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VOLUME X.
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TJIE INJURED HEART.
The ashes of another time
Are heavy on my brow,
And I remember well when life
Was lighter far than now.
It was thine act which parted ns,
That wrought these griefs and tears—
That, by its cruel taunting*, did
The work of many years.
It tore away the magic veil
That to my life belonged;
lltit time shall mark the wronger,
And time shall write the wrong.
I speak no word of vain reproach—
Hut, look upon jny cheek,
And on it read a bitter tale
That words might never speak.
And think upon my wasted life- —
Upon my injured heart—
And if thou hast a soul, let one
Remorseless tear now start.
And think upon mine early years.
That you so darkly shaded,
And all the flowers in my path,
Which at thy coming faded.
Think on my kindness and my luve
My fond and patient care—
In hours of sadness, too, or ill,
Was I not ever there V
Ilad I not Mill u word,
Though ail around were cold ?
Where will you find a heart like that
You flung away of old '1
I cannot hate—l do not scorn—
Though serpent-coils are round thee,
And serpent-tongues have lured thee on,
And by their magic bound thee.
It was thine act which parted us—
That broke the golden chain—
Yet come in hours of weariness,
And shall l love again.
Oh ! come to me when all is dark—
When life hath lost its charm ;
And thou sbalt find my injured heart
Can still beat high and warm.
Thou ne’er cuns’t find a truer soul—
Though all its depths arc wrung—
Than that o’er which thy careless hand
So dark a slmde hath flung.
THE TIME OF PRAYER.
When the morning sunbeam sbiireth,
On the fragrant laiden air,
And thou art refreshed with slumber,
Then should be a tune of prayer!
When the sun with noon-tide splendor,
Fills all vision everywhere,
And thou needed rest art taking,
That may be a time of prayer!
When the day’s declining shadows
End thy labors, toil, and care,
Ere thou soekost wonted slumber,
How the knee in humble prayer !
Should the midnight ever find thee
Wakeful on thy couch—Oh! there —
There’s a time for solemn musipg,
That’s the time for secret prayer !
When to h _*alth and buoyant gladness,
Life is joyous, bright, and fair,
That should be a time to utter
Thankful gratitude in prayer!
When afflicted, pained, and wounded—
Yea, win n sickness lays thee bare,
Doubt not, fear not, but confiding,
Breathe thy soul in earnest prayer!
Shouldst thou ever be exposed
To the world’s delusive snare,
Or its wily arts perplex thee,
That’s the time for urgent prayer!
When the Holy Spirit woos thee,
In thy closet, lonely there,
Or, before assembled thousands,
Then engage in fervent prayer!
In the walks of life, wherever
They may lead—though dark or fair—
In the forest on the highway,
Ever keep a heart of prayer!
Thou wilt find it a consoling,
All-sustaining guardian here—
’Tis a master-key of Heaven—
Pure, confiding, ardent prayer!
[IDYL.
Underneath the silent shade
Os a bending willow,
Lies a softly sleeping inaid,
The green bank her pillow.
White her robe and white her band,
In her ringlets hiding,
White and red the rosy band,
Their sweet rovings chiding.
Prom its lattice work of hair,
In the sunset golden,
Smiles her neck, divinely fair,
Sweet to the beholder.
From her dreamy half shut eyes,
On her cheeks reposes,
Light that shineth tranquilly
Stars on beds of roses!
Up, upon a mossy limb,
Sits a blackbird singing,
And she smiles, as in her dream,
She hears his clear voice ringing.
There is something in her mien,
Something hardly mortal,
Like an angel, just come down,
Through yon sunny portal.
’Tis a rare delight to sec
Such a beauteous maiden,
Fairest of all things that be,
With all graces laden
Cl Simtljcrn Wcchlij Citnrnnj anO iWiMcllmtcoits Scmvnal, fox* tl)c Ijomc Circle*
£i Sfonj,
GEORGE ARCHER;
—OR
HOW I GREW INTO AN OLD MAID.
