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YOLUIE X.
Slicet portnj.
AUTUMN.
BY ALICE CAREY.
Through my window shows the stain
Os the oak, grown redly sere;
Autumn frost, aud autumn rain,
Fall a month too soon this year—
Fall a month too soon, my dear.
Were you sitting near to me,
O, my friend, this dreary day,
Brownest fields would seem to be
Sweet with speckled pinks, and hay,
And the maples, twice as gay.
In their yellow caps they stand,
Down the ridges, two by two,
Looking very proud and grand,
As it God had made them new—
As I should be, loved by you.
From its bower of biting thorns,
Will the sweetbriar break in May,
Like a thousand little morns,
To one round and rosy day!
Never, with my love away.
My Heart is yearning for Thee, Love
My heart is yearning for thee, love,
As I sit here alone,
Watching the change of twilight scenes,
And thinking of my home.
My heart is sad tc-night, my love,
That I’m so far from thee,
Sitting beneath the wavy pines,
Beside the troubled sea.
The shadows deepen in the vale,
The stars come out on high,
And look upon the sleeping world
With mild and gentle eye.
The night-bird sings its plaintive lay,
The sea is moaning near,
And many a low’ and soothing sound
Falls soft upon my ear.
Tbe scene is very beautiful,
No fairer need be seen;
The fields are full of blushing flowers,
The vales are soft and green.
The air is swoet with breath of flowers,
Nature is smiling here,
Yet the dewy sky is weeping now,
And the earth receives its tear.
Were you but sitting by my side,
Your head upon my breast,
Watching the silver star that glows
So brightly in the West,
And listening to the sighing sound
That comes from the moaning sea.
This earth would be a Paradise,
Aud you my Eve would be.
No sorrow then would fill my heart,
But joy would come to me,
And twine a wreath of fadeless flowers
For me, my love, and thee.
Such bliss cannot be mine to-night,
So I must wait aw hile
Till Fate shall let me taste thy kiss,
And see thy sunny smile.
THE LOVE THAT LASTS.
’Tis not a flower of instant growth;
But from an unsuspected germ,
That lay within the hearts of both,
Assumes its everlasting form.
As daisy buds among the grass,
With the same green do silent grow,
Nor maids nor boys that laughing pass
Can tell if they be flowers or no—
’Till on some genial morn in May,
Their timid, modest leaflets rise,
Disclosing beauties to the day
That strike the gazer with surprise—
So soft, so sweet, so mild, so holy,
So cheerful in obscured shade.
So unpretending, meek and lowly,
And yet the pride of each green glade.
So love doth spring, so love doth grow,
If it be such as never dies,
The bud just opens here below,
The flower blooms on in paradise.
DON’T FORGET.
The semblance of one who is dreaming,
Ah! ever and ever of tbee,
To whom thy least smile hath a Beeming
l‘<ike sunbeams afar on the sea;
Like sunbeams that brighten the billow,
Where darkness and mid-winter slept;
Ay, such is thy smile to my spirit,
I pray thee, dear one, don’t forget.
Thou’st looked upon many a fairer,
On many a sunnier brow,
On lips with a dewiness rather
Than these which are greeting thee now;
And many an eye that w as bluer
And brighter than mine thou hast met,
But ne’er with a heart that w’as truer
I pray thee, dear one, don’t forget.
As dew to the sun-stricken flower—
The cool splashing murmur of streams
In the desert at noon’s fervid hour —
Like the voices that greet us in dreams;
Like all that is brightest and dearest
In hope and in memory set,
Art thou and thy love to my spirit—
I pray thee, dear one, ujuH forget.
Cl Sontljcnt XVffklij Citotmj xiffij AtHsccUnnccms Souvmtl, for ll)t (joint Circle.
Cl Capital Sionj.
A BITTER RETROSPECT.
BY SIIANA.
(CONCI.UDED.)
Ihe little thing, trembling with terror
hid her head in my lap. I felt a thrill
ing iuterest in her history. Oh what
would I not give to pour the balm of
happiness in that poor mother’s soul.—
But the vial that contained the essence
of her life, like mine, had been broken
and who might re-gather the shattered
glass. Vho could replace the holy life
drojis.
