For the Visitor.
SpeAk kindly to the erring one—
Strive by a gentle word
To soothe the hearts of those by whom
■ Kind words are seldom heard ;
-And never to the human heart,
/ By word or deed, give pain,
f For when the arrow’s planted there,
I TheraJong it will remain.
Speak kindly to the grief-bowed one—
Grief too may visit thee,
And dim thy bright and radiant eye —
Tlum knowest such can be.
Then add no shade to the pale face
That e’er must wear a cloud;
By idle jests pain not the ear
Os those in anguish bowed.
Speak kindly to the suffering poor—
Theirs is a weary lot;
A gentle Word, a pitying look.
By them is ne’er forgot.
Oh! never pass such coldly by,
For they are often met.
kindly, *tis an easy tusk,
dim} one Vou’il ne'er regret.
jPpeak kindly to thy bitten st too—
Tli.us make of him a friend:
" ’Tis said that virtue pardons first
Those whom she would amend.
Then speak the kind and pitying word,
It will not cost thee much;
• ‘ And some poor erring, suttering heart
Thy gentle word may touch.
Speak kindly to the troubled heart—
Thus strive to give it rest;
For well WO know “ life’s litt’e day
Isa weary one nt best ”
Speuk kindly to earth’s millions all,
Even as thy Savior spake:
And by kind words and gentle deeds,
This earth an Eden make.
WILT THOU LOVE IIER STILL?
Wilt thou love her still, when the suuny curls,
That over her bosom flow,
Will be placed with the silver threads of age,
And her step falls sad and slow ?
Wilt thou love her still, when the summer smiles
On her lips no longer live?
“I will lovdher still,
With a right good will!”
Thou wilt love her still ? then our cherished one
To thy sheltering arms we give.
Wilt thou love her still, when her changeful eyes
Huve grown dim with sorrow ’s ruin;
When the bosom that beats against thine own
Throbs slow with the weight of pain ;
When her silvery laugh l ings out no more,
And vanished her youthful eh inns ?
“ With free good will,
I shill love her still!’*
Thou wilt love her still? then our dearest one
We give to thy loving arms.
Ben.cniber, no grief lias she ever known,
Her spirit is light and free;
None other, with fultcrless step, has prest
Its innermost shades, but thee!
Thou wilt love her still, when thoughts of youth
In their blushing bloom depart?
“ Through good and ill,
I will love her still!”
Thou wilt love her still ? then our darling take
To the joy of thy noble heart!
Remember tor thee does she willingly leave
The friends of her early days;
No longer to meet their approving looks,
Nor their fond, unfeigned praise,
Forgive her, then, if the tears full fast,
And promise to love her well.
“I will love her still,
With right good will!”
Thou wilt love her still ? then with peaceful trust
Wc our sobbing sorrow quell.
When her father is dead, and the emerald sod
Lies soft on her mother’s breast;
When her brother’s voice is no longer heard,
And her sister’s hushed to rest;
Wilt thou love her still? for to thee she looks,
Her star on life’s troubled sea!
u I will love her still,
Through good and ill!”
With her marriage vow on her youthful lip?
Then, we give our child to thee!
[One of Heinrich Heine’s strange and wild, but
poetical by Lcland.J
My heart, my heart is weary,
Yet merrily beams the May;
And I lean against the linden,
High up on the terrace gray.
The town-moat far below me
► Runs silent, and sad, and blue;
A boy in a boat floats o’er it,
Still fishing and whistling too.
And a beautiful, varied picture
Spreads out beyond the flood;
Fair houses, and gardens, and people,
And cattle, and meadow, and wood.
Young maidens are bleaching the linen,
They laugh as they go and come;
And the mill-wheel isdrippingwith diamonds,
I list for its faraway hum.
And high on yon old gray castle
A sentry-box peeps o’er;
While a youDg red-coated soldier
Is pacing beside the door.
He handles his shining musket,
Which gleams in the sunlight red;
He halts, he presents, and shoulders—
I wish he’d shoot me dead.
Cl Soul Ij era WerkU) Citcrnn) mvtj Htiscdlmieoits 3 •
31 Capital Stonj,
GEN. JACKSON AND THE
Many of our readers will recognize
the point of the following joke, which
we heard related “ long time ago,” but
which we never saw in print. It is a
“good’un,” and will bear re telling.
bile General Jackson was President
of the United States, lie was tormented
day after day by importunate visitors,
■ (as most Chief Magistrates of this “great
'country” are,) whom he did not care to
see ; and in consequence, he gave strict
directions to the messenger at his door,
to admit only certain persons, on a par
ticular day, when he was busier with
State affairs, then usual.
