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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.