Ihe next day I was holding her and
my little Edgar at the window, that they
might watch the crowd and carriages
pass, when suddenly Effie’s face bright
ened into a smile, and clapping her little
hands, she cried in a toneofjoy “Valet!
Valet!” I quickly looked in tho direc
tion of her eves, and perceived a sweet
little girl, laughingly returning her re
cognition. I hastily called her over,
and learned with delight the name and
abode of Effie’s mother. She said it was
a long way off, but she would gladly go
with me to show me the wav if 1 wanted
her. Her dark hair fell over her plump,
brown shoulders, and her sweet laugh
ing face, bespoke a kind and brilliant
spirit.
It was getting late—the setting sun
heralded the near approach of our
Sabbath-eve.
“Can we arrive there before dusk!”
I asked.
“ Oh, yes, Ma’am, it is far but I can
walk it in a half hour.”
“Then wo have time to ride,” I
rejoined and immediately ordered the
carriage.
Effie bent her head in her hands and
tears coursed through her little fingers.
“ What are you crying about, dear.’’
“The sun is almost gone,” she an
swered, “ soon the stars will shine and
then it will bo Sabbath night, and mam
ma will weep, for she lias no one to lis
ten to her read from tbe pretty red pray
er book that papa gave her. And the
candles too are burnt out, but a very
little piece, and on Friday night, you
know, she alwaysburns two whole bright
candles, and sometimes (not often tho’)
she lights a little waxen taper, and 1
lets it burn all night aud day ; says it is
the evening that papa told us good bye,
and never came back any more. Do
you think God is very good?”
“ Yes, love, both good and great, and
you must always pray to him.”
“ That’s what mamma says too, but
I love papa the best; lie is a great deal
kinder lor be always gave me every
thing I asked for, and I have begged
God so many times to let papa come
back again, aud lie will not, for all mam
ma cries so.”
No, Effie, ho will never come to you,
but if you love God and be a good little
girl, you may go to him some day.”
The carriage was iri waiting, and pre
paring some articles of food and comfort
we were soon, to the great joy of Effie,
on our way to her home.
“There it is,” cried Valet, as the car
riage turned into a dark street and stood
opposite a tall wooden house.
The child sprung out, flew up the
steep stairs, which creaked at every step,
and before I could ascend half way, I
heard a cry of thrilling love—the moth
er had found her child. It was long ere
we could restore her to tho happiness
which had very nearly proved fatal. Oh,
how my heart wept with joy as I beheld
her with silent bat trembling lips, kiss
her again and again, her replaoed
jewel. How beautiful she looked, lying
on that half broken and coverless bed,
with her bright shining hair and snowy
brow, her small, white hauds and wasted
form. The room was small dark and
cold; there was to fire, no furniture, save
a broken box and table, and the hard
plank bed on which she lay.
“ I would have died,” she said, looking
gratrfully towards a young boy, who on
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1856.
hearing of Effie’s return had slipped in
unnoticed, and stood with her little
hands clasped in his, gazing with fond
admiration in her fair face; “If Delbert
had not been so kind to me, for when I
found she was lost I grew very ill, and
there was no one to give me food or care
for mo but him. Effie, dear, you must
always love aud bo very good to him.”
“Yes, mamma,” she replied with a
sweet, happy smile.
The mother grew worse, tho flush of
fever burned on her cheek, disease and
sorrow had numbered her days. I longed
to take her to my comfortable home, but
the physicians said she must not bo
moved. Bright, warm flies lit the apart
ment, a soft carpet covered the floor
curtains of delicate lines shaded the win
dows, and comforting hands and softly
treading feet hovered round the young
mother’s couch.
“Nina, do go out and walk a little ;
Effie will stay with me while you are
gone.”
“ I have been while you were sleep
ing,” I replied, “and now, dear, I am
going to stay with you, and read or do
whatever you wish."