In spite of this peremptory order, how
ever, the attendant bolted into hisapart
mentduring the forenoon and informed the
General that a person was outside whom
he could not control, and who claimed
to see him, orders or no orders.
• “By the Eternal !” exclaimed the old
man, nervously, “ I won’t suomit to this
annoyance. Who is it ?"
“ Don’t know, sir.”
“ Don’t know ? What’s his name !”
“ His name ! Beg pardon, sir ; it’s a
“A woman! Show her in, James;
show her in,” said the President, wiping
his.-face; and the next moment, there
entered thc'General’s apartment a neat
ly clad female of past the “ middle age,”
who advanced courteously towards the
old man, and accepted li e chair he
“ Be seated, madam,” he said.
“ Thank you,” responded the lady,
throwing aside her veil, and revealing a
handsome face to the entertainer.
“ My mission hither, to day, General,”
continued the fair speaker, “ is a novel
one, and you can aid me, perhaps.’’
“ Madam,” said the Goueral, “com
“ You are very kind, sir. I am a poor
woman, General ”
“Poverty is no crime, madam.”
“No, sir. But I have a little family
to care for—l am a widow, sir; and a
clerk employed in one of. the depart
ments of your administration, is indebt
ed to me for board, to a considerable
amount, which I cannot collect. I need
the money,'sadly, and I come to ask if
a portion of his pay cannot bo stopped,
from lime to time, until this claim of
mine—an honest one, General, of which
he had the full value—shall be cancel
“ I, really, madam—that is, I have no
control, in that way—how much is the
“ Seventy dollars, sir; here it is.”
“ Exactly; I see. And his salary,
“ It is said to be $1,200 a year.”
“And not pay his board-bill?”
“As you see, Sir; this has been stand
ing, five months, unpaid. Three days
hence, he will draw his monthly pay;
and I thought, Sir, if you would bo kind
enough to ”
“Yes, I have it. Go to him again
and get his note, to-day, at thirty days.”
“ His note, Sir! It wouldn’t be worth
the paper on which it was written ; he
pays no one a dollar, voluntarily.
“ But he wifi give you his note—will
he not, madam ?”
“O, yes: he would be glad to have a
respite in that way for a month, no
“ That’s right, then. Go tohim, obtain
his note, at thirty days from to day,
give him a receipt in full, and come to
me this evening.”
The lady departed, called upon the
young lark, dunned him for the amount
—at which he only smiled—and, finally
asked him to give her his note for it.
“To be sure,” said he, “ give a note
—sart’n. And much good may it do
you, mum.” '
“You’ll pay it when it falls due, won’t
you, sir—thirty days hence ?”
“0, yes—sart’n, of course I will; I al
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, DECEMBER
ways pay my notes, mum, /do 1” and as
the lady departed, the knowing young
gent, believed he had accomplished a
very neat trick, once more.
“I wonder whatthe deuce she’ll do with
that note ? Gad! I’d like to settle some
o’ the other accounts in the same way.—
Hope she’ll have a good time getting the
money on that bit of paper. John
Smith i5 rather too well known for that 1”
And he turned, with a chuckle, to his
The poor boardinghouse keeper called
again upon the General, a few hours
“ Did you get the note, madam ?”
“ Yes, sir—here it is.”
The President quickly turned it over,
and with a dash of his pen, wroto the
name of Andrew Jackson, upon the
back of it!
“ Take this to the bank to morrow
morning, madam, and you can get the
money for it,” he said, hurriedly.
The lady acted accordingly, and
found no difficulty in obtaining the cash
for it, at sight.
A week before that month’s termina
tion, Mr. John Smith received a notice
to the following effect:
Bank of Washington, , 1832.
Sir; —Your note for seventy dollars
is due on '.he 27th inst., at this Bank,
and you requested to call and pay
“ 11a, ha!” screamed John, upon read
ing this brief note. “A capital joke,
that. Can’t come it mum—can’t no
how ! ’’Scarecrow—left for collection—
I un’stand—won’t do —no go!” and
John very soon forgot it.
But “ pay-day,” came round again—
and John took his monthly stipend
once more, SIOO, from the Cashier of
the Department, as usual. As ho pass
ed dowu the Avenue, the unpaid board
bill suddenly entered pis head.
“ Who the dcncc now, has been fool
enough to help that old ’oinan, in this
business, I wonder?” said John, to him
self. “ Gad ! I’ll go and see. It’s all a
hum, I know ; but I’d like to know if
she has really fooled anybody with that
bit ’o paper ;” and entering the Bank, he
asked for the note, “ left there for col
lection against him.”
