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whose literary productions would do honor to some of our first-rate authors ; proof suf ficient that the pursuits of literature are not incompatible with the habits of punctuality and steadiness which business requires. Why, indeed, should not literary men be as exact and prudent in their affairs as others 1 j It is a foolish notion, and one which very generally prevails, men of genius are necessarily careless ; there are many living examples of those who are the reverse. \ One we will venture to name, who is almost Eroverbial for his punctuality, and who com ines great genius with the utmost prudence —Southey. But a very few possess the rare gift of genius, although thousands imagine they do, and therefore that they are not calculated for business. At once they trust themselves to their waxen wings, but soon sink. In i studying the lives of men of letters, such will perceive that no permanent reputation was ever hastily made; true reputation has always been a thing of growth, of time, ol labor, of trial, of patience. * ’Twas not the hasty product of a day, But the well-ripened fruit of wise delay.” They sowed before they expected to reap —they digged deep, and laid their founda tions on a rock—they did not consider auth orship the only profession exempt from a noviciate, and became the most noble to be followed with the least care. “ Wicker against literature,” said Thomas Miller, and he finished the making his has- j ket before he wrote one of his poems. Samuel Rogers forsook not the counting house desk to court the muse, until there was a balance for the day iu his favor; and such as these are far wiser than those who fancy that a man cannot work with his hands, and be a post into the bargain. We are aware that to many of the youthful posses sors of literary talent, our Fabian advice will be unpalateable ; and to some, from the pressure of circumstances, impossible ; I neveitheless, we cannot but hope that a few will give it attention. a TMU PUZZLE®, | #3r Answer to Geographical Fnigma of last week : ; PTOLEMY PHI LA DELPHU3. Solutions: Phelps —Toledo—Odessa —Little Altcy—Eustatia— Masulip atam —Yale —Paisley—Halle—ltaly—Lulea—Aleppo— Delhi—Etns—Lille — Plymouth— Himmaleli— Upsal— Salem. For the Southern Miscellany. AN ENIGMA, Which is neither Geographical or Acrostical. I am composed of fifty-three letters. My I, 9, 31, 22, 5, 14, 13, 14, 28, 16,27, 6, 7,37, 19, 18, 22, 21,26 is a commandment of Holy Writ. My 7, 23, 15, 3, C, 43, 31, 44, 45, 17, 59 is a “ damning vice.” My 37, 33, 39, 33, 41, 13, 42, 47, 53, 8, 13, 26 ia what but few can conveniently do. My 29, 25, 3,9, C, 13, 33 is dearly cherished by Amer icans. My 24, 50, 13,42, 45, 21, 41, 33 Ls a preventative a gainst celebacy. My 80, 11,49, 53, 41, 40, 24,17, “3,9, 33 leads to the perpetration of the worst of crimes. My 3, 18, 4, 19, 29, 23 ia a bur'esqim on the “ female form divine.” My 7,9, 24, 23, 44,53,42,39 is a place of quiet and re pose. My 5, 17, 6, 16, 21, 13, 23 are nearly out of fashion. My 52,41, 2,12,19, 14, 17, 18,4,21 is a temple oi Jus tice. My 20,2, 4,3, 31,35, 48 is, by sonic ludice, found to be a very convenient article. My 36, 50, 45, 36, 39 and 40, 30, 43, 12, 13 are con temptab.e in the eyes of all euve themselves. My 24,18, 6, 48, 28, 42,53,6 seldom escape* Justice. My 16, 7, 29, 49. 9, 12, 33, 24, 41,11, 51 is a great fa vorite with poets and lovers. My 44, 20, 9,30, 38,36, 45, 21, 26 are those we delight to serve. My 32, 2,12, 16,28, 42, 33 is often useful after marri age. My 37, 21, 51, 25, 19,53, 3% 44,7, 50, 12, 33 is an eye sore to rogues. My 10, 34, 46, 51, 33 is a pretty female name. My 49, 7, 52, 23 we are warned to shun. My 19,14, 45, 21, 8, 29, 9is as indispensable to semp stresses as a goose is to a tailor. Sly 21, 47, 48, 7,1, 11, 23 a for President of the United States. My 37,31, 39,44,14,23,37,42,45, 35, 19,21, 6is a du ty all should religiously perform. My whole is a piece of advice, which, if followed, will render essential service to the Slate at large, and aid a very laudable object. O. Social Circle, Walton County, Georgia, 1842. r An answer is requested. A PROPOSITION. I wish to build a house in the form of a rectangle, and I wish to know the length of the sides from these data: The house is to cover 200 square yards : the differ ence between the length of the longer side and the shorter one is 30feet ECCENTRIO. Madison, Georgia. A loafer in a neighboring Statu gives llic following account of tlie Market: “Boots is scarce—hats is clear—pants is in demand —shirts is none on hand—-dickies is dirty— coats is no where —stocks is low—weather is hot—-juleps is cold—cobblers is good— toddies is up—and cash down. No sales of any consequence of any commodity, in con sequence of their being none on hand.” ft7-A man by the name of Strikcwell has been cowhiding another by the name of Sharpsting, at Niblo’s Garden, New-York. A cotemporary thinks it rather a singular aptitude and resemblance between name and circumstance. So do we. At a meeting of a Temperance Socie ty in Lynn, Massachusetts, the following, a mong other resolutions, was unanimously passed: “ Resolved, That the presence of the la dies is evidence ot their being Ifere.” That is about as clear as the following is pithy. At a meeting recently held by the Peoples Party, in the town of I Far wick, Rhode Island, the annexed preamble and resolution were adopted : “ Whereas, We, the citizens of Warwick, have not yet been frightened— “ Therefore resolved, That we will not be frightened /” A clergyman was censuring a young la dy for tight lacing. “ Why, sir,” replied Miss, “ you would not surely recommend loose habits to your parishioners.” TIHII TIME’S CONSOLATION. O Time ! who know’at a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence — Soothing to sad repose the weary sense— Stcalest the iong-forgotten pang away ; Thee, would I coll my only hope at last. And think—when thou hadst dried the bitter tear That flow’d in vain o’er all my soul held dear- I might look back on youthful suff’rings past, To meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile ; As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour. Sings in the annbeam of the transient show’r, Forgetful, though its wing3 are wet the while : But, ah ! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure 1 Necessity of controlling the passions. —A proud .irritable, discontented & quarrelsome person, can never be happy. lie has thrown a tempestuous atmosphere around himself, and must fotever move in the region of storms. He has employed sure means to embitter life, whatever may be his ex ternal circutttstances. He lias been the ar chitect of his temper, and misery must be the result of his labor. But a person who has formed bis temper and disposition of mind after a vight model—who is bumble, meek, cheerful and conteted, can commonly find a convcnit ni shelter when overtaken by the storms of life. It should, therefore, be our eatly lesson to subject the passions, ap petites and desires, to the control and guid ance of reason. The first are the gales to impel us in the voyage of life, but the last ought to sit at the helm and direct our course. The stream, when it slowly de scends with a hoarse murmur from the mountain and ripples through the plain, j adonis and enriches the scene; but when it rushes down in a roaring and impetuous torrent, overflowing its banks, it carries de vastation and ruin along with it; so, when tlie passions, appetites and desires, are kept under due restraint, they are a useful and felicitating part of our nature; but when they are allowed to rage w'ith unbridled fu ry, they commit fearful ravages on the char acter which they were tilted to adorn and exalt. Wc must watch over the first move ments of the heart, and not indule, with I secret complacency, in imaginations which we would be ashamed to avow. If we wish the stream of life to be pure, it ought to be our aim to preserve the fountain whence it flows unpolluted. “ Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.” T lee and virtue. —That the virtuous per son, or he who performs his duty by obey ing the will of God, enjoys much happiness; and that the vicious person, or he who lives in the habitual violation of the law intima ted to him by reason and conscience, is sub ject to much infelicity, are truths so obvious that they have not escaped observation in any age. All men, indeed, suffer a greater or less degjjte of uneasiness and pain: but the virtuous man experiences far less than the vicious. The first tastes all those joys which the moral constitution of his nature imparts: the last not only loses .those joys, but suffers the miseries flowing from a dis approving mind. The good person also enjoys the esteem and affection of his fel low-men. Look at two characters; the one is pious, uptight, humane, temperate and industrious; the other is irreligious, unjust, malignant, treacherous, indolent and de bauched. Which of these two would you choose for your friend! To which of them would you commit a trust! All men in stantly, and with one voice, give the prefer ence to the virtuous character. They es teem him; they love him; they wish him well. But the vicious person is the object of their contempt and detestation. Life and its end. —Remember for what purpose you were born, and, through the whole of life, look’ at its end. Consider, when that comes, in what you will put your i trust. Not in tlie bubble of worldly vanity j —it will be broken: not in worldly plea | sures—they will be gone: not in great con j ncxions—they cannot serve you: not in wealth—you cannot carry it with you: not in rank—in the grave there is no distinction: not in the recollection of a life spent in a giddy conformity to the silly fashions of a thoughtless and wicked world; but in that of a life spent soberly, righteously and god ly, in this present world. Gaming. —Of all passions, gaming is the most dangerous and inexcusable. Agamc -1 stcr endeavors to enrich himself with the j spoils of those he calls his friends. But how | many arnties are in arms against him! Be hold that mother! her tears reproach him with the ruin of her only son! That father pronounces his name with horror and con ! tempt to his children! Pursued by hatred, overwhelmed by calumny, be feels himself condemned by reason and humanity; and, after wandering long in the mazes of vice, he finds nothing befote his eyes but ruin and remorse. The rich and'poor. —The necessity that the indigent man is under of receiving fa vors from the hand of opulence, humbles and enervates bis mind. One may safely receive benefits from another, if he have it in his power to make a suitable return; but the moment he incurs an obligation from which he caiuiot disengage himself at plea sure, that moment lie becomes a slave. His mind is brought into thraldom, and his soul is obliged to acknowledge a master. The supposed benefactor may insult liim with impunity.. He can turn neither to the right nor to the left without sullying tho purity of his virtue. If he should resent an injury, he is ungrateful; if lie submit in silence, it is imputed to baseness and cowardice of spirit. And every thing poverty receives from wealth is accounted a favor. If we lend a rich man a few dollars, it is consider ed merely as an act of common courtesy, and we think of it no more; but if we lend half the sum to a man who is in want, what then! Why we conceive that we lay him under an eternal obligation: and should he ever after refuse to comply with our de mands, however unjust or unreasonable, we publish to the world his baseness and in gratitude, and extol to the skies our own hu manity and beneficence. 