“Then come and sit by me; I love to
hold your hand, and I will tell you of
those I have loved before I go to meet
them: it will not bo very long." And
with confiding lips she related t 6 me
the sad incidents of her life. Os being
discarded from her home for tho offence
of wedding her girlhood’s choice, of see
ing him die, and being left alone to bat
tle with the world. She spoke of a be
loved and favorite brother, and tears
streamed from her eyes. “ Oh, he did
not know it,” she cried, “he was absent
at the time and I have never seen him
since. Look,” she said, taking from her
bosom a gold locket, “ was it wrong to
love him ?”
I took the locket and gazed long on
I'uat noble, gentle face.
“ No, no,” I replied, “he seems wor
thy of your love.”
“Oh, but lie was so much better and
kinder than lie was handsome, and my
brother, too, look at him, my next dear
est and best love.”
I opened the other side and with a cry
of joy beheld my husband’s face. “Sis
ter ! sister! thrice dearly loved,” I cried,
gazing in the depths ol her beautiful eyes
to find his likeness there. “ Where did
I see those golden curls before ! Where ?
In tliv childhood’s likeness, that lie, thy
favored brother, wore, as the holiest relic
of his youth. “ Oh, that I could find
her,” he would cry, “if sorrow should
befall her, forever blest may lie the heart
that will extend to her a helping hand
in time of need.” Mine was the hand
and mine the blessing. When in des
paii I cried, is there nothing I can do
for him ?”
The sister’s spirit auswered in the voice
of her beautiful child —“ There is!”
She is lying on the hill beside the
grave of her childhood’s love—she will
carry no more white roses there —life’s
winter winds may wail, but no sigh of
woe will stir her silent throbbing heart.
And my blessed children, where are
they ?—wearing garlands for the bridal
chamber ? The garden is blooming with
flowers, and bright sunbeams glitter on
their perfumed leaves. It is the wedding
day of my beautiful Effie. Dearest hus
band, oh, that your hand c-onld twine
the bridal wreath round her fair brow,
and place her dear hand in that of her
heart’s first choice, the fond and noble
Delbert, whose brother has already won
and claimed one of my precious gems—
Valet, the little street girl. But I have
not forgotten the remembrance of my
error, and it may not be. Oh, bright,
beautiful girlhood 1 whilst stauding at
the glittering altar of your love, dream
not in that holy hour of gems aud pearls
and sunbeams only, but think whilst gaz
ing in wrapt wonder on the shining sur
face—oh, think, too, of the cloud, for
even as the shattered glass lieth in the
silver urn, so may life’s cord bo rent,
| never to bo reunited!
Oh, my husband! when I gaze upon
the noble brow of our beautiful boy, and
feel, in a few short years, he too, tho first
and last of my three loved children, will
have launched his bark safely on tho
stream of life, then will the period of my
probation be passed, and 1 will come to
thee, telling of all I have loved and suf
fered !
Avgusta , Georgia.
The Self-taught.
Wo have always admired the resolu
tion of an uncouth servant girl, brought
up in no very gentle way, who went to
live with a rich and cultivated lady.—
There was within her a love of tho beau
tiful, a dim perception of the fi'ness of
things, by which she determined to pol
ish herself, and become every whit as
graceful as her mistress. Now here was
a herculean labor to perform—a vast
undertaking for a poor girl, wlioso coin"
panions for years had been the pigs and
geese around her father’s miserable shan
ty, with a mother whoso love for inebri
ation led her to wallow in filth, and nog
lect her family for tho poison of the still
—a girl whose skin was begrimed and
tanned to subjection, and who, in all
probability, was doomed to labor among
pots and kettles for the residue of her
life.
But that was just what she determined
she would not do, and accordingly she set
herself to work, and her first lessons were
those of observation.
She saw much company ; unobserved
she watched their manners, some of
which her native good sense rejected—
the more pleasing she “ treasured up iu
her heart.”