A\ e were three of us at home—l, Lu
cy, and little Mary. Mary was, by
many years, the younger, for three, two
brothers and a sister, had died between
her and Lucy. Only one brother was
left to us, and he was the eldest, two
years older than I. My mother’s in
come was sufficient for comfort, though
we had to practice much economy while
Alfred was at college.
110 came home to us to pass the last
vacation before taking orders, but not
alone. We had walked into the village
to meet the stage-coach, and when it
came and lie jumped down, a gentleman
about his own ago followed him. “My
friend, George Archer,” he said ; “ you
have heard me speak of him. And you,
George,” he added, “have heard of my
sisters. These are two of them, Hester
and Lucy.”
What a handsome man he was, this
stranger ! Tall, fair, gentlemanly ; with
a low, sweet voice, and a winning man
ner. He is often in my mind’s eye even
now as he looked that day, though so
many, many years have gone by.
We must all of us, I believe, have
our romance in life, and mine had come
for me before those holidays were over.
A woman, to love entirely, must be able
to look up to the object of her affec
tions, and none can know with what
reverence I regarded him. Had one de
manded of me, l.tid perfection lies in
mortal man ? 1 should have pointed to
George Archer. The tricks that our
fond imaginations play us! But do not
think I loved him unsought. No, no.
He asked for me of my mother, and we
began to talk about our plans.
She had no objections to give me to
him. He had won all our hearts, and
hers amongst the rest. lie was indeed
one of the most attractive of men. 1
thought so then, and now that T can judge
dispassionately, I think so still. But
she said we might have long to wait. —
I had mv five hundred pounds, but he
had nothing save a prospect of a curacy,
and he was not yet in orders. ■
Our good old rector, Mr. Coomes, had
promised to lake my brother as curate,
lie was feeble and required one, and we
were delighted at the prospect of hav
ing Alfred near us. I don’t know who
first hinted that this plan might be
changed— l dal not: but it came to bo
whispered that instead of Alfred Ilal
liwcll’s becoming curate of Seaford it
would be George Archer. My mother
spoke to tne. She did not like it: she
had set her heart on having Alfred set
tled w ith us. My brother, light-hearted,
good-natured, was ready to sacrifice any
thing for his friend and favorite sister.
My mother said very little; I believe
she thought she could not, consistently
with the courtesy and good manners
due to a guest. I might, but I would
not 1 Selfish ! selfish !
The time came and they were ordain
ed together. The Reverend Alfred Ilal
livvell was appointed to a curacy in a re
mote district of North Wales, and the
Reverend George Archer to Seaford.
lie came. lie read himself in on the
last Sunday in Lent, the Sunday pre
ceding P assion week. Seaford church,
standing raid-way between the village
and the gates of Seaford Park, was a
small unpretending edifice, with only one
monument inside of it, and one hand
some pew, and they pertained to the
Earls of Seaford. As we walked into
church that morning I could not look
up, but I saw, by intuition, that he was
in the reading-desk, and the rector in
his pew. Mr. Coomes, that day, was
but one of the congregation.
lie began the service, and we stood
up. It is one of the few remembered
moments of agitation in my life; my
breath came fast, I saw nothing, and
my face was as white as the snow outside
—for *it was a very early Easter that
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 18-56
year, and snow lay on the ground. In
tny foolisli fancy, I thought every one
must bo looking at me—as if the con
gregation, in their curiosity to listen to
him, could think of me ! It was a per
suasive voice, low and silvery, and though
it did not tremble, I saw in the first
glance I stole at him, that he was nerv
ous in his new position, for his bright
color went'and came.
When I gathered courage to look
around, I, for the moment, and every
body else, was inastonishment. Against
wall, under the one monument, facing
tlie side of the pulpit, was the pew of
the Earls of Seaford, with its brass rods
and crimson curtains. During tiie time
we had lived at Seaford, (four years it
was then, ever since my father’s death)
that pew had always been empty, and
now it was occupied ! Standing at the
top, was a young lady, just budding into
womanhood, very beautiful; at-thc end,
next to us, was a man of fifty, short, but
of jioble presence, with a wrinkled brow
and grey hair; and, standing between
these two, were four lads, of various
ages, from ten to sixteen or seventeen. —
Her eyes were fixed on his face,’George
Archer’s, and I could not take mine
from hors. It was the sweetest face I
had ever seen, with its exquisite features,
its delicate bloom, and its dark, spiritual- I
looking eyes; it is the sweetest face that
ever rises to tny memory. I glanced
round at the large pew tit the back, near
the door; it was filled with male and
female servants, some of them in the
Seaford livery, and I knew then that was
the Earl of Seaford, his sons, and his
daughter, the lady Georgina.
