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VOLUME X.
(Drighuti Poftrij.
For the Visitor.
“NO MORE.”
There are Tvorda which vrringf the human heart
With deepest pain,
Spoken, when never, those uho part,
May meet again.
" Good bye” has fallen upon the ear
With mournful spell;
And often too it brings a tear,
To breathe “ farewell.”
• Adieu,” though murmur’d by proud and gay,
In careless tone,
Brings rague, sad thoughts,which a moment stay,
And fleet as soon.
Oft too hath Hope, with a folded wing,
Ceased her fond lay,
When finding marked on each earthly thing,
“Passing away.”
And a careless word may sometimes turn
Sunshine to night;
Words hearts divide—and “ words that burn ”
Sweet flowers blight.
But none to my “ heart’s ear” so plainly tell
That joy is o’er,
Or so sadly chaui Hope’s funeral knell,
As these—“No more!”
“Axxik or Bkllkvii.”
Richmond Cos. Ga.
For the Visitor.
On hearing of the Death of Madame
Nonlag.
A id thou, art dead—Veil! veil
The halls in mourning shroud.
Those hal's that oft were wont to hail,
Smtag with raptures loud :
Forever lost 1 Apollo’s Queen,
Donizetti’s Lucia now is dead ;
The myrtle wreath which oft’ was scan
To circle Lucia’s bridal head
Now’s twined to grace her bier.
Still is the voice, which oft hath filled
Her votufies with bliss divine;
Hush’d is the tone, whose magic thrill’d
Stern manhood’s beurt to music’s shrine.
Lucretia's dead—oh! who shall now
Supply the part—which rapture owned—
Coldly the laurel shades that brow,
Which Fume and Worth had crowned.
All now must drop a tear.
“ Sontag ” is dead —the thrilling lays
That rung thro’ “Niblu's" beauteous walls,
Are hush’d—for Music’s golden-days
Have vanished now, from Music’s Hall.
Castle Garden'# solemn front
N > more shall speak of Sontay's fame;
An 1 notes that were sweet music once.
Are music now—alas! in name.
The Queen of Song is dead.
The haip is broken—death hath snap’t -»
Tha chords that thrilled thro’ every soul? ;*
Our hearts no more can be enwrapped
By Son tag's voice—whose magic roll,
So rich, so fraught with melody,
That untuued hearts, untouched for years,
Were filled with heavenly ecstacy,
And left unwiped the falling tears.
Which music bade them shed.
Wrap, wrap the harp in suits of wo,
Hang solemn black o’er halls of light;
For all who felt soft Music’s glow',
Must keenly feel its bitter blight.
“ Sontag is dead!”—that solemn peal
Must wring the hearts of many now;
u Sontag is dead! —all, all must feel
The keenness of the heavy blow
Which crushed sweet Music’s throne.
Columbia does not weep alone,
The loss so keenly felt—
But Europe too w'ill sadly mourn
The blow that Fate hath dealt.
Rations shall weep, and weeping feel
The price of tears thus shed;
List! to the sad and solemn peal
Tolling, alas! o’er Sontag dead*'
And music, too, as gone.
Augusta, Ga. Schwarzenski.
From the Olive Branch.
IIAPPY CHILDREN.
Happy children, careless children!
Hear their laughter wild and free,
Ringing through the streets and alleys,
Ringing joyous o’er the lea—
Ringing all along the river,
Like the chime of silver bells,
Answered by the merry echo
From the far majestic hills.
Strangely doth that joyous laughter
Touch my bosom’s pensive strings,
As with slow, regretful footsteps,
Joys departed memory brings.
Memory brings me other children,
With their laughter free and wild,
Ringing through the streets and alleys
Where I played a careless child—
Ringing o’er the rippling waters,
Like the bells of silver chime,
Answered by the laughing echo
Os thy hills, thy native clime.
Happy children, careless children,
Playing in the long ago,
Scattered like the leaves of autumn—
Childhood’s mates, where are ye now?
Where are all the notes of music
Lips have breathed, or zephyrs sighed?
Where are all the tear-drops wasted,
Since the first created, died?