“It was discounted,” said the Teller.
“ Discounted ! why, who in the world
will discount my note ?” asked John
“ Anybody, with such a backer as
you’ve got on this.
“ Backer ! Me—backer, who ?”
“ Here’s the note ; you can see,” said
the Teller, handing him the document—
on which John instantly recognized the
bold signature of the then President of
the United Stales!
“Sold—by Moses !” exclaimed John,
drawing forth the money, with a hyster
ic gasp—for hesaw through the manage
ment, at a glance.
The note was paid of course, and jus
tice was awarded to the spentbrift, at
On the next morning, he found upon
his desk a note which contained the fol.
lowing entertaining bit of personal in
To John Smith, Esq.,
Sir :—A change having been made
in your office, I am directed by the
President to inform you that your servi
ces will no longer be required by this
John Smith retired to private lifeatonce,
and thenceforward found it convenient to
live on a much smaller yearly allowance
than twelve hundred a year.
A Yankee is self-denying, self-re
lying, and into everything prying. He
is a loverfof piety, propriety, notoriety,
and the temperence society. He is a
bragging, dragging, striving, thriving,
swapping, jostling, wrestling, musical,
quizzeal,astronomical, philosophical, poet
ical and criminal sort of character, whose
mauifest destiny is to spread civilization
to the remotest corner of the earth.
Where do you spend your Eve
This is a question that might well be
sounded in the ears of every youug inan
during every week in the year. I ad
dress it particularly to them. Where
do you spend your days I need not in
quire. .Some of you pass them in onA
mode of honorable labor, mid
another—one in the cotmting
other in the office, another
plough, another on the bench,
over the anvil. But where, do yon
your evenings? This is a vital
and it relates to a young man’s
future destiny. Nfl
If you spend them in certain placa|
that 1 could mention, you are not rontle
much better by it, and must have a care,
lest by so doing, you are preparing to
spend your long eternity in remorse and
despair. If you spend your evenings in
I a drinking saloon, whether above ground
or below ground, whether it be crimson
ed, gilded and cliandeliered, o> only a
subteranean den, I will tell you what you
will gain by that. You will gain a loss
in several ways. You will be poorer by
[several shillings every week; for this
j business of “ treating” your fellow-loun
gers whom you meet there, is not the
} best thing for a man’s purse. You will
; gain a prodigious amount of self-con
tempt, and perhaps the contempt of
some others likewise. You will gain
some habits which it is not very ea»y to
get rid of, and pick up some acquaintan
ces who would rather get their grog-ra
tions out of your pockets than out of
their own, which were emptied long ago.
You will gain, if you are not careful, the
tremendously fearful habits ofthedrunk-
I aid—and at the end of a wretched lifo
of vice, pauperism, and self loathing, you
may gain that most appaling of resting
! places, a drunkard's grave ! If you do
| not wish your evenings in this life to be
the prelude to an eternal night of berror
in the world to come then avoid the place
where men deal out poison by the glass
and chuckle over the self-immolation of
their unhappy victims.
This warning will apply also to many
other of resort—to the
gambling saloon, the theatre, and the
house of shame. You may not be able
to spend every evening at home, and
some of you may have no homes. You
may often find it profitable to spend your
evenings in the house of prayer. You
may often ieavo jour own doors, and
with a clean conscience, too, visit the
temperance meeting, or the lecture-room,
where popular addresses are delivered.
One night, the debating club may invito
you. On another evening, the music
class may afford you at once a healthy
recreation, and anew source of perennial
delights. But even theso should not
occupy all your evenings. To theAome
less they may be recommended for every
But if you have a quiet, well-ordered
home, or anything that deserves the
name of home, then there is the placo
for the majority of your leisure hours.—
It is not good to be in public, or “ socie
ty” (as the phrase is,) too much. A
good home is the place for a noble soul
to expand in—to cultivate domestic feel
ings, to enlarge the kindly sympathies,
to avoid temptations, and to prepare
for the duties and the perils of after-life.
If you have a home, stick to it. Do not
give it up for the club of smokers and
swearers, for the drinking-circle or the
card table, nor every trifling entertain
ment got up by traveling mountebanks.
Never let the clock strike twelve away from
that home. Many a youth is decoyed
away to des'riction while his parents or
employers are asleep. Many a guilty
conscience is borne every midnight thro’
the silent streets from some placo of un
hallowed mirth, or wickedness, to a
prayerless bed. lie who is often out of
his bed nt midnight, is usually busy in
driving some bargains with the devil for
his immortal soul. The heavy footfall
that we hear beneath our windows on
the pavement, is oftentimes the tread of
a ruined youth hurrying onward to
Sam Slicks Bargain.
