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VOLUME X. (Original pacta). For tho Visitor. THE LITTLE GIRL WHO BRINGS ME FLOWERS. I hare a little friend of modest mien— A soft blue eve, and calm, retiring face; Her faded dress is always neat and clean— There’s in her steps a kind of quiet grace. Often with light tread steals she to my side, During my solitary,thinkiny hours; Then, lightly as she came, away doth glide, First slipping in my hand some sweet, fresh flowers. So quietly I hardly know her near, She comes and goes, this little friend of mine, Shrinking from “thanks” as with a bashful fear, But always leaving sweet wood-flowers behind. They are no hot-house plants she brings to me, Nor does she cull them from rich, varied bow ers— But peeping out beneath some oaken tree, She finds these flowers—delicious, woodland flowers. Dear little flowers! sweet tales they tell to me Os the broad forest—cool and shaded glen ; Os little streamlets chanting merrily Os treasures all “ far from the haunts of men.'* The lights and shadows in my life do blond, And sometimes Sorrow’s cloud above me low ers— Then, “ a good angel,” comes my little friend, And gives me flowers—beauteous, God painted flowers. I have some by me now of modest hue; They lay a welcome offering at she shrine: I trust that whate’er path she may pursue, Such garlands may around her be entwined. What care I if the sun her face has tanned, As she bareheaded roamed the wood for hours ? I love the suubrowned face, and sunbrowned hand— I love the little girl who brings me flowers. “ Annie of Bellevue.’* Richmond Co s. Ga. TO ADELE. I've mused on thee, oh lovely one, At evening’s gentle hour, Till on my thoughts thy loveliness Has left its spell of power. Thine is a brow', and thine an eye, The wildest heart to tame, For, lightning-like, each glance of thine Can thrill through sold and frame. I’ve mused on thee at gentle eve, With thoughts I cannot speak; Thou art a smile on nature’s lip, A dimple on her cheek. No sculptor, sleeping 'mid the flowers, At summer day’s decline, E’er dreamed of fairy forms more bright, More beautiful than thine. Sweet haunter of my twilight dreams, Bright vision of my heart I * Os all I hear and all I sec Thou ever seem’st a part. In all the wild woods’ melodies, In all the songs of birds. And in the tones of breeze and stream, I hear thy low, sweet words. And in the soft and moonlight clouds That float aloug the sky, And in the willow boughs that sway As sway the breezes by; And in the lake, on whose clear breast Are pictured grove and hill, In Heaven’s pure stars, and earth’s sweet flowers, I see thy beauty still. The thought of thee—it is a strain Os music in my life— A golden leaf in memory’s book, A star ’mid storm and strife. It is a wild flower of the heart, Bathed in the dews of years, And dimmed not by the cares of earth, Its passions, and its tsars. THE KISS. Stars were beaming, Luna gleaming, I was dreaming, Dreams as sweet As the olden summers golden that have rolled on Still, yet fleet, Then from Aidcn came a maiden—(beauty-laden girl was she:) Glorious creature! each fair feature a love teacher Unto me. “ Close beside me”—who dare chide me ? “ Here love, bide thee;” Blushes—Grace! It confesses how her tresses, with caresses, Touched my face. There’s no praising the amazing bright eyes gaz ing Into mine. Lips whose meetness, whose repleteness of all sweetness Were divine. But she waited, meditated, I—elated— Gently chid, Smiling, told her no one older womd behold her, If she did. Nearer, nearer, clearer, clearer, warmer, dearer Came her breath. Then forgetting, all regretting, angels letting Her—oht Death! Still she waited, hesitated, said she hated To: I chid; She grew willing—o! ’twas thrilling! .Dream fulfiling! For she did. 3 smt%nt XVtckhj Cilmmj anlr iVLxscdlmums Saitmal, far tlje fjame Circle. 3 Capital Stori). SARAH GOODWIN AND ttfp BOYS. Sarah Goodwin was the name of a poor seamstress, residing in the city of New York. She was not wholly friend less, but those whom she knew, and who would have aided her in her struggles, were very poor, and could not. So she, a widow with four boys, from the ages offourlonine years, struggle through winter’s cold and summer’s heat, pro viding her little family with bread, and that was all. Meat and luxuries were denied Sarah Goodwin and her boys.—- I’he latter were good children, always in their homes after nightfall, and giving their mother eveiy cent of their little earnings as often as they found work to do. At last the mother f.-ll sick, and through a weary illness she had no other attendance, save the occasional help of a neighbor, and the constant aid of her poor little boys. They were never from her side, and it was touching to behold their sympathy, their gentle ministra tions ; everybody prophesied that they would be blessed in coining years, for their thoughtful kindness towards their mother. The widow recovered, but it was now the heart of bitter winter, and their little stock of fuel was nearly gone. As soon as her strength permitted, she walked through the cold of a cheerless day to the shop of her employer, and told her pitiful story. But it was hard times; her illness had made room for others as destitute as herself; in fine, they had not one stitch of work to give her.