Where is gone the long-lost pleiad
From the jewelled brow of night?
Science with uplifted vision,
Yearneth ever fonits light;
Where the souls whose cold clay houses
Dot with graves the earth’s green sod ?
Where are ye, O happy children
Os the past? GoaekofGcxL
31 Southern IDetlilij Citernrij nrttj ftlisallmumts Souvnal, for tlje ijotnc Citclt.
SI (Soflfc OtOHJ.
GEORGE ARCHER^
—on—
HOW I GREW INTO AN OLD MAID.
(concluded.)
She seemed quite a creature of im
pulse, indulged aud wilful. Before she
had set twenty minutes, she pushed the
drawings together, said it was stupid,
and we would go on with it another
day. So the little girl came back to
me.
It was five o’clock, and I was putting
on my bonnet to leave, when Lady
Georgina came into the room again in
full dress. They were going out to din
ner. An India muslin frock, with blue
floss trimmings, a blue band round her
slender waist, with a pearl buckle, pearl
sidecomhs in her hair, a pearl necklace,
and long white gloves.
“ Nelly,” she said to her sister, “ I
want you to give a message to the bovs. r
And she bent down, and whispered to
the child.
“ William or Harry )” asked the little
girl aloud.
“ Oh, Harry,” replied Lady Georgina.
“ William would not trouble himself to
remember.”
She left the room. What the pur
port of her whisper was I of course
never knew. Mademoiselle Berri, the
Swiss governess was with us then, wri
ting, and when Lady Ellen ran to a win
dow and got upon a chair to lean outof it,
she quit the table, pulled the child back,
and said something very fast in French,
to which the child replied equally fast.
I could not understand their language,
hut it seemed to me they were disputing.
“ Miss Ilalliwell will hold mo then,”
said the little girl, in English, “fori
will look. I want to see Georgy get
into the carriage. Please hold me by
my frock, Miss Halliwell.’’
I laid hold of the child by the gath
ers of her huff gingham dress, and the
governess began to talk to me. I laugh
ed and shook my head.
r What did Mademoiselle say ?” I ask
ed of Lady Ellen.
“ Oh, it's about a little girl she knew
falling out of a window and breaking
her reins. It is all a conte, you know ;
she says it to frighten me. What do
you call reins in English ? There’s
Georgy ; she’s got on mamma's India
shawl.”
I bent forward over the head of tho
child. The bright cuils of Lady Geor
gina were just flitting into the carriage,
and something yellow gleamed from her
shoulders. It was the India shawl.—
The earl stepped in after her, and follow
ing after him, in his black evening suit
and white cravat, went Mr betrothed
husband, George Archer. My heart
stood still.
“ I wish dear mamma was well enough
to go out again,” sighed the little girl.
“ Georgy has all the visiting now.”
She remained looking after tho car
riage, and I with her. We saw it sweep
round to gam the broad drive of tho
park. Lord Seaford was seated by the
side of his daughter, and he opposite to
her.
11.
Autumn and winter passed away, and
it became very close to the anniversary
of the period when Mr. Archer first
came as curate. There was no out
ward change in our position : to those
around, the Rev. George Archer was
still the engaged lover of Miss Halliwell.
But a change had come, and we both
knew it.
It seemed that a barrier had been
gradually, almost imperceptibly, grow
ing up between us. He was cold and
absent in manner, with me, and his vis
its to our house were not now frequent.
He appeared to be rising above his po
sition, leaving me far beneath. Mr.
Coomes had latterly been ailing, it was
rarely that he could accept the dinner
or the evening invitations sent to him,
and since the earl’s return to Seaford
there had been much visiting going on.
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1856.
So the country gentlemen would say,
“ Then you will come and say grace for
us, Mr. Archer,” and he always went.
It would sometimes happen, when
they were going a distance, as on the
abovo day, that Lord Seaford invited
him to a seat in his carriage : and lie
was often, now, a guest at the castle.—
I have said he was a handsome man ;
he was more; he was well-informed,
elegant and refined; as a clergyman,
he was regarded as, in some degree, an
equal, by the society so much above
him, and he was courted and caressed
from many sides. Thus it was that he
acquired a false estimation of his own
position, and ambitious pride obtained
rule in his heart. But not for all this
was he neglecting me. No, no ; there
was another and a deeper cause.