The prayers and communion were
over, the clerk gave out tho psalm, and
Mr. Archer went into the vestry, lie
came out in his new black gown, his
sermon in his hand. Tall and noble be
looked ; but lie was certainly nervous,
else what made him tread upon his gown
and stumble, as he went up the pulpit
steps ? *J was not superstitious then, in
my careless inexperience, else I might
have looked upon that stumble as a bad
omen. After he had ki elt down and
risen tip again, he moved the cushion he
fore him, a little to the right, towards
the Earl’s pew ; not so as to turn even
his side to tiie congregation, but that all
present might, so far as poisihle, be
brought face to face with him. “Conic
unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest.” That
text, his, the first day, stands out, on tny
memory, distinct and alone ; not, 1 great
ly fear, so much from its divine words of
inexpressible consolation, as from its as
sociation with him. Oh the need, the
need we all have of pardon, and tho
earthly follies and vanities our hearts are
wont to indulge in.
My mother had invited him to dinner
ihat day, and we thought—l did—that
he would walk home from church with
us. But wc had been in half an hour
and the dinner was waiting to be served,
when he came. Lord Seaford had de.
tained him in the vestry.
“ I was surprised to see them,” re
marked my mother. “ I thought they
were not in England.”
“ They have been abroad three years,
the earl told me,” said Mr. Archer.—
“He invited me to the castle, said Lady
Seaford would be glad to seo me, but
she was a great invalid.”
“ Avery fine family,” resumed my
mother. “The daughter is beautiful.”
“Is she?” said Mr. Archer.
“ Did you not think so ?”
“ To tell you the truth,” he said smi
ling, “I was thinking more about my
self, and the impression I made, than
taking in any impression likely to be
made upon me. My thoughts were run
ning on whether I pleased Mr. Cootnes
and the congregation.”
“ I only trust Alfred will succeed as
well,” returned my mother, with tears
in her eyes. “ Was it your own ser
mon ?”
“It was indeed,” he said, earnestly.
“ I have written many. I used to write
them for practice wheu at college.’
Oh those Sundays ! —for rav mother
often invited him—their peaceful happi
ness will never be erased from mv mem
ory. The intense, ecstatic sense of joy
they reflected on my heart, is a thing to
bo remembered in silence now, as it was
borne then.
Wo went to church that evening, and
I attended better than in the morning :
more courage had come to me, tho fami
ly from tho castle were not there. Af
ter service he overtook us in the church
yard, and drew my arm within his. I
think my mother expected him to walk
with her, for she was quite of tho old
school, and very particular with us. —
However, she walked, on with Lucy, and
■we followed, he pressing my hand in the
dark night.
“Hester, dearest,” he whispered)
“ shall 1 do J"
“DoI” I repeated, scarcely heeding
what he meant, in my weight of happi
ness. For it was the first time I had
walked thus familiarly with him.
“Shall I do fora clergyman, think
you? Shall I read and preach well
enough for them ?”
He knew he would, there was con
scious triumph in his voice as-lie spoke :
what need to give him my assurance?
Yet I tried to speak a timid word of
congratulation.
He clasped me closer to him, he held
my hand with a deeper pressure, he
halted in tho narrow path, and, raising
my face to his, kissed it lovingly. “ < >li
Hester, my dearest, how happy we are
in each other!” he murmured, “ how
bright will, be our future!”
Just then, my mother called out to
us. I\uhups she missed the echo of our
foot-steps, perhaps she thought we were
lingering too far behind. “Mr. Archer,
are you not walking slowly ? It is very
cold.” So he raised his face from mine,
and we went on, close to my mother
and Lucy.
