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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.”