— With a sinking heart, but praying to keep her courage up, the poor woman toiled on from shop to shop until it be came late, and what with tears and the darkness she could .hardly see her way home. “If Mr. Hart himself had been there,” she soliloquized, bending to the strong wind, and drawing her scanty shawl closer about her form, “ I know he would have given me work.” As she whispered thus through her chattering teeth, a tall man, with a long gray beard, passed bv her, and as he j did so something fell to the sidewalk j and laid upon the crusted snow. Sarah paused; she had heard the noise made by the little packet, and a mysterious impression led her to search for it. Oh, joy ! it was a purse heavy filled to the brim ; yellow anil shining laid the gold within its strong meshes, as she carried it towards the lighted window. “ My poor boys, they shall want food no more,” she ejaculated fervently; “ this isgold ! God put it in my way—He saw I was despairing.” Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the thought occurred to Sarah that not one cent of tho new-found treasure was honestly hers. But a moment she lin gered, pressing the money with her benumbed fingers, the sorrowful tears chasing down her thin cheeks, then starting forward to find the owner of the purse, she walked hurredly up the street, fearful that the temptation, should she arrive at her poor room and see her ; hungry children, might prove too strong . for her integrity. Opposite the great hotel, as she stood hesitating what way to take, she saw ■ the stranger enter. She knew him by his long singular beard; and timidly crossing the street, she made her way into the billiard hall, and there, bewil dard by the light, knew not what to say till twice asked by a servant what she wanted. Os course she could do no more tliau describe the stranger by his tall stature and strango beard. But he had already gone out again ; she must call on the morrow, they said, and ask for Mr. Ashcroft. The next morning, having eaten noth ing, for she could not touch a farthing of the gold, she was admitted into the room whero sat the stranger. He arose as she entered, and gazed with a curious MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1856. air till she presented the purse. Then he started with pleased surprise, laid down his paper, took tho gold and de liberately counted it over. “It is safe,” he said, “ you have not taken—” “ Not one piece, sir,” she cried eager ly, trembling as she spoke. “ You seem poor,” remarked the stranger, carelessly. “ I am poor,” she replied. “ Got a family, I suppose ?” “ Four little boys, sir ; lam a wid ow.” “ Humph, humph, so I suppose—that’s the old story.” “ Ask Mr. Hart, the tailor,” cried the widow, stepping forward a little; “he knows me well ;he knows,.if lam poor, I am honest.” A bright red spot burnt on her cheeks as she spoke and she forced back the tears. “ Now confess,” said the stranger, rising and walking (o and fro, before the fire, “ confess that you expected a largo reward for this.” “ I did think, perhaps—” and she turned with quivering lips to the door. “ Stop, stop,” cried the stranger ; “you know you would never have roturned the purse had you not expected to be paid for it.” “Sir,” said the widow, her tone in dignant, her thin form towering; and oh, the withering rebuke in her voice and manners. The stranger paused, holding tho purse in his hand; then drawing forth the smallest possible coin that it contain ed, offered it to lit r. For a moment she drew back, but then remembering that her poor boys were hungry at home, and in bed be cause there was no lire, she burst into tears as she took it, saying, “ This will buy bread for my poor children,” and hurrying away, she buried the bitter ness of that morning in her own heart. It was four o’clock on tho same day. Sarah Goodwin sat by a scanty fire, busy in sewing patches on the very poor clothes ofher four boys. “ Run to the door, Jimmy,” she said to the eldest, as a loud knock was heard. “ O, mother,” the boy cried, returning, “ a big bundle for us ? What is it ? What can it be ?” “Work for me, perhaps,” murmured the widow, untying the huge package, when suddenly there caine to light four suits of gray clothes, with four neat black shining caps, and each set fitting exactly to the dimensions of her boys. Almost paralyzed with astonishment, the widow remained on her knees, her eyes riveted on tho words—“ a present for the fatherless,” while the boys, appro priating their wardrobes, danced about the floor shouting with glee. “ What’s in the pocket, here ? what’s in the pocket ?” cried Jimmy, thrusting his hand in that receptacle, when lo! out came the very purse of gold the widow had returned that morning. A scene of joyous confusion followed and the voice of prayer extended from Sarah Goodwin’s full heart. Again and again she counted the glittering treasure. Five hundred dollars ! It seems an al most endless fortune. How her heart ran over with gratitude to God