Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME X.
(Original JJoriiq.
Written for the Visitor.
“MRS. HEMANS” AND “ L. E. L.”
POETICALLY COMPARED.
The one a stream, bowing its crystal wave
Onward to some bright spot, flowerets to lave.
The other one, with restless motion wild,
Takes its own course, like sor«.e spoiled wayward
child.
The first glides onward, tempting us to muse
01 pme, bright things, or poet’s page peruse.
The last says, “Come, no bright things are of
earth.”
And sighing low, the heart’s home owns its dearth.
The one a lark, through whose sweet morning
hymn
Breathes a deep music, like which angels sing.
The other is the dark, sad bird of night,
Whose thrilling song tells most of woe and blight.
The first hath sorrowed mreb, but bowed the
wing,
And ever upward sends her grateful hymn.
The last hath, spirit-wounded, sought in vain
Some gentle earthly hand to soothe her pain.
The one, a lily, beautiful and fair,
That wakes within our hearts a grateful prayer.
The other wears the rich, bewild’ring hues
Os the proud tulip, hard which gay tint to choose.
The first hath nameless beauty all Us own,*
And soothes the spirit crying “not alone.”
Upon the last our dazzled eye may gaze,
Till mingling, ull its tints are lost in maze.
The one a zephyr, wafting odors sweet,
And gently fanning lightsumciy our check.
The other a hot breeze, whose burning air
Too quickly withers, like the simoom drear.
The first’s pure"cooling kiss bringsq iet joy,
And dreams of love, without passion’s ulloy ;
The last brings aching head and burning heart,
Yearnings, and voices, which will not depart.
The one, the evening star, with steady light
Beaming the purest on the brow of night.
The other, a lone, restless, twinkling thing,
A messenger it seemeth, on the wing.
The first we love to look upon in prayer,
While breathing low a name in love’s deep soar.
ITie last wakes in our hearts the wearying thought
That even those pure homes with pain are fraught.
The one a harp, whose music low and sweet
Thrills to our hearts, wild, passionate, yet meek.
The other a rich lute, whose wailing sings
Os lovleess hands, which toyed among its strings.
The first soothes like an angel, who hath wept
Thro’ earthly vigils, o’er some loved one kept.
The last e’en now seems sadly, wildly weeping,
As if a bitter hand its strings were sweeping.
Mona.
Augusta, Ga., Sqd. 1356.
wm/iiTrr ?
The lovely girl I sec at church—
The girl 1 see so often;
Gazing, my sterner thoughts will melt,
And all my feelings soften.
I steal a glance when prayers are done,
And all the rest are singing.
And then a look from her bright eye
To me its way is winging.
What though her hair is as the sun,
When sinking to his rest,
Is it not perfumed like a gale
From “ Araby the blest?’’
They say that when there’s flame above,
There must be fire below—
Her hair is red—then must her heart
With warmest ardor glow.
Her eyes are such a pair of rogues—
Two wells of heavenly blue!
That, when they burn me, they thrill
My burning bosom through.
They never beam full on my face—
But then, a look by stealth,
To my upspringing, answering soul,
Is worth a world of wealth.
1
The little dimple on her cheek
Is prized far more by me
Than all the dimples in the church
On other cheeks that be!
Her bosom’s gentle, heaving swell,
Wakes such a sign in mine,
As quite distracts my thoughts from all
That’s said by the divine.
That hair of sunset hue is worn
In the Madonna style,
Combed from her blue-veined forehead up
Beneath her bonnet’s pile.
Then there’s the humblest little bow
Placed just above the ear—
’Tis like a resting butterfly,
So tasty and so queer.
Sweet one, if you should recognise
Yourself in what I’ve said,
Just, frown upon me—and the next
You’ll hear of me—l’m dead!
But smile, aud when it rains, again
To church, my fair one, come
With no umbrella, and I’ll vow
To see you safely home!
The Stars are with the Voyager.
The stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail;
But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea ;
So love is with the lover’s heart,
Wherever he may be.
Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light;
The moon will veil her in the shade;
The sun will set at night.
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he’s away ;
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day. Hood.
Cl Soitlljfnt lUcflihj Citmvn) atfo d-HisccUanccms Journal, for tip: Ipomc Ctrcb.