Easter was later this spring than tho
last, and, on its return, the Seafords were
to depart for town. My duties at tho
castle would conclude on the Thursday
in Passion week ; and I may mention,
that over and abovo tho remuneration
paid me, which was handsome, her lady
ship the countess pressed upon mo a
bracelet of enamel, which my mother
says must have cost her six or seven
pounds. I have it still, but it is n<st
fashioned like those that are now worn.
Thursday came, the last day of my
attendance; and after our early dinner
I set off to walk to the castle. A ru
mor was afloat that afternoon—one had
been to our house and said it—that Mr.
Archer had thrown up his curacy. His
year lmd been out three weeks, blithe
had then agreed to remain on, waiting
for something better, at a stipend of
£IOO a year. It was impossible for
Mr. Coomes now, in his failing health,
to do the duty unassisted. I had been
looking forward, with eager hope, to the
departure of the Seafords, thinking that
perhaps our old loving, confidential days
might return ; and now this rumor! It
seemed as if there was to bo no hope
for me in this cruel world, and I sat
down to the lessons of little Ellen Sea
ford, like one in a troubled maze. Be
fore they were over, Mademoiselle Berri
came in, and told the child to go to her
mamma; some visitors were there, who
wished to see her.
“ You will stay to take do tea wid me
dis afternoon,” said Mademoiselle, who
had now made progress in English.
“ No, thank you,” I answered. “My
head aches, and I want to go home.”
“ You cannot go till tnadame la con
tesse has seen you: she said so. Ah
moil Dieu, but it is triste in dis cam
pagne! I have de headache too, wid it.
I shall have du glad heart next week to
quit it.”
“ You have always found it dull'
Mademoiselle.”
“ As if anybody was capable to find
it anything else ! Except it is de Lady
Georgina. And perhaps de earl, wid
his steward, and his shooting, and his af
fairs. But for do Lady Georgina, she
does keep herself alive wid flirting: as
she would anywhere. She is de regu
lar flirt.”
“ But then she is so very beautiful.”
“Eh bien, oui, if she would dress like
one Christian. But de English don’t
know how ; wid deir bare necks, and
deir curled hair. There is no race in de
world who ought to put clothes on, Miss
Halliwell, but de French women.”
“ Lady Georgina always looks well.’’
I sighed. Was it a sigh of jealousy ?
“ For de fashions here, she do,” an
swered Mademoiselle, shrugging her
shoulders at the ‘ fashions here.’ “But
she has got de vanity ! And not no
mercy. She lias turned de head of dat
poor young minister, and ”
A great spasm took my throat. “Do
you mean Mr. Archer?” I interrupted.
“To be sure. One can see dat his
heart is breaking for her. And she
leads him on —leads him on. Ido tink
she loves him a little bit—but I only
whisper dis to you, my dear, for do earl
and de eountesso would give me chivy
if dey heard me. But when she has
amused herself to her fancy, she will
! just laugh at him, and marry. It is her
fiance dat is do handsome man.”
My heart leaped into tny mouth. “Is
Lady Georgina Seaford engaged ?” I
burst forth.
“ You do seem surprised,” cried the
French woman. “She is to have Mr.
Candour. Ho is my Lord Caudour’s
eldest son, mid is now abroad wid some
of de embassies. Dat is why ho hns
never been here. He is sotno years
older dan she, but it is de good parti for
her, and they will bo married this sum
mer”
Mademoiselle talked on, and thought
I listened, but I heard no more. A
weight was taken from my heart. And
yet, with what reason ? For to couple
a lowly curate with tho Lady Georgina
Seaford, was ridiculously absurd. I had
to wait to see tho countess—it was that
evening she gave mo tho bracelet—and
it was near six when I left tho castle.