( fii, let me believe that he did indeed
love me! 1 am an old woman now,
aird have struggled through a lonely
life, carrying with me a bruised heart.—
But let me still believe, that my dream
was real, that, during its brief lasting)
George Archer’s, love for me was pure
and true ?
My brother fell ill in June. lie had
been ailing ever since he went down to
Wales. The weather, when he travelled,
was severe, tho placo bleak, and he
wrote us word that the cold seemed,
from tho first, to have struck on his
chest, and settled there. In June lie
grew worse, and wanted my mother to
go down.
“ I shall send you instead, Hester,’
she said, after considering over his letter.
‘‘l cannot go and leave you children
here alone.”
I looked up to remonstrate, feeling
the hot color flush to my face. What!
send me away from him, miles and miles,
where I could never seo him, hear his
voice, listen for his step? But a hotter
feeling came over me, and the hasty
words died on my lips: how could [ re
fuse to comfort my sick brother?
“ Hester is thinking of Mr.-Archer,”
laughed Lucy. “Now, Hester, don’t
deny it, I can seo it in your face. Look
at-it, mamma. She is indignant that
any one should be so unfeeling as to
banish her from Seaford.”
“ Hester must remember that she is,
in a remote degree, the cause of this ill
ness of Alfred's. Had ho been curate
here, his indisposition would have been
well attended to at first, and cured be
fore now. It is only neglect that lias
suffered it to go ahead.”
Her tone was mild, but conscience
smote me. Lucy saw my downcast
look.
“ Mamma,” she said, “ let me go to
Alfred instead of Hester.”
Mv mother shook her head. “It is
not only that Hester is older than you,
Lucy, but she lias a steadiness of char
acter and rnannor that you want. I
can trust her to travel alone; you are
too giddy.”
“ Why you know we always said Hes-
ter was cut out for an old maid, with her
starched notions and sober ways,” re
torted Lucy, who was feeling angry. —
“ I’m sure it is a mistake, her being mar
ried.
“Avery good mistake,” said my
mother.
George Archer spoke much with me,
of his prospects, before I left. He was
all buoyancy and hope, as youth is sure
to be. He was indulging a chimera —
though neither of us thought it one,
then—that the Earl of Seaford, who j
had been remarkably friendly with him, |
during his fortnight’s stay, might per- '
Imps give him a living. The family had
gone to town, after Easter, for the sea
son, and or Lady Georgina’s presenta
tion. And we heard she bore away the
palm of beauty at tbe drawing room,
that George the Fourth, stated though
lie was with ladies’charms, had spoken
publicly of her exceeding loveliness.
1 found Alfred very ill. But it was
as my mother thought—what he chiefly
wanted was care —he called it ‘coddling.’
It has pleased God, in Ilis infinite wis
dom to allot to us all some special talent
of usefulness, and I think my humble one
lies in being a good nurse, in an aptness
for soothing and attending on the sick.—
Alfred lodged with an overseer and his
wife (the man had something to do with
mines), and though they were attentive
to him, in their rough, free way, they
had no idea of those cares and precau
tions necessary in illness. There is no
need, however, to linger over this part of
my story. With tho aid of warm weath
er, and the blessing of One, who helps
in time of need, I got Alfred round
again. By the end of August he was
quite well, and I went back to Seaford.
It was a long journey for me; travel
ling in those days was not what it is
now ; but I baited at Shrewsbury. Wo
bad some very distant acquaintances
living there, of whom we knew little
more than the name, but my brother
wrote to them to receive me, which
they kindly did for a night, both going
and returning. I left Shrewsbury early
in tho morning, arid reached Seaford
about eight in the evening.
I never doubted that George Archer
would be waiting for me, but when we
arrived, and they came flocking round
the coach-door, ho was not there.—
Mamma, Lucy, and Mary, but not George,
It was a lovely summer’s night, the liar,
vest’ moon near the full, but a dark shade
seemed to have fallen on my spirit.