Gl Capital Sionj.
A BITTER RETROSPECT.
BY SIIANA.
Summer will) her mild, soft evenings,
and fragrant breath had passed away,
and November’s wind and raiu seemed
to wail a mournful dirge over the lost
sunshine of my lonely and misguided
heart.
Ihe night was cold and damp; I
thought of it, and rising stood irresolute
with the light in my hand.
“ Where are you going, Nina ?” asked
Lena, who had been spending a few
weeks with me.
“No where,” I answered in a decided
tone, quickly reseating myself.
“ \ ou were, you know you were, going
to prepare something good for Ilarry.—
Ah ! Nina,” she continued in her persua
sive voice, “you are not acting right;
you are but rendering your life misera
ble, when it might be a happy one. You
expect. lot) much ; Hariy has remained
at home with you so long and constant
ly, it is but natural, that, being deprived
now In a great measure of even your at
tention, lieshoulß renew the acquaintance
ship of old friends, and for a short time,
even enjoy it with a zest, which seems
thoughtless and unkind to yon, but
which he will soon tire of. Then, dar
ling, recollect that you are a woman—
“ Hit lot is on you, silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear thro sufferings’ hour,
And sumless riches, from affections deep,
To pour ou broken reeds a wasted shower.”
“ I could do all,” I cried, “ but pour
on broken reeds a wasted shower. I
would not love one particle more than I
felt myself beloved; no, not for the secur
ing of a lifetime of happiness! but give
only as I receive.”
Lena shook her head, and with pro
phetic tonguo told me I would some day
regret having acted under so false a con
viction.
A few evenings after this conversation,
Ilarry returned homo rather earlier than
usual. 1 scarcely noticed his entrance,
and only glanced up from my book when
bo (old me he expected to leave for
M in the morning. I gave direc
tions to the servant for packing his trunk,
a duly, which, until then, I had always
performed myself, and retired for the
night, without expressing, of the many I
felt, one regret at the suddenness of bis
intended departure.
He was very kind ; his words were
low and gentle, as those of other days.
But l had marked out my course, and
determined that no moment of tenderness
should cause me to swerve from its ful
filment.
Had I spoken in that timely hour, my
words might have been
‘‘As a sweet dew to keep my soul from blight.’
The next morning I did not rise as
usual, also a compliment which I had
never before neglected, but received bis
fond kiss and warm pressure of the hand,
with ail indifference so complete that 1
thought it almost real.
Four dreary days had passed away,
and I began to feel the joyous spring
time of life shadowing into Autumn’s
gloom, making all. that I looked upon,
but as withered flowers and falling
leaves.
I threw on my cloak, and walked
around the dismantled garden. The
flowers were all gone, but the stems and
thorns remained. Ah ! what a sad simile
they formed.
“ A letter, Miss Nina, a letter from
Massa Harry,” said smiling nurse, plac
ing in my hand a sealed and rather large
sized letter.
“It is not from Harry,” I exclaimed j
and my hand trembled as I broke the
seal.
It ran as follows —
Madam I trust your fears will not
be unduly aroused at the reception of
this letter. I write at the instigation of
your husband, who having arrived here
two days ago in a state of fatigue and
slight fever, is unable to perform that
pleasant duty himself. He bids me tell
you not to be at all uneasy, but asks you
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11, 18-50.
to write to him immediately, as lie lias
received no letter from you yet. Also,
that if you feel the least anxiety as re
gards the slightness of his indisposition,
to come yourself.
Respectfully, yours, M. Herton.
There was nothing very alarming in
the letter, yet if all that I loved dearest
on earth had fallen dead at my feet, I
could not have felt a keener pang. I
stood perfectly still, hearing only the re
proachful words which seemed to come
from beneath the grave—“ Write to
me!”
Ob, never ending words! last hope of
a yearning spirit, forever sounding where
waters of oblivion may never flow,—
“Write to me,” cries a voice in feverish
sleep—“ Write to me,” and the night
wind hurls it to the moaning sea—and
weeping brooks cry it to tho trees, and
wandering spirits catch it up, wailing
thro’ night and day tho never censing
sound—“Writo to me!” Oh, I have
written to thee—l have steeped the pen
of remorse in the burning tears of re
pentance, and sent words out upon the
snowy breakers of the sea—l have carv
ed them on living trees —and laid them
on marble tombs, and flung them to the
sky, but thou hast not answered rue yet,
nor como for me.- “Oh, write to me.”