and the stranger. She could not rest, till throwing on her bonnet, with cheeks glowing now with hope and happiness, she ran back to the hotel to pour forth her thanks. A carriage stood at the door laden with trunks behind. The driver qjount ed the seat as she had reached the steps and turning her head there, within sat the mysterio# stranger with long beard. She had not lime to speak, but ho nod ded his head as he saw her with clasped hands standing there, her very face seeming a prayer embodied. Sarah never saw the eccentric stranger again. She took a little shop and stocked it well and put her boys to school. To-day she is tho proprietor of a hand some storo. Os her four boys, two aro ministers, one is a doctor, and the other a thriving merchant. Nobody knows where the man with tho long gray beard lias gone, but if he is living and his eye meets this, he will have tho consolation of knowing the noble results of this generous deed to ward Sarah Goodwin and her four boys. A Good Deed in Season. by Virginia p. toivnsend. “Get away with you, you dirty old beggar-boy. I’d like to know what right you have to look over the fence at our flowers?” The speaker was a little boy, not more than eleven years old, and though people sometimes called it hand-, some, his face looked very harsh and dis agreeable just then. He stood in a beautiful garden, just in the suburbs of the city ; and it was June time, and tho tulips were just opening themselves to the sunshine. Oh ! it was a great joy to look at them as they bowed gracefully to the light wind their necks of crimson, of yellow, and carnation. The beds flanked either side of the path, that curved around a small arbor, where the young grape-clusters that lay hidden among the large leaves wrote a beautiful prophecy for the autumn. A white paling ran in front of the gar den, and over this the little beggar-boy, so rudely addressed, was loaning. Ho was very lean, very dirty, very ragged. I am afraid, little children, you would have turned away in disgust from so re pulsive a spectacle, and yet God and the angels loved him! He was looking, with all his soul in his eyes, on the beautiful blossoms, as they swayed to and fro in the summer wind, and his heart softened while ho leaned his arm on the fenco railing, and forgot everything in that long, absorbed gaze. Ah ! it was seldom the beggar boy saw anything good or beautiful) and it was sad his dream should have such a rude awakening. The blood rushed up to his face, and a glance full of evil and defiance flashed into his eyes. But before the hoy could retort, a girl sprang out from the arbor, and looked eagerly from one child to the other. She was very fair, with soft, ha zel eyes, over which drooped long, shin ing lashes. Rich curls hung over her bare, white shoulders, and her lips were the color of the crimson tulip blossoms. “ How could you speak so cross to the I boy, Hinton ?” she asked, with a tone es sad reproach quivering through the I sweetness of her voice. “I’m sure it' doesn’t do us any harm to have him look : at the flowers as long as he wants to.” j “ Well, Helen,” urged the brother) slightly mollified, and slightly ashamed, j “ I don’t like to have beggars gaping ' over the fence, it looks so low.” “ Now, that’s all a notion of yours> Hinton. I’m sure, if the flowers can do anybody any good, we ought to be very glad. Little boy”—and the child turned to the beggar-boy, and addressed him as courteously as though he had been a prince—“ I’ll pick yc u some of the tu lips if you’ll wait a moment.” “ Helen, I do believe you’re the fun niest girl that ever lived!” ejaculated the child’s brother, as ho tnrned away, and with a low whistle, sauntered down the path, feeling very uncomfortable— for her conduct was a stronger reproof to him than any words could have been- Helen plucked one of each specimen of tho tulips, and there were a great va riety of these, and gave them to the child. His face brightened as he re ceived them, and thanked her. Oh! the little girl had dropped a “pearl of great price” into the black, tur bid billows of the boy’s life, and the after years should bring it up, beautiful and bright again. Twelve years had passed. The little blue-eyed girl had grown into a tall, graeefi^woman. One bright Juno af ternoon she walked with her husband through tho garden, for she was on a visit to her parents. The place was lit tle changed, and tho tulips had opened their lips of crimson and gold to the sun shine, just as they had done twelve years before. Suddenly they observed a young man in a workman’s blue overalls, lean ing over the fence, his eyes wandering eagerly from the beautiful flowers to her self. He had a frank, pleasant counte nance, and there was something in his manner that interested the gentleman and lady. “ Look here, Edward,” she said, “ I'll pluck him some of tho flowers. It al ways does me good to see people admir ing them,” and releasing her husband’s arm, she approached the paling, saying —and the smile round her lips was very like the old, child one—“ Are you fond of flowers, sir ? it will give me great pleasure to gather you some.” The young workman looked