“ You will find,” said the Doctor
“ the men (I except the other sex al
ways,) are as acute as you are at a bar
gain. You are more likely to be bitten
than to bite, if you try that game with
- !. •' 1 sell
1 ‘ wi f * lip
WW" 1,1 a 'l ; lor what yn
J ™s," saiA*lie.
“ What’s the price,” said I, “ cash
down on the nail ?”
I knew the critter would see “ the
point” of coming down with the blunt.
“ It’s ten dollars and a half,’ 1 said he,
“a cord at Halifax, and it don’t cost me
nothing to carry it there for I have my
own shallop—but I will sell it for ten
dollars to oblige you.”
That was just seven dollars more than
it was worth.
“ Well,” sais I, “ that’s not high, only
cash is scarce. If you will take macker
el in pay, at six dollars a barrel, (which
was two dollars more than its value)
praps we might trade. Could you sell
mo twenty cord ?”
“ Yes, may be twenty-five.”
“ About the mackerel,” said I.
“ Oh,” said ho, “ mackerel is worth
only three dollars and a half at Halifax.
1 can’t sell mine even at that. I have
sixty barrels nuidber one for sale.”
“ If you will promise mo to lot me have
all the wood I want, more or less,” savs
I, “even if it is ever so little, or as much
as thirty cords, at ton dollars a cord,
real rock maple, and yellow birch, then
I will take all your mackerel at three
dollars and a half, money down.”
“Say four,” said he.
“ No,”says I, “you say you can’t get
but three and a hall at Halifax, and I
won’t beat you down, or advance one
cent myself. Bat mind, if I oblige you
by buying all your mackerel, you must
also oblige mo by letting me have all the
wood 1 want.”
“ Done,” said ho.
So we warped into the wharf, took
the fish on board, and paid him the mon.
ey, and cleared fifteen pounds by the
“ Now,” says I, “ where is the wood ?”
“ All this is mine,” said he pointing
to a pile, containing about fifty cords.
“ Can I have it all, if I want it ?”
He took oft Iris cap and scratched
his head —scratching helps a man to
think amazingly. He thought lie had
better ask a little more (ban ten dollars
as I appeared ready to buy at any price.
So he said,
“ Yes you may have it all for ten and
a half dollars.”
“ I thought,” sais I, “ you said I might
have what I wanted at ten.”
“ Well, I have changed my mind,”
said he, “ it is too low.”
“And so have I,” sais I. “I won’ttrade
with a man that acts that way,” and I
went on board, and the men castoff, and
began to warp the vessel again up to her
Lewis took off his cap*and
scratching his head again ; he had over
reached himself. Expecting an immense
profit on his wood, he had sold his fish
very low; he saw I was in earnest, and
jumped on board.
“Captain, you will liave him at
ten, so much ns you want of him.”
“ Well, measure me oft half a cord.”
“ But didn’t you say you wanted
twenty or thirty cords ?”
“ No,” sais I. “ You said that I
might have that much if I wanted it,
but I don’t want it; it is only worth
threo dollars, and you have the modesty
to ask ten, then ten and a half; but
I will take half a cord -to please you—so
measure it off.”
He stormed, and raved, and swore, and
Mr. Amidown was a
and renown.” But, his credi^^^BlA.
at the tavern : and his renown
of a miserable and bloated rum -drinTJ
One night, ns usual, he had been at the
village grog shop and, in an advanced
state of booziness, set out, towards mor
ning, to go home, to the bosom of his
family. He had often at that hour ob
served peculiar phenomena in nature, not
predicted in any popular almanac: but
creation had never appeared to him so
very queer as on that memorable occa
sion. There were three or four miserable
looking moons; the stars had a loose
and shaken-up-appearance—there were
double-stars, triple-stars, shooting stars
no fixed stars, but, suddenly, any quan
tity of newly-created stais, which ap
peared to be in neither heaven nor earth,
but in a vast region opened just behind
Mr. Amidown’s left eyebrow. In fact,
his head had come in voilent contract
with the side of the road—another un
accountable phenomenon. Being a good
deal discouraged, he concluded to lie
there until the universe came right-side
up again, and stopped whirling; and
was found in this stato by a faimer who
bad set out thus early to carry a load of
produce to market.
“What are you dowtp here for?
What’s your name?” says the farmer.
“ Amidown !” drawled the poor fel
“Down? yes, flat enough I” exclaimed
the farmer. “ Who are you ? What’s
your name ?”