On waking to the consciousness of life.
I feit the touch of Lena’s bands bathing
my forehead, and read the expression of
anxiety in her dear face. I became com
posed in an instant.
“Lena,” I said, in a low but determ
ined tone, “will you prepare my valise
for me, put only my black dress in—the
cars start in half an hour.”
“ Now, Nina dear, you arc going to do
something rash. There is nolhing in tho
letter that I see wh'eli should cause you
so much alarm.”
“Lena, even if it is wrong, if you love
me, do not attempt to dissuade me from
my purpose—dead ! Lena! think how
terrible; dead, and I did not even speak
one kind word to him!”
“Hush, Nina, how can j'ou talk in
such a manner. We will both go, and
Harry will join with me in laughing at
your ungrounded fears.”
I sat at my husband’s bedside, with
his feverish hand clasped in mine. His
eyes were looking upon me, not with de
lirious light, but with a kind, gentle, and
forgiving gaze.
If bitter tears can wash away the stain
of error, mine would have been effaced.
I told him all, and felt with every word
tho great unjustness and unwomanly
pride of my past conduct.
“Oh, my own, own husband,” I cried,
“if God will but spare you to me again,
I will strive with all my soul to make
you happy.”
“ No, no, darling, you did nothing
wrong, it was all my own fault, hut I did
not know how you suffered dearest; I
did not think, that was my on’y fault.—
Love you less, my poor little wife ? Ah,
Ni, that is the unkindest cut of all. But
never mind, love, we will only be happi
er in the future for our past errors.”
The doctor was announced. With
slow and anxious tread he walked to the
bedside. I watched his face as though
the life of thousands depend# on its ex
pression. After speaking a few low
words his look became more anxious, and
turning to me hekindly bade ine leave the
room a few moments. I became alarmed
and began to expostulate, when a glance
from Harry caused me silently to obey his
request. When I returned, F thought I
detected something more of sorrow on
my husband’s face, and his manner was
even more tender. As evening drew
near, he grew much worse. The doc
tor, who had returned, uncalled for, after
watching him earnestly for some hours,
gently drew me away, and in a broken
voice bade me ask God for strength to
bear the great grief of a husband’s disso
lution.
Oh, God ! Why, in that cry of agony,
did not my soul break from its wretched
| tenement
I Oblivious sleep closed not over me,
nor did madness flash its terrible light
upon my grief bowed head ; no tears
sprung to my feverish eyes, and my lips
felt colder than tho pale ones they
pressed.
Gone! gone! He will never look on
j me again ; I can never make him happy.
I Oh ! God ! is there no hope of death ? I
ask not the companionship of his soul,
only the grave where his form may lie.
But He who knowoth the “falling of a
sparrow,” passed not by unnoticed the
erring design of my weak heart, and kept
watchers, whose vigilance could not bo
! foiled.
Sister! baby ! darling wife ! I hear
them still; those blessed dying words.—
And now as I sit at my desolate hearth
watching tho red coals fade and fall, I
feel that only yesterday thy dear arms,
oh ! my husband, twined around me, and
thy fond voice sweetly whispered the
happiness of to-morrow. Aye, tho to
morrow lias come, but the storming
earth, the black sky, and fiercely howl
ing winds, but herald the anniversary of
our blighted hopes. Oh ! my love, I
am kneeling before tliee, looking into
into thy dear eyes which beam so ten
derly from the white wall upon me, as I
have knelt each day and night, praying
for that rest which may never come.—
Oh, God ! I feel the darkness and sin and
doubt gathering round mo. There is no
balm to soothe my weary soul.
I try in prayer to find relief,
And bend my willing knee,
But feel tlie wildness of my grief
Will never reach to thee.
No, I will never pray again ! Have I
not in prostrate grief implored forgive
ness 2 Is death too great a boon to be
denied 2 Oh, that I could fly into the
terrible fold of insanity. 01), that I
could leap into eternity ; it matters not
where, “anywhere out of this world.”
