am an outcast—drunkard—”
“ I know it is unmanly,” he continued,
after a pause, in which he endeavored
to wipe with his sleeve the fastly gath
ering tears. “I know it is unmanly to
give way, but that sweet tune brought
back vividly tho thought of childhood.
Her form seemed once moro before me
—l—l—can’t stand it—l. ”
And before wo could stop, he rushed
on, and entered a tavern near by, to
drown remembrance of tho past in the
intoxicating bowl.
While filed with sorrow for tho un
fortunate man, we could not help reflect
ing upon that wonderful power of mu
sic. That simple strain, perchance from
some gay, thoughtless girl, and sung to
others equally as thoughtless, still had
its gentle mission, for it stirred up deep
feelings in an outcast’s heart, bringing
back happy hours long gone by. —Al
bany Knickerbocker.
Within the past month about 30,000
British troops havo arrived in Canada
from Europo.
NUMBER 29
After the Storm cometh the
Sunshine.
It Las been said that ‘ every cloud has
asilvery lining,’and the person who pen
ned this truthful and political sentence
might also have added, v itli equal claim to
truth, that after the storm cometh suu
shine.
No matter how hard the’tempest may
rage—no matter how dense the clouds
that overshadow the heavens of God’s
beautitul heritage, the earth —no matter
how fierce the wind that drift the storhi,
and lash the billows of the 06'eaw,' and
and commit havoc and destruction'
among the abodes of men—no matter
how howls the raging, unloosed' fiends
of air and water —the darkness will be
come light, the winds will be hushed,-
the sky will brighten, the waters become
calm, men will look up and bless their
Maker—and after all cometh the sun*
Bhine—the God given, heaven blessed
lifegiving sunshine.
That the above is true of the elements
of the material Universe, no one will’-
hardly dispute, That the same may bo
said of the little life-horizon of man’s
heaven, will bo almost as readily ad*
ruitted.
We care not how rough and unto
wards a face of the world may expose ’
to her most unworthy and unlucky in
habitant—we care not how bleak blow
the winds of chill adversity—wo care
not how grudgingly the rich bestow
upon their dependents the little which is
necessary to keep body and soul together
—wo care not how hard the task-master,-
and how poor the pay—how tried the'
soul—how weak the faith—how
troubled tho spirit—how feeble the purse
—if life be left—(and even after the
dark shadow of the vulley of death has
been passed, is there not hope in an
Eternity beyond the gravo ?) —wo care not
how soro the trials—how bitter the.
persecutions endured—there is a God in
Heaven, and after all these crosses
cotneth the sunshine.
Thank God for tho sunshine ? How
beautiful, how heavenly its mission, both
the material aid immaterial; tho one to'
give life, health and vigor to all earthly
things—to paint tho lily—to ripe tho'
fruit—to vivify and illuminato the vast
and otherwise chaotic face of nature ;
and the other to lighten tho hearts—
purify the feelings—and revive the'
drooping spirits of the otherwise dart
and deluded inhabitants of tho earth.
Son of sorrow and weeping —man p
whan the damp is on your heart, anil
the clouds sweep over your head, des-'
pair not —God sendeth afterwards tho:
sunshine.
Daughter of want and wretchedness—
woman ; when the world frowns upon’
you and the worldings shun thee, and'
pass on the other side—when your soul'
is heavy with accumulated grief, and
your eyes over-full with tears, despair
thee not—there is a “good Samaritan”—
after tho storm cometh the sunshine. —
Cliicayo Budget.
Flowers for Great Britain.— An'
evidence of tho facilities of intercourse
between this country and Great Brit
ain, presented by tho steamship lines,
war afforded by tho last trip of the Per
sia. A gentleman of Brooklyn, New 1
Yoik, who takes considerable interest
in floriculture, had a beautiful bouquet
prepared for the purpose of presenting
to a friend and commercial correspond
ent in Liverpool, of similar tastes. They
were boxed and prepared for the voyage
by Mr. Walter Park, the well known'
florist of the same city. A letter has
been received from Liverpool, which
states that the flowers came to hand ap
parently as fresh and fragrant as if they
had been gathered only tho day proviv
ous, and remained in good condition for
a full week after their reception. Tho
letter says that the bouquet was much
admired for its tasteful arrangement and’
the beauty of the flowers of which it
was compost’d.
Iloncstv i< the best poliev.