“Am-i-down!” articulated the victim
with maudlin enpbasis.
“Os course you are 1 Flat as a pan
cake. Tell me what your namo is, if you
want me to help you.”
“ Am-i-down, I say !”
“ I say yes, you are ! Don’t ask that
again! If you can’t tell me your name,
I shall go on and leave you.”
“ Am-i-down !” roared the toper.
“Well done!” said the farmer, losing
patience, “ a man that’s so drunk ho can’t
tell his name, and don’t know whether
lie’s down or up, don’t deserve any
“ Am-i-down ,” spluttered the man who
had fallen by the wavside.
“You’ll find out whether you are down
or not, before I help you—if you can’t
tell your name ;” and so saying, the good
Samaritan mounted his wagon and drove
on. Arrived at ilio village, lie told his
story', which created great amusement,
and which Mr. Amidown never heard
the last of, until ho was down in earnest
not on the roadside, but in the pauper’s
burying-ground, to which hard drinking
and lying out of nights had soon brought
Gems from Flavel. —Providence is
like a curious piece of tapestry, made of
a thousand shreds, wliii h, single, appear
useless, but, puj. together, they represent
a beautiful history
There is is no reason to fear the ruin
of that pcopld who thrive by their losses
and multiply by being diminished.
Be not too hasty to bury the church
before she is dead ; stay till Christ has
tried his skill, before you give her up for
“ Hush,” —Here is the last “good
thing” about the hoops :
Little Boy—“ Ma, what is ‘h ush ?”
Mother—“ Why, my dear ? why do
you ask ?”
Little Boy—“ Because I asked sister
Jane yesterday, what made her now dress
stick out so, and she said ‘ hush! ’
/grit is said that then are more
lies told in the brief sentence, “ I am
glad to see you,” than in any other sin
gle sentence in the English language.
:-'■■■■ - ’l
! ” I
1' to av.-
Babylon, hii.l-mn ■'
480 stadiums in
dium is the eighth part of a mile, tmS
makes only 60 miles, or 18 miles broad
each way of a circle. But supposing it
built along the river, it may have been
24 miles long. It is a difficult subject.
The ruins of Nineveh still remain at
Mosul, and Jonah’s tomb is there shown.
Many interesting pieces of sculpture are
now being dug from the ruins, which are
Fault finding llcsdands. —We are
in the daily receipt of letters (says an
exchange ) from discouraged and despon
dent wives, who state that their husbar.ds
continually scold and find fault with them,
no matter how hard they try to 2>lease >
and the writers also ask what they can
do to satisfy the unreasonable men, and
gain a little peace and comfort?—
To all these unfortunate wives, we can
only say—You will have to look for
peace in the grave. A man'who habit
ually scolds his wife, and who b given
to constant fault finding at home, is be
yond the reach of reformatory human
influence. A scolding wife is bad
enough, but a fault finding husband i*
altogether disgusting and disgraceful:
he is an ignoble tyrant —a nuisance—a
pest, and ought to be extinguished like a
bedbug or a cockroach.
j Thick and Thin. —Thomas Jefferson
was tall and very thin. .Gen. Knox was
| very short and very thick. The two
met one day at the door of Washington’s
house in Philadelphia. While they were
there bowing in the street, each insisting
that the other should take precedence,
up comes a Mr. Peters, a wit of that day
who, casting a sly gla.ico from one to the
ether, pushed boldly between them, ex
claiming, “Pardon me, gentlemen, if in
haste I dash through Thick and Thin.
£3T The celebrated Dean Swift, in
preaching an assize sermon, was severe
against the lawyers for pleading against
their consciences. After dinner a young
counsellor said some severe things against
the clergy, and added that he did not
doubt, were the devil to die, a parson
might be found to preach bis funeral
sermon. “ Yes,” said Swift, “ I would,
and would give the devil his duet 83 I
did his children this morning.”
‘ Betsy, up and get something
‘Why John, there’s nothing cooked.’
* Well, get up and cook something.’
‘ Why, John there’s nothing to oook.’
‘ Nothing at all ?’
‘ Well, get up and ’clean a kuifj and
fork*—l’ll go through the motions, any
jgr One of the townsmen meeting
with one of the strolling organ players
was inclined to engage in conversation
with him and asked him :
“ What partin the grand drama of
life do you perform ?”
“ I mind my [own business,” the was
brief and pointed reply.
£3T Lentil the time of King Edward 1.
the English penny was so deeply indeo
ted that it might easily be broken and
parted, on occasions, in two parts— these
were called half-pence; or into four—
these were called four things, farthing*.