* Vi * * ' * *
In looking over the contents of my
writing desk I found, among other papers
and letters, this sad but truthful manu
script. Twelve years have passed since
then. God, unmindful of my sin, stretch
ed forth his hand and sprinkled the dews
of hope and love on my darkly tortured
heart. lam no longer alone.
A few evenings after that on which
was penned this bittc-r recital, I sat, as
usual, in my dark and desolate chamber.
The night was again stormy, the wind
wailed high and loud, the rain dashed in
heavy showers against the rattling panes,
and quick flashes of lightning lit tho
swaying houghs of leafless trees. I lis
tened with throbbing heart to the wild
stonn without, and thought of Ilarry ly
ing beneath its fury, alone in the dim
grave-yard. Oh, is there nothing I can
do for him, I cried in a voice of anguish.
I will go to him, and springing lip I
rushed with uncovered head in the mid
night storm. A consuming fire burnt in
my heart, a burning band seemed to en
circle my brow, and my form to multiply
in many tall and fearful shapes. On
reaching the bottom step I suddenly
tripped over something which lay upon
it. It happily relieved the momentarr
flight of reason, and for the first time I
felt the piercing cold wind sweep over my
uncovered form, and the heaviness of my
drenched garments. I stood looking
around with a strange, bewildering gaze,
when a low moan fully aroused me, but
remembering only my determination of
going to my husband’s grave, I was
about to hurry on when it again fell on
my ear more thrilling than before. My
mind began to wander. I listened again
and again ; I thought it was Harry’s voice
calling me. A calm feeling of happi
ness came over me; I saw through the
intense darkness bis form, a radiant smile
lit his pale face, aud his hand seemed
waiving a continual blessing; he clasped
a child in his arms and kissing it ten
derly, stretched forth bis hand towards
me in silent supplication. An ineffable
smile brightened his face; then dark
clouds came between us. Vainly did I
call his name ; I (bought the angels were
weeping at sight of my grief. I felttheir
tears falling like healing drops on my
heart, whioh in its woe had fled from its
home, and lay stained w ith earthly spots
before me. As the tears fell, slowly the
strains washed away, joining the depth
of an endless river, whose constant inur
inuriugs seemed of countless souls, the
telling of life’s history. Then green
grass sprung up, and flowers unfolded
their brilliant leaves, mirroring their
beauty in tho bright letters, God, on my
heart, now beautified with holy light.
Again a feeling of intense happiness
spread over me, and kneeling, in a voice
of gratitude, love and hope, I called the
name of God, husband, and baby—
“ Miss Nina 2my poor child. Out—
rain.”
“Nothing, nurse, nothing, only I
heard Harry calling me.”
She caught me in her arms, I heard
her sob aloud. Then neither rain nor
wind, nor sobs sounded on my ears.
******
I felt kind hands administering com
fort, and lieaid the baby voice of my
dnsling boy trying to wake mo to life.
1 His soft kisses and pitiful cries of
“ mamma,” soon brought back the life
throbs to my heart, and opening my
eyes I wound my arms around his little
form aud felt that life was worth keep
ing for his dear sake. Ho received my
returning smiles with joy and childishly
pointed to a couch opposite my bed,
upon which lay a little girl, whose flax
en hair fell over a brow of angelic
beauty.
I looked wonderingly at nurse, who
appeared uneasy and excited.
“ It’s nothing, child, but a littlo sweet
heart ccme to see our Eddy. There
now,” she continued smoothing my pil
low, “turn over and lie still for a little
while, that’s a dear. Come, Eddy, come
to nurse.”
“No, no,” I cried, not wishing him
to he taken from me, “ let him stay, and
nurse tell me where did she come from.
T havo seen them before, those beautiful
golden curls.
“Os course you have. Why, many’s
the time she’s been here playing with
Eddy, only you didn’t notice the little
thing much.”
I did not feci as if I had boon very
sick, but only felt a little weak. And
in spite of old nurse’s ejaculation, I rose
slowly and walked with her unwillingly
proffered assistance to the sleeper’s couch.
I bent over her, and tried to think where
my heart had seen and loved her image
ere my eyes had beheld it. Slow ly tho
events of the night came to my mind,
and turning to nurse, I entreated her to
tell me till she know'.