The evening is in my memory now.—
It was still and balmy, and the suu was
drawing towards its setting. I took the
slanting cut through the park, it was
the shortest way, and I hastened along
the narrow path, over which the trees
hung thickly, I came face to face with
Mr. Archer. He was going there to
dinner : I saw it by his dress. He shook
hands, in a constrained manner, and then
there was a silence between us, as there
often had been of late. Some power—
it was surely not my own—nerved me
to speak.
“ I want to see yon : I am glad we
have met. Wo heard this afternoon
that you had given up your curacy.
Is it true ?”
“ Yes,” he answered, breaking off a
switch fiom ono of the trees, and be
ginning to strip it, with his face turned
from mo.
“Then you have heard of another?”
“I have accepted what may lead to
something better than a curacy,” he said,
tearing away at tho stick. “The post
of resident tutor to the young Seafords.”
Was it a spasm that now fell on my
heart ? Ay, ono of ice. “ Then you
leave here—you go with them ?” I
fullered.
“ When they leave next week, I shall
have to accompany them. Wo must
temporarily part, Hester.”
“Temporarily!’’ Calm as is my gener
al nature, there are moments in my life
when it has been goaded to vehemence:
it was so then. “Let us not part to
night without an explanation, Mr. Arch
er.” I poured forth. “Isit me you love,
or is a Lady Georgina Seaford?”
The red light from the setting sun wa 3
upon us, for, in talking, we had moved
restlessly to the opening in the trees,
and the landscape lay full around, but
the warm color did not equal tho glow
upon his face, I saw he loved her: far
more passionately than he had ever loved
me. He stood in hesitation, like a guilty
coward, as if no words would arise at
his bidding “I give you back your
freedom,” I uttered. “ I see we cau no
longer be anything to each other. I
wish, from my heart, we had never been.”
“ Hester,” lie exclaimed, suddenly
turning, and taking both my hands, “ you
are well quit of me. A man with the
un-stable heart that mine has proved,
could never bring you happiness. Curse
my memory, in future, as you will: I
well deserve it.”
“But what do you promise yourself, to
have become enthralled with her, so im
measurably above you ?” was wrung
from me, in my emotion.
“ I promise myself nothing. I only
know that I can live but in her presence,
that she is to me in the light of an angel
sent from heaven. God forgive my in
fatuation !”
“ You need forgiveness. To indulge
a passion for one who will soon be the
wife of another.”
“Os whom?” he fiercely asked. The
glow on his face had faded, and his lips
were so strained that bis teeth were seen
—he who never showed them.
“ She is to marry Lord Caudour’s son.”
“ Ah, that’s nothing, if you mean
him,” he answered, drawing his breath
again. “ She has told me she dislikes
him. And though her father desires tho
match, he will not force her inclinations.”
“Then you wisli your freedom back
from me?” And my lips, as I asked it,
were as white as his own. I could feel
they were.
“Pardon my fickleness, Hester! I can
not marry you, loving another.”
“Then I give it you,” I said, in a spirit
of desperation. “May tho wife you
choose never cause you to regret me.”
“Thanks from me would be like a
mocker}’,” lie whispered ; “ I can only
hope that you will find your reward.
Let 11s shake hands, Hester, for the last
time.”
I held out my right hand, and he took
it in his, and bent down his forehead
upon it, mid kept it there. I saw his
lips move : I do believe ho was pray
ing for my welfare. lie pray !
We walked away in opposite direc
tions : soon, I stopped and looked after
him. lie was striding on: he never
turned ; and as he approached the bend
in the path, that would hide him from
my sight, he flung tho little switch away,
with a sharp, determined gesture—like
lie had just flung away my love. Oh
the misery that overwhelmed me! the
fearful blank that had fallen upon me!
I cast myself down on the grass, where
no eye could see me, and sobbed aloud
in my storm of despair. That a sober
old woman of fifty should have to con
fess to anything so unseemly!
I did not heed how long I lay. When
I got up tho sun had set —it was dusk;
and, as I walked forward, I staggered as
one in drink. As I passed the rectory,
a sudden idea came over me, and I went
in. Mr.Coomes was drinking his tea by
firelight.
“ Why, my dear," he said, “ is it you?”
