Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME X.
(Original Porlnj.
Written for the Visitor.
MY LIFE IS LIKE A RIPPLING
BROOK.
My life is like a rippling brook,
That through a meadow flows,
Seeking some distant dwelling place,
And singing as it goes!
Around it brightest flowers spring,
The sun illumes its way;
.The lark’s glad music finds it out,
And every wave is gay.
My life is like a garden
Where Love doth often roam;
And a dear one sits and tells iue
Os a bright ideal home! —
A home that foud affection,
And radiant Hope might win,
With rose buds bright around it,
And loving hearts within !
My life is like a rainbow,
That even out of storm
Some tints of beauty gathers.
Some arch of hope doth form.
But soon the brook will take
A wider, wilder shore:—
Love’s garden all forsaken be!
Life’s rainbow tints be o’er.
Madison, Ga . Susie Snowdrop.
Written fir the Visitor.
MY FATHER.
They tell me, father, thou art dead,
That on thy noble brow
The dewy light of death is shed ;
And coldly ’round thee now,
The winding sheet wraps thy still heart;
And on thy blessed form.
The mouldering dust of earth is prest—
Oh! father! art thou gonet
They bid me drive the burning tears
Back to their hidden cell;
But oh! they think not of the years
I’ve known and loved thee well;
As when, in childhood’s day, I crept
Into the ready fold
Os thy dear arms, while to tliine ear
My baby woes I told.
And in my girlhood’s later hour,
Thou wort the holy stay,
That gathered strength unto my heart,
And chased my grief away.
Oh! Father! all of light and love
Within my heart basiled ;
Since death now bids me look no mure,
For tbv dear home-bound tread.
Oh God! my way ward-darkened soul,
No holy light can fill;
I cannot bow my throbbing heart
To the wisdom of thy will: —
I try in prayer to find relief,
And bend my willing knee—
But feel the wildness of rny grief
Will never reach to thee /
Oh, my heart is breaking, father,
And bitter thoughts will come,
When I think that thou art sleeping
In thy cold and narrow home,
Where chill night winds are mourning,
The only dirge for thee;
For stranger hands have lain thy form
Where I may never see.
Father, in my deep bitterness,
I feel that I have wronged
The holy lesson thou did’st teach—
God we all belong .”
Come in thy spirit, father dear,
Drive sinful doubts away;
Come purge the darkness from my soul,
And “ teach me how to pray.
As when in long, long years I knelt
By thy dear side—the while
I heard thy soft and gentle voice
Still bless thy wayward child:
Oh Father! teach me to be good,
And in my slumbering rest,
I’ll be a little child again,
And sleep upon thy breast.
Augusta, Ga. Siiaxa.
A LOVELY WOMAN’S KISS.
i have banqueted on luxuries
Produced in every dime,
I have feasted on rich turtle soup,
And supped on oysters prime ;
But nothing so delicious is
Within a world like this,
As soft caresses seasoned by
A lovely woman’s kiss.
I’ve gloated o’er the festive board,
And drank rich draughts of wine—
I’ve listened at the opera
To melody divine;
But oh! I’ve never, never met
Such sweet excess of bliss
As thrills the soul when lips receive
A lovely woman’s kiss.
In glitt’ring halls of splendor rare
I’ve passed the midnight hours-
In gardens beautiful and fair
I’ve wandered ’mid the flowers;
But there’s a dearer joy than these—
A joy I would not miss—
A heavenly rapture which is found
In lovely woman’s kiss.
In my last hour when death draws near,
In darkness and in gloom,
lljky woman’s smile my pathway cheer,
And light me to the tomb;
And when my soul shall take its flight
To other world’s than this,
May it be wafted to the skies
woman’s kiss .
,«t „ .... v
Cl Soull)cun UltckUj Citcrnnj anXf JlUsceUnnrous Sonraal, for X\)t fjome Circle.
& Capital Stonj.
HOW I WENT ANGLING.
“ I do wish, Bob, you would get mar
ried ! ” cried my mother, impatiently,
one day after she had endured my com
puny a whole long summer morning.