“ Well, deairie, if ’twill please you, I
’spose I must, but don’t get a faintin
agin, for since you’ve been sick, your
poor eyes look so wido open, that it
gives one such a fright to see you in a
fit.”
“ Oh, no, I feel 100 well for that, nurse,
besides rny little darling is too sweet to
lose sight of a minute.”
He sat on my lap, playfully wrapping
strings of my hair around his little fin
gers, now and then glancing smilingly
up into my face, as though he saw beauty
there for all its pallid thinness.
“ Well dearie, you know it was
a sinful bad night, that you wouldn’t let
me stay with you, but I couldn’t lay it
on my conscience to leave you all by
your lone self, so I put on my big worst
ed shawl and sat down on tho warm rug
in the hall just a littlo bit from the door.
Once or twice I peeped in and saw you
sitting so mournful like right on the
floor, before the fire that was all gone
out. But I knew you didn’t want me
to come in. I couldn’t help crying and
thinking of Massa Harry seeing you so
lonely with your head bent down there
all alone. So I crept back feeling so
sorrowful, hearing the wind as it came a
mournin’ thro’ the hall, and kep’ a watch
in’ till I dozed to sleep without the least
intention, Miss Nina, for I wouldn’t with
my senses on me, go to sleep if a verj
ghost had told me to do it.”
“Mamina !” cried Eddy, brightly smiling
and holding up a piece of hair, which
be had formed into a curl, The child
started, then fell asleep again, and a
beautiful smile trembled over her face.
She isdreaming of her mamma, I thought.
“ Go on nurse.”
“ So I kep ii sleeping, dearie, but some
bow I thought I beard somebody a trea
ding in the hall, and tried and tried, but
couldn’t move a peg, till all of a sudden
three such awful claps of thunder, loud
enough to awake them as sleep in the
grave yard, rapt light on my head ami
woke me wide up. The very first thing
came in my head, was you, dearie, so I
just flew to your room, but the door was
wide open, and not alive soul in it. The
fright I had is too horrid to talk about.
I don’t know what set it in my old head
to go to the front door, hut I did ; at
first I could not see a thing, but heard
the rain pouring down in great buckets
full, till a great streak of lightenin’
showed me where you was. There you
stood, poor wet thing, in the drenching
rain, with your arms stretched out, like
you wanted to catch the ugly, black
clouds, that seemed likely to fall at every
minute. It was a long time before I
could make you know who I was. The
lightenin’ kep’ a regular tlashin’ and
when your poor white face, gazed at
your old nurse’s with such a terrified
look in your eyes, saying all in a whis
per,—“He is calling me, nurse, he is
calling me.” I thought I should die of
fright, but just then I saw you falling, and
I quick caught you in my arms aud oh,
dearie, you was so cold, that I couldn’t
help crying out loud, for I thought you
was stiff dead.
I took you in my arms and started
up the steps, when just as I went to put
down my foot something moved, and
gave such a cry ns sent my old heart a
beating clear out of my body. I could
not move nor stand up neither, for the
fright. Presently something else came
walking up to me—l begun to think
that them three claps of thunder had
sure enough woke lip the spirits, but it
was only Massa Turner, the watchman—
Lord ! wlmt a loving sight him and his
lantern was! I begged him the first
thing to keep quiet, and see what that
was a groaning so heart breaking like on
the ground. And so he did. Oil, Miss
Nina, my old eyes was never set on such
a pitiful sight. There she lay with her
poor soft cheeks lying on the cold wet
stone, with only an old dress, like a poor
littlo drowned angel.
“ I wouldn't give you up, so Massa
Turner picked up the child, and brought
you both in and laid you on the bed.
Old Ciesar went for the doctor, and
together with us all, we took tin best
caro of you. It did’nt hurt the child
much, but you, dearie, did not known
thing for three days, and kep’ a talking
in such a pitiful way, about Massa Harry
and a little baby up in the clouds—it
couldn’t be our Eddy, for you said it had
sunburnt lmir, and Eddy’s is too brown
for only sunburnt. Well, dearie, you’re
altogether better now, and with God’s
help I hope you will soon get to looking
like you used to in old times.”
