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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."