When the heart truly loves, it is al
ways timid, and I did not inquire after
him. Yet we talked a great deal dur
ing our walk home and at supper.—
Chiefly about Alfred; the situation of
Iris home, the sort of people with whom
he lived, his parish duties, tho family af
Shrewsbury, ail sorts of things; it seem
ed they could never be tired of asking
me questions, one upon another. But
when Lucy and I went up to our bed
room for tbe night, I put on an indiffer
ent manner, and asked if they saw much
of Mr Archer. .
“Not so much as when you were at
home, of course,” laughed Lucy; “his
attraction was gone. And,’ latterly,
very little indeed) Since the Seafords
came, he is often .w ith them. And he
is reading with Lord Sale and Master
Harry Seaford. They go to him every
day.”
“ Are the Seafords at the castle, then ?’’
“They came in July. Parliament
rose early, the king went to Brighton,
and all the grandees followed his example
of leaving town ; we get all the ‘fashion
able intelligence’ here now, Hester.”
“Did he know I was expected to
night?"
“ The king?”
“ Don’t joke, Lucy, lam tired. You
know I meant Mr. Archer.
“ Yes, he knew it. AVe met him this
morning and Mary told him, and I
wonder he did not go with us to meet
the coach. Perhaps he is dining at the
castle; tho earl asks him sometimes. —
Very dangerous to throw him into the
society of that young lady Georgina.”
“Dangerous ?”
“Well, it would be, I should say, if j
ho wero not cased round with your
armor.”
“llow much more nonsense, Lucy?
O eso high and beautiful as L idv Geor
gina!”
“ That’s just it, her beauty,” laughed
Lucy, “I'll defy the lowliest curate in
the church to bo brought within its
radius and not lie touched with it.—
Nevertheless, I suppose you’ll have your
adorer here to-morrow morning, as con
stant as ever.”
It was the morrow morning when he
came. No one was in the room when
he entered, and he strained me to his
breast, and kissed mo tenderly. Oh, my
two month's absence were amply repaid
by his looks and words of love!
“I thought to have seen you last
night,” 1 whispered.
“So did I, Hester. 1 had been copy
ing some music for Lady Georgian
Seaford, and went to the castle with it,
j after dinner; and Ihc countess and some
lof them kept talking till past ten. 1
Was thunderstruck when I took out mv
j watch, for I did not think I had been
! there an hour.”
i In his coveted presence, with his
j tender words, w ith his looks of love, how
I could I conjure up uneasy thoughts ?
And what grated on my feelings in the
last speech 1 drove away.
My mother had made acquaintance
w ith the housekeeper at the castle, a
Mrs. Stannard, a kindly gentlewoman. —
She had been to tea once or twice, and
it was from her that Lucy got what she
called her ‘ fashionable intelligence.’ —
One morning, about a week after I got
home, she came in and asked if I would
like to go to tho castle and leach English
S to the little Lady Ellen Seaford.
I was electrified—frightened—at the
proposal, and she proceeded to explain
to my mother. This little child, the
youngest of tho family, had a Swiss
governess, but just now had no one to
teach her English. Lady Seaford was
lamenting this, in the hearing of Mrs.
Stannard, and the latter thought of me.
“ I am not competent to be a govern
ess ; I don’t know anything; I never
learnt a note of music,” I breathlessly
interrupted.
“It is only for English, my dear,”
said Mrs. Stannard; “you are quite
competent to that. They don’t want
music or any accomplishment. A our
going to the castle for two or three hours
a day would he like pastime, and you
would be paid well.”
So it was decided that I should go,
each day, from half-past two to five, to
give Lady Ellen Seaford English lessons
and I entered on my duties on the fol
lowing Monday.
I went up to the castle with fear and
trembling, wondering what real lords
and ladies were like, in social intercourse,
and how they would accost me, and
whatever I should answer ; wondering
whether I should have to sit in a saloon,
all gilding and mirrors. The goose I
was ! Tho school-room was plain, al
most bare, and tbe lords and ladies were
just like other people; tbe younger ones
free and unceremonious in their speech
and manners to each other, as we chil
dren were at home.
' The countess was a tall, stately wo
man, quiet and reserved. None of her
children resembled her but • Viscount
Sale. She was wrapped in a thick shawl
though tho day was hot, and looked ill.