a moment very earnestly into the fair, sweet face. “Twelve years ago, this very month,” he said, in a voice deep, and yet tremulous with feeling, “ I stood here, leaning on this railing, a dirty, ragged little beggar boy, and you asked me this very ques tion. Twelve years ago you placed the bright flowers in my hands, and they made anew boy—aye, and they have made a man of me, too. Your face lias been a light, ma’am, all along the dark hours of my life, and this day that little beggar boy can stand in the old place, and say to you, though lie’s an humble and hard-working man, yet, thank God, he’s an honest one.” Tear-drops trembled like morning dew on the shining lashes of the lady, as she turned to her husband, who had joined her, and listened with absorbed as tonishment to the workman’s words. “ God,” she said, “ put it into my cliild licart to do that little deed of kindness, and see now how great is the reward that He lias given me.” And the setting sun poured a flood of rich purple light over tho group that stood there—over the workman in his blue overalls, over the lady with her golden hair, and over the proud-looking gentleman by her side. Altogether, it was a picture for a painter, but the an gels who looked down on it from heaven saw something more than a picture there. Cupid and the Tea Kettle. Erskine’s eldest brother, Lord Buchan, had throughout life those eccentricities which age only fully developed in the Ex-Chancellor. One of his lordship’s breakfast parties drew on him tho ridi cule of all the town. Lord Buchan se lected nine young ladies of rank, who were to personate the nine Muses, whilst he himself received them as “ Glorious Appolo.’’ “ Streams of weak tea, like curling incense spread, Wreath’d round the president’s belaurelled head.’ The young ladies and their host were in fancy dresses; but unluckily, the classic models, had in one instance been too closely observed, for when Cupid entered with tho tea kettle, lie had no dress whatsoever. Hereupon tho nine young ladies were so much amazed that they all started up : and tittering or screeching ran out of tho room. For this trifling blunder Apollo cared not a rush. It detracted not one iota from his own dignity in his own estimation. The classical scenes had taken place, and therewith ho was content. The Trousseau op a Princess.—The bridal arrangements, the magnificent trousseau of the bride, <fcc, in view of the approaching marriage of the Princess Royal at Berlin, attract so much atten tion that hundreds are actually going from Lqndon to witness them. There are six rooms filled with silks, satins, rib. bons, velvets, costly lacc, artificial flow ers, exquisite embroideries in gold and silver, bonnets, caps, gowns, gloves, body and table linen, diamonds and jewelry) shawls, mantles, and toilet requirements of every description, color, and material. Thirty persons have been engaged during several months on the embroidery, and 120 needle women have worked on the different articles. Maxims for Married Women. 1. Let every wife be persuaded that there are two ways of governing a fami ly ; the first is, by the suppression of that which will belong to force; tho second, to the power of mildness, to which every strength will yield. One is the power of the husband ; a wife should never employ any other arms than those of gentleness. When a woman accustoms herself to say, I will, sho deserves to lose her em pire. 2. Avoid contradicting your husband. When we smell a rose it is to imbue the sweets of odor; we likewise look for everything that is amiable in women. Whoever is often contradicted feels in sensibly aversion for the person who contradicts, which gains strength by time, and, whatever be her good quali ties, is not easily destroyed. 3. Occupy yourself only with house hold affairs; wait until your husband confides to you those of higher impor tance, and do not give your advice till he asks it. 4. Never take it upon yourself to he a censor of your husband’s morals, and do uot read lectures to him. Let your preachings boa good example, and practice virtue yourself to make him in love with it. 5. Command bis attention bv being kind to him; never exact anything and you will attain much; appear always flattered by the little he docs for you> which will excite h:m to perform more. 0. All men are vain ; never would his vanity, not even in the most trifling in stances, A wife may have more sense than her husband, but she should never seetn to know it. 7. When a man gives wrong counsel, never make him feel that ho has done so, but lead him on by degrees to wlmt is rational with mildness and gentleness, but when he is convinced leave him to the merit of having found out what is just and reasonable. 8. \\ hen a husband is out of temper, behave obligingly to him ; if he is abusive, never retort; and never prevail over him to humble him. 9. Choose well your friends, have but few, and he careful of following their advice in all matters. 