Lo! the change ! The mistress soon
sees, bringing on the breakfast dishes, a
comely, interesting girl, with a careful,
watchful air, her dark locks put tasteful
ly back, somewhat a la mode , her dress
re arranged, her answers respectful, and
though hesitating, correct. Next she
is surprised at a modest request from the
untutored seivant, that by some means
she may learn to read. I’leasod with
this mark of intell’gence, she devotes a
little spare time each day to the accom
plishment of this object; and her pupil is
no dull scholar.
Almost imperceptibly, by dint of caro
and cleanliness, the brown skin grow fair
and ruddy, the thick locks bung in curls,
the brow developed broadly, and many
little elegancies betrayed themselves in
motion and attire.
This young lady—as she assuredly
meant to be—craved an hour for herself,
if we remember right after her work was
over, which privilege she was always to
retain and in the peculiar occupation of
which slio was never to be disturbed.—
It was granted, and her mistress thought
no more of it until somo months after,
when passing by her room she fancied
she heard strange voices. Curiosity
prompted her to look in by means of a
trap door, and there she beheld her
“ help,” in all the glory of faucied mag
nificence, seated near a table, bolding
in her band a book, aud talking quite
eloquently with an invisible captain
whom she was honoring with her pat
ronage.
Presently she would get up —manag-
ing her movements admirably—bend
gracefully, as if inspecting some work of
art in said captain’s ghostly band, re
ceive a compliment with all the careless
elegance of a leader of ton, respond iu a
delicate, dignified manner, arrange her
ebon curls with tho tip of her fan, and
glide across the room with tho tread of
a princess—fairly bewildering the good
lady above, who could not make out
wbat it all meant; finally, she bowed
the captain out, with tho greatest ease
imaginable; then, returning, took up
Shakespeare, and entertained her mis
tress—unconsciously, of course—with
“To be, or not to be,” road in clear,
musical tones.
But mark the conclusion of these
strange proceedings. The lady’s son re
turned from his travels, and the very first
day, not knowing who she was, escorted
the domestic home in a rain storm, as
any gallant gentleman would have done.
In tho evening ho asked, impatiently,
why Iris mother’s visitor did not appear.
“ We have no visitor, my son,” she re
plied.
“ And pray, who is that beautiful
creature that I waited upon to this very
door ? Am I bewitched ? Are there
fairies yet? I certainly, in all my jour
neys, liavo not met with so agreeable and
polished a lady ; and here she disappear
ed.”
The proud woman, in anguish, ex
plained to him that it was only the ser
vant girl, and besought him to restrain
his rhapsodies. But lie declared that
she was some divinity, and no more
adapted to tho kitchen than were his
mother’s porcelain ornaments to a black
smith’s forgo. And lie persisted in the
idea; married her in spite of his mother’s
remonstrance—even displeasure—and the
haughty woman learned to be as fond of
her noble daughter as her son was of his
gifted wife.
Kissing.
The neatest of all neat things in the
drawer, the story of the Widow Lambkin
of whom Dr. Meadows took so much toll
when they crossed the bridge on a sleigh
rido, reminds me (says a down-east friend)
of one of our Maine young fellows, who
thus describes bis battle, and final victory,
in a fair fight for a kiss of his sweetheart ;
“ Ah, now, Sarah, dear! give me a
kiss—just one and bo done with it?”
“ I won’t! so, there now.”
“ Then I’ll have to take it, whether or
no."
“Take it, if you dare!”
So at it wo went, rough and tumble.
An awful destruction of starch now com
menced. The bow of my cravat was
squat in a half of no time. At the next
bout, smash went shirt collar, and at the
same time some of the head fastenings
gave way, and down came Sally’s hair
like a flood in a mill-dam broke loose,
carrying away a half dozen combs. One
‘plunge of Sally’s elbow, and my bloom
ing bosom-ruffles wilted to the consis
tency form of an after dinner napkin.