Tile suggestion was by no means a
new one, for I was five and thirty, and
it had l>een iterated and reiterated by
all my family ever since I was twentv
five. I therefore regarded ntv mother’s
remark as the beginning of a kind of
family ritual, and responded, as usual,
“ Why so, ma’am ?”
“Because,” she answered shortly, de
viating somewhat from the bea.cn track.
** it's high time.”
“Granted,” said I.
“ Yes,” pursued my mother, “ you're
old enough, and you’re lioh enough,
and you’re clever enough; and why
you don’t get married I can't see.—
You would then he much happier than
you now are, idling about here, with
nothing better to do than to follow an
old woman about from cellar to pantry,
putting your hands to every bit of mis
chief which‘Satan finds for idle hands
to do’—and all for want of some sensi
Ide employment.”
“ \\ uuld petting a foolish wife be a
sensible employment,” l asked laughing.
“ She need not be foolish,” said my
mother.
“But the wise virgin will not have
me,” I replied, “and I will not have a
foolish one; so, you see, there is just my
trouble.”
“ You arc too modest by half,” re
turned my mother, as she was leaving
the room.
I pondered that last remark of my
mother’s. 1 thought it showed discern
ment and judgement, and wondered
more people were not of her way of
thinking. The melancholy general re
flection that modest worth is almost sure
to be underrated, threw me into a pen
sive and sentimenial mood, and snatch
ing up my hat and fishing-tackle, 1
sauuiercd out for a reverie under cover
of my favorite sport.
The subject of my late conversation
continued to occupy my thoughts.—
The truth is, my mother was not more
anxious to see me married than I was
to be so. 1 bad always regarded the
married state as the happiest; my heart
glowed as much as any man's ever did
at the picture my fancy drew of a lov
ing family and happy home. But the
mischief of it was, I could not find ativ
one to please me. 1 did not consider
myself, nor mean to be, over fastidious ;
but among all the flat, fluttering, fiir
belowed tine ladies I met in society.
I found so little nature, so little good
ness, so little heart, that 1 could not fall
in love with them, let me try as I would.
It was truly a lamentable case.—
Here was I, a really cleier enough fel
low—well to do in the world—consider
ed, as I knew well enough, something of
a catch—willing and anxious to be
caught, and nubody skilful enough to
do it!
Pondering this gloomy thought, I
wandered on quite beyond my usual
bounds, and at last, rather tired, [ clam
bered up a steep rook which overhung
the brook I had been following, and sat
down to rest.
It was a true summer scene—quiet,
and warm, and bright—nicely shaded
however, where I lay; and the cool
sound of the rippling water added just
the only charm possible, where all was
so charming.
I listened with delight, but in do
mo* so became sensible that besides the
regular monotonous babbling of the
brooklet, there mingled other sounds of
splashing water, which occurred at ir
regular intervals, and which seemed to
proceed from below the rock on which
1 reclined. My curiosity led me to ex
plore the mystery. I clambered to the
top of the rock and looked down over
•its furthest edge.
Cupid! god oflov«! how I was rc-
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY 5, 1856
warded! The rock on the side over
which I looked descended sheer some
fifteen or twenty fee*, when a projecting
ledge formed a kind of natural seat, lie
low which the water rippled. The spot
was quite hung over and shaded hv
trees and thick shrubs. It was a com
plete sylvan grotto, and within it, its
seemed most meet and fitting, was its
nymph.
A young girl, apparently about nine
teen, sat on the rocky edge bathing her
feet. Her attitude and occupation re
minded me strongly of the pretty pie
lure we have all seen in old fashioned
annuals, of Doiolhea, except that ntv
little beauty was evidently gay, and
fresh, and lively, while Dorothea in the
picture is weary and sad.
I could not make up my mind for a
time to disturb so charming a scene,
and therefore continued to gaze in si
letiee from my lurking place.
Aii I those dainty little white feet,
with their pink tipped toes, which gleam
ed so fair through the clear water—or
flashed for a moment above its surface,
flinging about the bright glittering drops,
aad then plunging again beneath the
cool blue—never shall I forget them !
