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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.