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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,