The gracefully bent head with its
blight golden curls and braids, against
which now and then the sun sparkled
fiorn a chink in the leafy screen—the
lovely neck and arm—the check deli
cutely tinted with pink, of which I now
and then caught a glimpse—formed si
picture more enchanting than anything
I had ever imagined. More than all,
the perfect innocence and modesty which
accompanied all the movements of my
sweet Diana charmed me even more
than her beauty. My heart of ice sud
denly hurst into a flame. “ Heaven!’’
cried I to myself, as I felt it thumping
against my side, “what is this new
sensation ? Bob Brown, your hour is
come. You’re in love I ”
At the moment 1 came to this con
clusion, the float on my fishing line drop
ped at the feet of my charmer, and im
mediately well, l’in not going to lay
before my confidential public an account
of all my delicate and skilful inanceuv
ring—enough, that within half au hour
I was seated socially by my water-fairy’s
side, trying to look as much like Nop
tune or Massaniello, or any other water
hero, I did not care which, as I could.—
I gave a sly tweak or two to my shirt
collar, to it ake it lie down, sailor fash
ion; turned back my wristbands, and
kept my hat carefully on, so that one
little spot on my crown which was grow
ing thin might not be observed, and
flattered myself l should do pretty well
in my new rale.
Nora—l soon discovered her sweet
name—was most charmingly gay and
chatty. No prudery or thoughts of
evil ruffled the current of her childlike,
innocent thoughts. She was a careless
child at play, glad of a playfellow.
I would have joyfully lingered for
hours in that enchanted grotto; but ere
long Nora rose and sauntered fi rh. I
followed, endeavoring to beguile the flow
ery way she led me as agreeably for bet
as the wolf did for little lied liiding
hood, while schemes, as deep laid and
appropriate, though less blood-thirsty
towards my innocent companion, form
ed themselves in my mind.
I was never in such spirits. I was
charmed with myself in the novel
character of wooer. The railroad rap
idity with which my drama proceeded
excited me. In one short hour, I, the
impregnable, the flinty hearted, had not
only fallen head over heels in love my
self, but also, I flattered myself—but
mum—of all things, I hate a boaster.
However, as I have said, I was in
high spirits and excited, and among
other nonsense ventured at last to say,
laughingly, “ Do you know, Fweet Nora,
that I have been haunted by a singular
presentiment ever since the moment I
first caught a glimpse of you ? ”
“ What is it ? ” asked she, smiling.
“That you will one day be my wife I”
I exclaimed, with the bold emphasis of
conviction aDddetermination.
Nora burst into tlie merriest of laughs,
and at the same moment turned in
to a little path which led down from
the door of a rose-wreathed cottage.—
A young and handsome gentleman ad
vanced hastily to meet us. and Nora,
with the demurest of mischievous smiles,
courtesied low, as she presented “ her
husband!” I satv the look of mingled
coquetry, mischief, and curiosity, which
she stole at me from under her down
cast lashes; I saw the difficulty she had
to repress her merriment—l saw what
a find I had been making of myself, and
I turned precipitately to fly. Nora’s
pent-up laughter now burst forth ; peal
after peal tting on the air, and I heard
my lormenter call after me, “Pray,
pray, sir angler, return, and 1 w ill show
you my baby ! ”
Well, ladies and gentlemen, ’tis twen
ty years from that day to this; hut Pin
a bachelor yet, and I suppose I shall al
ways lie, for I am as far oil as ever from
finding my ideal.
1 cannot say the adventure I have
narrated had any very deep or lasting
effect upon me—and yet it had though;
for since that same summer afternoon 1
have never gone angling, and if ever I
chance to see a silly girl puddling her
fi-et in water, I run as if ten thousand
girls were after me.
Eig Brindlo.
In Nashville, many years ago, there
resided a gentleman of great hospitality,
large fortune,and though uneducated, pos
sessed of hard knot sense. Col. W. had
been elected to the Legislature and had
also licet judge of the county court.