I sat down with my back to the fire :
I did not care that lie should see my
face, even by that faint light. And I
told him what I came for—to beg that
lie would take my brother as his curate.
“ My dear, it is true that Mr. Archer
is going to leave tnc ; but who told you
of it ?”
“lie told me so himself?”
“He is a changeable fellow, then !
He said he did not wish it immediately
known, and requested me not to speak of
it. I have been thinking about your bro
ther.”
“ Oh, Mr. Coomes," I said, “ you
know it was through mo he was driven
away from here to give place to Mr. Ar
cher. Since his illness, that thought
has rested, like a weight, on my con
science. lie lias been ill this winter—
tho bleak air there tries him. If yon
will but receive him as curate now !”
“We will see about it,” said Mr.
Coomes. And I rose to go.
“ Hester,” he whispered, in a kind
voice, as he followed me to tho door,
“how is it between you and George Ar
cher?” Serene”’
“ That is over,” I said, striving to speak
indifferently. “Wo have bid each oth
re adieu forever.”
“I. I did not think this! lie is losing
himself like an idiot. God’s peace be
with you, my child 1"
111.
It all came cut to the. Earl of Seaford.
We heard of it when they came down
to the castle in autumn. But there was
a fresh tutor then, and the lady Georgi
na was not with them, she was just mar
ried to tho Honorable Mr. Candour.
One day, in London, Lord Sale over
heard a conversation between his sister
and Mr. Archer, and had joked her about
it to his father. The earl snapped at
the matter, and Mr. Archer was so infat
uated as to confess to him that ho loved
the lady Georgina. The earl poohed
him down contemptuously, paid him
what was due, and civilly dismissed him
from the house that hour. He saw the
Lady Georgina before he left, and she
treated it lightly ; said she could not
help it, that it was no fault of hers,
but she should ever retain a pleasant
reminiscence of his flattering sentiment
towards her. “ You should have seen
his poor wan face, Miss Ilalliwell, when
he left de house,” whispered Made
moiselle to me confidentially. “ I was
coming in from a walk wid de little girl,
and met him in de hall : ho held out
his hand to me to say good-by, and I
looked up at his face—it was one ta
bleau of miserie. And de Lady Geor
gina, she went, all gay, to a soiree at de
Dutchess of Gloucester’s dat same even
ing, and I do not tink she did care ono
pin for de killed heart of dat poor
young clergyman.”
So my brother became curate of Sea
ford, and, in time, our mother died, and I
grew into an old maid. And never
more at Seaford did the news come to
us of the Rev. George Archer."
WHY HE DIDN’T PROPOSE.
A WARNING TO TUB LADIES.
“ Why did you never think of mar
riage ?” asked I of my friend Lyman
Robbins, who is some ten years older
than myself, and a confirmed bachelor.
“ I have thought of it,” said he. “ I
will tell you. You know Frauk Palmer,
don’t you?”
“Yes, ho failed last week to the tune
of twenty thousand dollars. But what
has that to do with your story ?”
“Something, as you will see. I was
never seriously tempted to make a pro
posal but once, and that was to Frank’s
wife—before she was married, do you
understand ?”
“Oh,” said I, growing interested.—
“ And why didn’t yon ?”
“ You shall know. I was young and
romantic at that time—she was beauti.
fill and accomplished. We were thrown
together in society and I was just at the
age to yield to her fascinations. Though
l had never expressed my love in words,
I suppose my looks betrayed me, and I
am quite sure that she was aware of tny
feelings towards her. Our families be
ing somewhat intimate, we were on the
same footing, and she treated me in
much the sarno confidential manner as
she would a favorite cousin.
“Do you think,” I inquired, “that
she was in love with you ?”
“No,” said he; “I never thought
that. I presume, however, she would like
to have lured me on to a declaration,
and then would have acted as fancy dic
tated. One day when I made a morn
ing cal! and was retiring, she told me
she was going out a shopping, and
laughingly proposed to mo to go with
her and carry tho bundles. Having
nothing of importance to take up my
time, and not being averse to the pro
posal, partly on account of its novelty
and considerably I rather suppose, on
account of tho agreeable character of
the company, I should have, I consented
in the same spirit, and in a few minutes
we were fairly en route."
