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_ VOLUME X. (Original Poftn;. For the Visitor. SPEAK KINDLY. 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. Jenny Woodbine. Georgia. 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! A LYRIC. [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 WIDOW. 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 woman.” “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 proffered her. “ 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 mand me.” “ 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 ed.” “ I, really, madam—that is, I have no control, in that way—how much is the bill ?” “ Seventy dollars, sir; here it is.” “ Exactly; I see. And his salary, Madam ?” “ 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 doubt.” “ 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 books, again. The poor boardinghouse keeper called again upon the General, a few hours afterward, “ 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 the same. “ 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 amazed. “ 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 once. On the next morning, he found upon his desk a note which contained the fol. lowing entertaining bit of personal in telligence : 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 Department. Yours, 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 nings. 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 evening. 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 destruction.— Presbyterian. 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 HI HF mm . Wm mm 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 operation. “ 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 ?” said I. 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 anchor. 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 t W f , Mr- 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 low. “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 help!” “ 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 him. 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 lost. “ 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 very extensive. 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 to eat.’ ‘Why John, there’s nothing cooked.’ * Well, get up and cook something.’ ‘ Why, John there’s nothing to oook.’ ‘ Nothing at all ?’ ‘No.’ ‘ Well, get up and ’clean a kuifj and fork*—l’ll go through the motions, any how.’ 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*.