His elevation, however, had made
him somewhat pompous, and became
very fond of using big words. On bis
firm he ha-1 a large mischievous ox,
called “ Big Brindle,” which frequently
broke down his neighbors fences, and
committed other depredations, much to
the Colonel’s annoyance.
One morning alter breakfast, in pies
ence of some gentlemen who had staid
with him the over night, and who w, r
now on their way to town, lie called
his overseer and said to him.
“ Mr Allen, I desire you to impound
Big Brindle, in order that I may hear
no more animadversions on his eternal
depredations.”
Allen bowed and walked off, sorely
puzzled to know what the Colonel meant.
So after Col. W. left for town he went
to his wife and asked her what Col. W.
meant by telling him to “ impound” the
ox.
“ Why,” said she, “ the Colonel
meant to tell you to put him in a pen.”
Allen left to perforin the feat, for it
was no inconsiderable one, as the ani
mal was very wild and vicious, and after
a great deal of trouble and vexation he
succeeded.
“ Well," said he, wiping the perspi
ration from his brow and soliloquizing,
“ this is impounding is it ? Now 1 am
dead slime the old Colonel will a>k me
if I have impounded Big Brindle, and
I II bet I puzzle him as had as he did me.”
The next day the Colonel gave a din
nerparty, and as lie was not aristocrat ie,
Allen, the overseer, sat down with the
company. After the second or third
glass was discussed, the Colonel turned
to the overseer and said.
“Eh, Mr. Allen, did you impound Big
Brindle, sir?”
Allen straightened himself, and look
ing around at the company, said—
“ Yes, I did, but old Briudle trans
cended the itnpannal of the impound
and scatterlophistoeated all over the
equinimity of the forest.”
The company burst into an immoder
ate fit of laughter, while the Colonel’s
face reddened with discomfiture.
“ What do you uieau by that, sir ?”
said he.
“ Whv, I mean, Colonel,” said Allen,
“that old Brindle being drognoslieated
with an idea of the cboJery, ripped aud
tared, snorted and pawed dirt, jumped
the fence, tuck to the woods, and would
not be impounded no how I *
This was too much; the company
roared again, in which the Colonel was
forced to j> in, and in the midst of the
laughter, Alh-n left the table, saying to
himself as he went, “I reckon the Col
onel won’t ask me to impound any more
oxen.”
A Chapter on Marriage.
Marry not a man who thinks woman’s
only duty is to make his shirts and cook
his dinners. Such a man would make
his wife a slave.
Marry not a man who is 100 proud to
acknowledge woman’s equality, for that
man is a tyrant and would make it scold
or a nobody of his wife.
Many not a man who thinks him
self one of the superiors of creation,
for that man’s brain lies too much in
the hack of his head.
Marry not a man who thinks it is
woman’s privilege to learn of her hus
band at home, for that is not the mini
to teach you; < our life would be one ot
Lopeless ignorance.
Marry not a nmn who is fortune
hunting; for the money once obtained,
you would be a secondary consideration,
taken because the money could not
oolite without you.
Marry not a man who in his inter
course with men speaks sueeringlv and
vulgarly of women, for that man’s love
would he a kind to be despised and
loathed by the virtuous.
Marry not a man who seeks for amuse
ment where his sis ers are excluded, for
that man's associations are low, his ideas
of purity limited, and himself*not wor
thy the companionship of a high mind
ed woman.
Good Wives.
That young lady will make a good
w/e who does not apologize when you
find her at work in the kitchen, hut con
tinues at her task until the work is
finished.
When you hear a lady say, “I shall
attend church, and wear my old bonnet
and every day gown, for 1 fear we shall
nave a rain-storm,” depend upon it, she
will make a good wife.
When a daughter remarks, “I would
not hire help, for I can assist you to do
the work in the kitchen,’’ set it down
that she will make somebody a good
w it'e.
When you over hear a young woman
saying to her father, “ Don’t purchase a
very expensive or showy dress for me,
but one that will wear best,” you may
always be certain she will make u good
wife.
When you see a female arise early,
get breakfast, and do up her mother's
woik in season, and then sit down to
sew or knit, depend upon it, she will
make a good wife.