Oue day, in that first week, I think it
was on the Wednesday, Lady Georgina
came into the room, while the little girl
was reading to me, and I rose up and
curtseyed.
“ Don’t let me disturb you, ’ she said,
in a pleasant, careless tone. “Miss Ilal
li well I presume. Has tny sister nearly
finished reading 2”
“Yes,” interrupted Lady Ellen, shut
ting tho book ofher ownaccord. “I have
read a page, and that’s enough. The
words are hard, and I dnn’t like it.”
The child had not read half enough,
but I doubled whether it was my place
to differ from her; and, at that oarlv
NUMBER 33
stage, did not presume to do so. I stood
in hesitation.,
“Miss Ilulliwell,” said Lady Georgina,
bringing forward a huge portfolio, “do
you know how to mount handscreens?
Look at this pair 1 have begun. lam
not making a good job of them. Can
you help me? Mademoiselle knows no
more about it than this child. Ellen,
let my painting alone.”
As it happened, I did know some
thing about mounting drawings on a
cardboard, ornamenting screens with
gilt (lowers, and such like, though I did
not pretend to draw, never having been
taught. Hut I must have had some
taste for it; for, when a child, I would
spend hours copying the landscapes on
an old china tea-sot, and any other pret
ty view that fell in my way. George
Archer once found one of my old draw
ings, and kept it, saying he would keep
it forever. Ah me!
L told Lady Georgina I thought 1
could assist her, but that the little girl
had only just begun her studies.
“Oh, her studies are of no conse
quence for one day,” she remarked,
in a peremptory tone. “ Nelly, my dear,
go to Mademoiselle: my compliments,
and I am monopolizing Miss llalliwell
this afternoon.”
The child went out of the room,
glad to bo dismissed. She disliked
learning English, and had told me her
French was less diflieult to her.
“Do you cut the gilt paper out on a
trencher or with scissors?” asked Lady
Georgina. “For the flowers I mean.”
Before I could answer, a merry look
ing boy of fifteen, or rather more, look
ed into the room, and then sprang in.
It was the honorable Harry Seaford.
“I say', Georgy, are you in this place?
I have been all over the house after you.
Who was to think you had turned school
girl again? What are you up to here?”
“Why do you ask ?” inquired' Lady
Georgina, without raising her he rd from
the screens.
“ Papa wants to know if you mean to
ride with him this afternoon, and {ho
sent mo to find you.”
“ No,”she replied. “Tell Papa it will
Le scarcely worth while, for I must begin
to dross in an hour. And I am busy.’*
“You can go and tell him yourself,
Madam Georgy. There’s Wells, with
my pointer, and I want to catch him.”
“ u here is Papa 2”
“Oh, I don’t know ; in the library, or
somewhere.”
The lad vaulted from the room and
down the stairs as he spoke, and I saw
him tearing after Wells, the gamekeeper.
Truly these young scions spoke and ac
ted as free as common people.
Lady Georgina left the room, I sup
posed to find the earl. When she came
in again, she halted before a mirror that
was let into the pannqj between the
windows, and turned some of the Sowing
curls round her fingers. She caught
my earnest gaze of admiration. Her
sylph-like form, her fair neck and arms—
for it was not the'custom then for young
ladies to have them covered —her bright
hair, her patrician features, their damask
bloom, and the flash of conscious tri
umph lighting her eye. Very cot)
scions of her fascination was the Lady
Georgina Seaford : I saw it in that mo
ment : She turned sharply round to mo.
“What are you thinking of Miss
llalliwell ?”
- The question startled me. I was
timid and ignorant, and thought I must
confess the truth when a noble lady de
manded it. So I stammered out my
thoughts —that until I saw her I bad
not deemed it possible for one to be so
lovely.
“You must be given to flattery in
this part of the world,” she said with a
conscious blush and a laugh of triumph.
“Another here, has avowed the same to
me, and I advised him not to come to
the castle too often if there were a dan
ger that 1 should turn his Lead.
° Who was the other? A painful con
viction shot over me that it was Mr.
A i chor.