But she had no time to boast. Soon
her neck tackling began to sever, parted
at the throat, away w>ent a string of
white beads, scampering and running
races every way you could think of
about the floor. She fcuglit fair, how
ever, I must admit; and when she could
fight no longer, for the want of breath,
she yielded handsomely ; her arms fell
down by her side—those long, round,
rosy arms—her hair hung back
over tbe chair, her eyes were half shut
as if she were not able to bold them
open a minute longer, and there lay a
little plump mouth all in the air. My
goodness! Did you ever see a hawk
pounce on a robbin? or a bee on a
clover top ? Even so I settled ; and
when she came to, and threw up those
arms and seized me around the neck,
and declared she’d choke me if I ever
did so again, and had a great mind to
do it now, I just ran the risk over again,
and the more she elioked mo the more 1
liked it; and now she puts her arms
around my neck, and puts her own lips
iu the way of mine every day, and calls
me her John, and don’t scein to make
any fuss about it at all. That was a
very sensible girl, and she makes a good
wife, too, as 1 am not ashamed to say
nuy where.
Quite different but not less satisfactory
was the first esculatory experience of
Dominie Brown, lie lmd reached tiro
mature age of five-and-forty without
ever having taken part in this pleasant
labial exercise. One of his deacons had
a very eliarmiiig daughter and for a year
or two the Dominie had found it very
pleasant to call upon her three or four
limes a week. In fact, all the neighbors
said he was “courting” her, and very like
ly he was though he had not the remot
est suspicion of it himself.
One Monday evening lie was sitting,
as usual, by her, when a sudden idea
popped into his head.
“ Miss Mary,” said he, “ I’ve known
you a long time, and I never thought of
such a thing before ; but now I would
like you to give me a kiss. Will you ?”
“ Well, Mr. Brown,” replied she, arch
ing her lips in a tempting way, “ if you
think it would not be wrong, I have no
objections,”
“ Let us ask a blessing first,” said the
good man closing his eyes and folding
bis bands: “ For what we are about
to receive the Lord make us thankful.”
The chaste salute was then given and
warmly returned.
“ Oh, Mary that was good !” cried the
Dominie, electrified by anew sensation.
“ Let us have another, and then return
thanks.”
Mary did not refuse, and when the
operation had been repeated, the Domi
nie ejaculated in a transport of joy :
“ For the creature comforts which
wo have now enjoyed, tho Lord be
praised, and may they be sanctified to
our temporal and eternal good.”
Ilistory says that tbe fervent petition
of the honest Domii ie was duly answer
ed ; for in less than a month Mary be
came Mrs. Brown.
The Wife’s Influence.
A woman, iti many instances, lias her
husband’s fortune iu her power, because
she may or she may not conform to bis
circumstances. This is her first duty,
and it ought to be her pride. No pas
sion for luxury or display ought to tempt
her for a moment to deviate in tho least
degree from this line of conduct. She
will find her respectability in it. Auy
other courso is wretchedness itself) and
inevitably leads to ruin.
Nothing can bo more miserable than
to struggle to keep up appearances. If
it could succeed, it would cost more than
it is worth ; as it never can, its failure
involves the deepest mortification. Some
of the sublimest exhibitions of human
virtue have been made by women, who
have been precipitated suddenly from
wealth and splendor to absolute want.
Then a man’s fortunes are in a manner
in the bands of his wife, inasmuch as his
own power of exertion depends on her.
His moral strength is inconceivably in
creased by her sympathy, her counsel,
her aid. She can aid him immensely by
relieving him of every care which she is
capable of taking upon herself. Ilis own
employments are usually such as to re
quire his whole time and his whole
mind.
A good wife will never suffer her hus
band’s attention to bo distracted by de
tails to which her own time and talents
are adequate. If she bo prompted by
true affection and good seuse, she will
pcrceivo when his spirits are borne down
and overwhelmed, she, of all humau be
ings, can best minister to its needs. For
tbe sick soul, her nursing is quite as sov
ereign as it is for corporeal ills.
If it be weary, in her assiduity it finds
repose and refreshment. If it be ha
rassed and worn to a morbid irritability,
her gentle tones steal over it with a
soothing more potent than the most ex
quisite music. If every enterprise be
dead, her patience and fortitude have the
power to rekindle them in the heart, and
lio again goes forth to renew the encoun
ter with the toils and troubles of life.—
New Church Herald.