When you see a female anxious to
learn a trade, so as Ic earn something
to support herself, and perhaps aged
patents, you may he jure she will make
one of the best of wives.
The best qualities to look after in a
wife are industry, humanity, neatness,
gentleness, benevolence and piety.
If He Can. —Every man ought to
get married—if lie can.
Every mart ought to do his woik to
suit his customers —if liecan-
Evciy lawyer should tell the truth
sometimes—if he can.
Every man ought to mind his own
business and let other people’s alone—if
he can.
Every man should take a newspaper,
and pay for it—without the least shadow
of a mistake—if he can.
A Bit of true Philosophy.— now
beautiful is the saying that “we should
always hope for the best, and bo prepared
for the worst!” For our own part, we
never enter a grocer’s to get our weekly
ounce and a half of seven shillings mixed
tea, without being animated by the ad
vice of the moralist, who tells us to “hope
for the best, and bo prepared for the
worst.”
Flowers and Musio. —Yes, two gifts
God has bestowed upon us that have in
themselves no guilty trait, and show an
essential divineness. Music is one of
these, which seems ns though it were
never horn of earth, but lingers with us
front the gates of Heaven; Music which
breathes over the gross, or sad, or doubt
ing heart, to inspire it with a conscious
ness of its most mysterious affinities, and
to touch the chords of its undeveloped,
unsuspected life. And the other gift
is that of Flowers , which, though born
of earth, we may well believe, if any
thing of earthly soil grows in the higher
r -aim—if any of its methods are con
tinued, if any of its forms are identical
there,- —will live on the banks of the
River of Life.
Flowers 1 that in all ourgladness, and in
all onr sorrow, are never incongruous—al
ways appropriate. Appropriate in the
church as expressive of its purestand most
social themes,and blendingtheirsweetness
with the Licence prayer. Appropriate
n the joy of the marriage hour, in the
loneliness in the sick room, and crowning
with beautv the foreheads of the dead.
They give completeness to the associa
tions of childhood, and are appropriate
even by the side of old age, strangely as
their freshness contrasts with wrinkles
and grey hairs ; for still they are sug
gestive, they are symbolical of the soul’s
perpetual youth, the inward blossoming
»f immortality, the amaranthine crown.
In their presence, we feel that when the
body shall drop as a withered calyx, the
soul shall go forth as a winged seed.
Beautiful Figure. —Two painters
were employed to fresco' tlie walls of a
magnificent cathedral ; both stood on
a rude scaffolding constructed for the
purpose some forty feet from tile floor.
One of them was so intent upon his work
that lie became wholly absorbed in ad
miration, and stood off from the pic.tuie
gazing at it with intense delight. For
getting where he was, he moved back
wards slowly, surveying critically the
work of his pencil, until he had neared
lhe very edge of the plank upon which
he stood.
At this critical moment his companion
turned suddenly-, and almost frozen with
horror, beheld his imminent peril ; an
other instant and the enthusiast would
be precipitated upon the pavement be
neath ; if lie spoke to him, it was equally
sure. Suddenly he regained his presence
of mind, and seizing a wet brush, flung
it against the wall, spattering the beauti
ful picture with unsightly blotches of
coloring. The painter flew forward, and
turned upon his friend with fierce im
precations, but, startled at bis ghastly
face, be listened to the recital of bis
danger, looked sliudderingly over the
dread space below, and with tears of
gratitude blessed the band that saved
h m.
So, said the preacher, wo sometimes
get absorbed in looking upon the pictures
of the world, and in contemplating
tin m step backward, unconscious of our
peril; when the Almighty dashes out
the images, and we spring forward to
lament their destruction—into the out
stretched arms of mercy, and are saved-
A little boy was sent up stairs by his
mother to get a satchel that hung be
hind the wardiobe. The boy returned
without the required article, upon which
his mother asked—
“ Couldn’t you find it ?”
“Yes; I saw it there, but ”
“Couldn’t you reach it?”
“Yes, I could reach it, but ”
“ Why didn’t you get it, then ?”