10. Cherish neatness without luxury and pleasure without excess ; dress with taste, particularly with modesty; vary : n the fashions of your dress, especially as regards colors. It gives a change to the ideas, and recalls pleasing recollections. Such things may appear trifling, but they are of more importance than is imagined 11. Never bo curious to pry into your husband’s concerns, but obtain his confi deuce at all limes, by that which you re pose in him. Always preserve order and economy; avoid being out of temper and be careful never to scold; by those means ho will find his own house pleas anter than any other. 11. Seem always to obtain informa tion from him, especially before compa n y, though you may pass yourself for a simpleton. 12. Never forget that a wife owes all her importance to that of her husband. Leave him entirely master of his own actions, to go or come whenever he thinks fit. A wife ought to make her company amiable to her husband, that lie will not be able to exist without it • then he will not seek for pleasure abroad, if she do not partake of it with him. So great is the sympathy between the nerves of tho teeth and of the ear, that remedies applied to the latter, wilj relieve tho pain in the former. Laud anum, dropped upon a lock of cotton, and introdneed into the ear, will often re lieve the toothache. This is quite a pop. nlnr remedy and it is upon the same principle that the actual cautery has been applied to the antihelix of the ear to relievo painful teeth. A writer says, a lady’s beau is an animal, tret with in every social circle, and describes “ the thing ” as “ a com pound of whiskers, lavender and poma tum.” NUMBER 44. A Bold Preacher. When Samuel Davies was President of Princetown College, he visited Eng land for the purpose of obtaining do nations for the institution. George tho Second had a curiosity to hear a preach er from “the wilds of America.” He accordingly attended, and was so much struck with the commanding eloquence of the preacher, that he expressed his astonishment loud enough to be heard half-way over the church, in such terms as these :—“ He is a wonderful man ! Whv, he beats my bishops!” Davies observing that the King was attracting more attent'on than himself, paused, and looking his Majesty full in the face, gave him, in an emphatic tone, tho following rebuke :—“ When the lion roareth, let. the beast of the forest tremble; and when the Lord speaketh, let the kings of the earth keep silence.”— The king instantly shrunk back in his seat, and remained quiet during the re mainder of the sermon. Tho next day the monarch sent for him, and gave him fifty guineas for the institution over which he presided, observing at the same time to his courtiers—“ lie is an honest man—an honest man.” The fact we are about to relate has tho very rare merit of truth combin ed with the pleasant excitement to tho wonderful. Some time ago a friend of ours pur chased a imimber of picture frames, tastefully made of acorns and handsomely stained and varnished, which he placed in his library at his country house.— 1 he ensuingseason he and his family went on a rather distant tour, and for some months the country house remained closed and untenanted. The season was an unusual damp one durinr their ab sence,and upon their return itwasdeemed advisable to have their rural homestead well aired and dried by constant fires in all the rooms before inhabiting it again. Orders to this effect were therefore de spatched, and the opening began under the direction of she old housekeeper. - Windows and doors were flung wide open one after another, letting in tho sunshine to mildewed walls and hangings, until the “ household corps” arrived at tho library, when, as the first pair of shutters swung back, the breeze fluttered and played on the walls with a sound of rust ling foliage,causing a universal and rather startled movement of the eyes in thedirec tion of the mysterious sound. The aston ishment of tho gazers whrn they beheld the cause of the rustling, our readers will easily credit, when we inform them that several acorns on each picture frame had sprouted, and a grove of miniature oaks, were gently waving their tiny boughs and fluttering their dark green leaflets around the majestic brows of Washing ton, and Franklin, and Adams, and half a dozen others of our venerable fathers of the Republic. Nature her self had broken through her accustomed laws to crown these patriot heros with her own wreaths of honor, and offer, even in her dying struggles, this beautiful tribute to their memory. Now, is not this fact worth all the fables of Seherzerrade or Swift a hundred times over? Philadelphia Evening Journal. Earn your own pork, and see how sweet it will be. Work, and see how well you will be. Work, and seo bow independent you will be. Work and see how happy your family will be! Work, and see how religious you will be • for before yon know where you are, in stead of repining at Providence, you will find yourself offering up thanks for all the numerous blessings you enjov. EST ‘Tat, you have dated your letter a week ahead. It is not so late in the month by one week, yon spalpeen." “Troth, boy, indade an’ it’sjist meself what is wanting swato Kathleen to get it in advance of the mail. Sure I’ll not care if she gets it three days afore it is written, me darlin.”