The Aforesaid Gentlemen.—The
Clerk of a retired parish iu England,
when reading the third chapter of Dan
iel, wherein the names of Shadrach, Mg;
shack and Abcdnego are thirteen times
repeated, afu r speaking of them once,
called them during the remainder of tho
chapter, “ the aforesaid gentlemen.”
A Precocious Couple. —An Ohio
census taker mentions an instance of pre
coc’ty that recently eamo under his ob
servation, which we venture to assert is
unparalleled in this latitude. The par
ties are a married couple, tbe husband
18, and the wife 16, they have two chil
dren, one of which is over throe years of
ago and the other over one.
NUMBER 42.
Don’t Stay Long.
“Don’t stay long, husland,” said a
young wife tenderly, in my presence one
evening, as her husband was preparing
to go out. The words themselves are
insignificant, but the look of melting
fondness with which they were accom
panied spoke volumes. It told all the
whole vast depths of a woman’s love—
of her grief when the light of his smile,
the source of all her joy, beamed not
brightly upon her.
“ Don’t stay long, husband !’’ and I
fancied I saw the loving, gentle wife,
sitting alone, anxiously counting the
moments of her husband’s absence,
every few moments running to the door
to see if he were in sight, and finding
that he was not, I thought that I could
hear her exclaiming in disappointed
tones, “ not yet—not yet.”
“Don't stay long, husband.” And
I again thought I could see the young
wife rocking nervously in the great arm
chair and weeping as though her heart
would break, as her careless “ lord and
master” prolonged his stay to a weari
some length of time.
O, you who have wives to say—“ Don’t
stay long,” wlien you go forth, think of
them kindly when you are mingling in
the busy hive of life, and try just a little,
to make their homes and hearts happy,
for they are gents too seldom replaced.
You cannot find amid the pleasures of the
world the peace and joy that a quiet
home, blessed with such a womans pres
ence will afford.
•“ Don’t stay long, husband 1” and the
young wife’s look seemed to say—“ for
here is your owft sweet home; is a lov
ing heart whoso music is hushed when
you are absent—here is a soft breast for
you to pillow your head upon, and here
are pure lips, unsoiled by sin, that will
pay you with kisses for coming back
soon.”
A paper giving an account of Tou
louse, says: “Itis a large town, contain
ing 60,000 inhabitants, built entirely of
bricks'''
Nearly as bad as the Dutch descrip
tion of a Dutch town, which contained
500 houses and 2,500 inhabitants, all
with their gable ends to the stioet.
“Well, Charley, what havo you been
learning to day J”
“ Rheumatics, gran’ma ; and I can tell
yon such a dodge ! If I was to put you
under a glass receiver, and exhaust the
air, all your wrinkles would come out as
smooth as gran’pa’s head.”
“ That man,” meaning the Rev. John
Wesley, said a right reverend bishop to
George the Third, “should be silenced
your Majesty.” “True, my lord, true,”
rejoined the King, “ we’ll make a bishop
of him, and he’ll never preach again.”
“ I say, friend, is there anything to
shoot about here?” asked a Kentucky
sportsman of a little boy.
Boy.—“ Wal, ni thing just about here,
stranger, but the schoolmaster is down
de hilt, yonder—you motight pop him
over.”
“ May I leave a few tracts ?” asked a
missionary of an elderly lady, who re
sponded to his knock.
“Leave some tracks—certainly you
may,” said she, looking at him most be
nignly over her specs; “ leave them with
the heeb towards the house, if you
please.”
A wealthy lady in Boston, on being
told that several poor people had died of
starvation, in a wretched part of the city
said, with a lofty contempt i
“ AVhat silly people; before I’d starve
I’d eat brown bread and mutton !”
Grave Joke.— Passenger. —“Doctor,
if I go on getting no better, what shall
I be good for when I get to Australia 1”
Doctor. —“ Why, you’re just the mi n
we want to begin a graveyard with."