“ Because the old musket stood close
by it,” said the boy, shaking his head
knowingly, “and I was afraid 'twould
snap at me.
A woman who loves—loves for life,
unless a well founded jealousy compels
her to relinquish the object of her affec
tions. So says somebody. A man who,
loves—loves for life unless he changes
biß mind—so says somebody else.
NUMBER 27
Love Making. —Ah! there’s nothing
like love making. It's the nectar of Ufa’
—sweet, delicious, raov wit ; and
I lie beauty of it is, through its up*’
and downs—of clouds and sunshine—and
sour and sweet for all the world I’ka
lemon punch, you only like it the betted
the scarcer it gets.
Show us a girl who can quote with’
emphasis these lines of Moore:—
“Whether we’re on or we’re off,
San e \v tchery seen s to await you:
To love you is pleasant enough,
But oh I tisdol e oua to hate you!”
And we will show you one worth ten-'
fold more than a whole regiment of
your milk-and water females who smirk
kingly reply “yes, sir,” to every position,’
no matter how malapropos it be, or by
what blockhead uttered. They are the'
kind.
Thackeray says a woman’s heart is
just like a lithographer’s stone —what is'
once written upon it can never be rubbed
out. This is so. Let an heiress once fix
her affections upon a stable boy, and
all tbe preaching in the world will not
get her heart above oat boxes and cur
ry combs. “What is written on her
heart cannot be rubbed out.” This fact
shows itself not only in love, hut iu re
ligion. Mon change their gods a dozen’
times, but woman never. To convert a
sister of charity to Methodism would
take greater power than would have to
be made use of to overturn tbe pyramids.
Truth. —Truth is the foundation of
virtue. An habitual regard for it is'
absolutely necessary. He who walks by
the light of it lias the advantage of tho
mid-day sun ; be who would spurn it
goes forth amid clouds and darkness.—
There is no way in which a man strength*
ens his own judgement, and acquires res.
pect in society so surely as by a scru.
pulous regard to truth. The course of 1
such an individual is right and straight
on. lie is no changeling, saying one
thing to-day and another to-morrow.—'
Truth to him is like a mountain land
mark to the pilot; he fixes his eyes upon
a point that does not move, and be
enters the harbor in safety. On the con
trary, one, who despises truth and loves
falsehood, is a pilot who takes a bit of
driftwood for his landmark, which
changes with every wave. On this he
fixes his attention, and being insensibly
led from his course, strikes upon
some hidden reef, and sinks to rise no
more. Thus truth brings success; false
hood results in ruin and contempt.
Cousins. —John Brougham made a
very humorous speech at the MitcbeL
dinner in New York, in reply to a toast
—“the ladies”—from which the follow
ing is an txtraet: Who is there that
has not felt a mother’s love, a sister’s
kindness, and sometimes the dangerous
affection for a pre'ty cousin? The love
that one bears to them is different from
that to a sister, hut perhaps not less in
tense. It puts me in mind of soma '
verses I once read
Hud vou ever a cousin, Tom*
Did your cousin happen to sing ?
Sisters we’ve had by the dozen, Tom,
But a cousin’s a different thing,
You'll tind when ever you have kissed her, Tom,
Though that kiss be a secret between us—
Your lips will be ail of a blister, Tom,
For she's not of the sister genus.
A Way to Make Bovs Sharp. —?
When Mr. I’ickwich complimented the
intelligence of Mr. Tony Weller’s son
Sain, the proud father replied with an
air of groat satisfaction : “Werry glad
to hear of it, sir— l took a great deal o’
pains in his eddication, sir: let him run
the stieets when he was very ycung,
and shift for hisself. It’s the etily way
to make a lad sharp sii.’ ’ 1 <re are e
great many wio adopt Mr. We la’s plan
of “ education.”
Preservation of Health. —Good
men should l>e attentive to their health,
and keep the body as much as possible
the fit medium of the mind, A rasa
may he a good performer; but what cat*
he do with a disordered instrument ? Ttie
inhabitant may have good eyes; but
what can he see through a solid window 1
Keep therefore the glass clean, and tbe -
organ in tune.