“ I have but little to buy,” said my
companion. “You may congratulate
yourself upon that, as you will have the
less to carry.”
We made our first visit to a dry goods
establishment.
“Have you any lace collars,” inquired
Caroline. A large quantity were dis
played, blit they were only five dollars
in price, and they were too cheap. At
length ono was found at seven dol
lars, with which, being declared tho
best in tho store, my companion pro
fessed herself satisfied, and decided to
to take it.
“ I suppose,” said she on going out,
“that I don’t really need it, but it was so
beautiful I could not resist the tempta
tion.”
A beautiful shawl at tho door of a
store, next caught Caroline’s attention.
“ I must certainly go in and look at
their shawls,” said she. “I never saw
any precisely like them.”
“New kind?” said she to the clerk.
“ Yes, Miss, just imported from France,
warranted to surpass in fineness of tex
ture and durability any now extant.
Will you have one ?”
“ The price!”
NUMBER 34.
“ Seventy-five dollars, and cheap at
that.”
Caroline was startled at this announce
ment.
“That is high," said she.
“Not for the quality. Just feel it—
see how soft it is, and you will not call
it expensive.”
“ I did not think of getting one to
day ; however, I must. You may
charge it to mv father."
The shawl was folded, enveloped,’
and handed to me by the clerk.
“ I suppose father will scold,” said
Caroline; “ but it is such a beauty.”
We reached, ere long, another dry
goods store, the placard of which, “sel
ling off at cost ” proved so seductive
that we at once stayed our steps and’’
entered. Caroline rushed to examine
the silks; the first specimens offered,'
which, to my unpracticed eye, seemed
of a superior quality, were cast con
temptuously aside, and she desired to
see the very best they had in the store.
Some were shown her at two dollars and
a half per yard. After a while she or
dered twelve yards to be cut off for her.
This was done and the bundle handed to
me. The bill, of course, was sent to her
father. What with the shawl and silk,'
each of which made a bundlejof no incon
siderable size, I was pretty well weighed
down, and began to be apprehensive of
the consequences in case my companion
should make any more purchases. She,
however, relieved my anxiety, by say
ing that she intended to purchase no
thing more. She was onlv going to
stop in n jeweller’s to have a locket re
paired. Accordingly we repaired to the
store of a fashionable jeweller. The
locket was handed over with the neces
sary directions.
But this whs not all. A lady at the
counter was engaged in -examining a
very costly pair of ear-rings which she
was desirous of purchasing, but demur
red at the price. At last she laid them
down reluctantly, saying: They are
beautiful; but I do not care to go so
high as twenty-five dollars. ”
“Let me see them if you please,"
asked Caroline. They were handed to
her. She was charmed with them,
chiefly, I imagine, on account of the
price, for they had little beyond that to.
recommend them, and decided to take
them. “Now, I must absolutely go
home,” said she, “without purchasing
anything more.”
For once she kept her word, and I
was released from my attendance. But
the thought that she had expended one
hundred and thirty-five dollars, in a
single morning's shopping, and on ob
jects of none of which, by her own:
confession, she stood in need, could not
help recurring to me, and I decided that
until I could find some more rapid way
of making money, such a wife would;
be altogether too expensive a luxury for
me to indulge iu. How far lam right,
you may judge by Frank Palmer’s fail
ure. At all events that is the reason
why I didn’t propose.
He makes his grief light who thinks
it so.
The experience of a man ceases only
with life.
If a man marry a shrew, are we to’
suppose lie is shrewd ?
Money is defined to be a composi
tion for taking stains out of character. '
It has been satisfactorily ascertained
that ducks enter the water for divers
reasons, and come out for sun dry mo
tives.
If Julius saw his mamma coming
down the street, what great man would
it remind you of? Julius Caeser (sees
her.)
Mrs. Partington says that there niUst
he some sort of kin between poets and '
pullets, for they are always chanting •
their lays.
Punch says we blame fortune for not r
visiting us, whereas, in many cases, the
fault lies at our door isl doing nothing
to invite her in,