“No, dear nurse,” I replied, “ I will
never look again as of old, or feel as I
have felt; but I love you dearly, and
will never give you cause to grieve
again.”
“ Psha ! deairie, I bet I will scold you
before the day is run, out,” and the tears
fell over her aged cheeks.
“ Poor little sufferer,’’ I cried, tenderly
stroking her golden hair. She opened ;
her eyes and with a smile of gladness j
threw her arms around my neck, saying,
“Oh I am so glad you are well now
for I love you uext to my pretty mam
ma.”
The following day, I felt stronger,
almost well. I tried with pretty toys
and stray hooks to enliven and amuse
fittfe Efßc, (for that was her name, she
said) but often her bright eyes would
fill with tears, while speaking in a child
ish, loving way of her mother.
“ Mamma is cold and hungry and is
waiting for me to como home and bring
her some bread,” sho would say in a
quivering voice.
NUMBER 41.
“ Where do you get bread from,
darling ?” I asked, holding her little
trembling hand.
She bent her head and a deep blush
colored her young face.
“Where did you say, dear?”
“ I—l asked some pretty ladies,
and—
“ Did they give you any ?”
“No, ma’am, but ono of them gave
me some money, but mamma says it is
very ugly to take money, so she said she
did n't have time now, but would give
me ever so nun h to morrow, and some
cake too. Oh! they had such pretty
dresses on, and said I was pretty too, and
called me a poor little thing because, I
think, my dress was all mended up aid
not half so pretty ns theirs. And I
looked tired, because I was so hungry
and wanted some bread and water so
bad.”
I could scarcely restrain my tears
fiom falling on her hand.
“ And then,” she continued sadly,
“ when a fine carriage all full of silver
came with two little girls in it, and took
them away, I thought I was not good
like them and began to cry and think of
my mamma. She has one fine dress too.
Oh so beautiful, I wish you could see
it."
She lifted her large blue eyes to my
face, overflowing with tears and smiles.
“ It has such fine lace on it, and is full
of pretty white roses, but they don’t
smell like the roses we had in our gar
den once. And mamma will not let me
pick off the leaves and blow them up ns
I used to do. And she won't never put it
on, but cries and says it makes her think
of poor, dear papa.”
“ Where is yon papa ?”
“ Don’t you know ?” she asked with a
s irprised earnest look.
“ No, tell sne 1”
“ Mamma says he is dead, and lives
way up in the skies, where the sun, and
i pretty moon and stars shine, but I think
I he is lying on tire hill where mamma
I goes so often, and in summer time car
[ lies so many roses, all white ones, tho’»
she will never take the pretty red ones.
Then she cries so, that it makes me cry
too, and one day, she said, she would
soon lie there too, and would never bring
any more sweet flowers. But, oh, I
begged her not to, for, then, I would
have to go and see her and papa by my
self. And, you know, it is very
dark and ugly (hero when tho cold
conies, for then all the pretty leaves fall
down from the trees, and somebody
comes and takes all the sweet flowers
away, and papa does not let the sun
shine warm like in tho summer time.
And, then, tho wind !" she continued, in
a whisper, “do you know what that is?
it is when them bad people, old nurse
used to call them robbers, arc killing all
the good men, and they are calling for
somebody to help them! I wonder if
they killed my poor papa 1 Oh my
mamma must not stay there. Papa
never would let her stay out in the dark
and cold. Oh 11 would be so frighten
ed.”
[conclusion - next week.]
Without decision of character no man
or woman is ever worth a button, nor
ever can bo. Without it, a man becomes
at once a good natured nobody, the
poverty-stricken possessor of but one
solitary principle—that of obliging eve
ry body under the sun, merely for the
asking.
When a woman says of another wo
man, “ She has a good figure,” you may
bo mire that she is freckled, or that she
squints, or that she is maiked with the
small pox. But if she simply says,
“ She is a good soul,” you may be mor
ally certain she is both ugly and ill made.
Punch.
Two lawyers having a dispute, one
said to the other, who was a dwarf, “if
you are not more civil I’ll put you in
my pocket.” “In that case,” replied
the little one, “ you will have more law in
your pocket tbun over you had in. ypur
head.”