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VOLUME X. Select p octet). 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.