3(0 Jl Ui UB lii W Written for the “Southern Miscellany.” INTELLECTUAL PLEASURES. No one, who lias experienced the plea sure which is to lie derived fronf intellectual pursuits, will doubt, that the Most High has formed us, his rational offspring, for a hap piness, more refined and noble, than the in dulgence of the senses alone. Are not tlie gratifications arising from thence, in a great measure momentary? To prolong these inferior enjoyments, is the laborious task of the slaves of appetite and fancy; but they only fatigue themselves in the attempt. Na ture becomes satiated with external plea sures; diversion of any kind, long continued becomes irksome. ’Tis true we enjoy the society of our friends, but it matters not, how delighted we may be for a time, in their company, even this delight loses its zest, when often repeated, or long continued. With what redoubled ardor, can we then turn to a well tilled library, where a rich and re galing repast, is always ready furnished. — There, we will not fail of meeting with food of every different flavor, whether of a light er, or more solid substance, agreeable to our present inclination. History, Philosophy, Poetry, and the best of authors of every class, are ever prepared to gratify, without constraint or ceremony, our intellectual taste. Nor will they take offence, at any prefer ence, which we at any time, may be dis posed to make. When we leave them, in stead of room for uneasy retrospect, the manner in which we have been employed, will be productive of self-approbation. We will feel our souls nourished and strengthen ed, our spirts cheered and elevated, or col lected and composed; and we return again to tlie duties of life, with fresh resolution, and a quicker apprehension of what devolves on us. Every thing external is hastening to change and dissolution, and can any human being, bear the thought of resigning their passage to eternity, to the blind impulse of chance, caprice, and ignorance! I can but think, that when done with earth, those who may be so fortunate as to land on that bliss ful slime, will find, that their felicity will be in proportion to their present attainments in knowledge; that the most enlarged under standings, will be rewarded by the noblest discoveries; that they who now shine in the fairest lights of wisdom, shall like the most distinguishing stars of heaven, be crowned hereafter, with superior splendor. NOVICE. Written for the “ Southern Miscellany.” POLITICIAN IN PETTICOATS. I propose now, Mr. Editor, to redeem my promise, made in a previous number of your paper; and I herewith present you the con clusion of my interview with the old lady politician. And as I have understood that some of the ladies have supposed, that the whole matter was a fiction, and only intend ed as a backhanded thrust at themselves, 1 would now take occasion to say, that it is altogether a mistake, upon their part. I have no such design in what I write. The ladies, good souls, and your humble servant, have always been upon good terms—and nothing shall occur, upon my part, to dis turb those amicable relations; for, though I am no lady’s man, yet I am the man for the ladies. Moreover, Mr. Editor, the whole story is true. It did actually occur. I have endeavored to draw a faithful picture from life. If the individual portrayed, is pre sented in a lather ridiculous point of light, the fault is not mine, but hers. Well, sir, to begin. The sun had just begun to look over the horizon, when I arose, much refreshed from the slumbers of the night. The scene of the past night was fresh in my recollection, and I promised myself much amusement from the originali ty of thought and expression of the old la dy. I attended to the duties of the toilette by guess. After which I sallied forth into the morning air—taking a turn or two in the yard, I aguiu entered the house, and near the door encountered tlie old woman. The morning light gave no new developments of physiognomy. She looked pretty much as she did the night before. She was seated in the same big arm-chair, busily engaged making or working, what the ladies call “ Tatten;” but why it is called so, I cannot see for the life of me; I should like to know. Number 2, was at her side. Both wished me good morning, when I entered the house, and I, taking a seat, returned the compli ment. “Did you rest well last night!” she asked. “Very well indeed, Madam, I am very much refreshed indeed. I hope you ob tained a good night’s repose. I think you were complaining last night a little with the rheumatism.” “ Yes, and I was bothered with the plaguy thing all night long, and can hardly get up when I am down, or down when I am up now.” “And how long have you been thus af flicted, Madam V “ About five years, sir.” “And have you found no remedy for it!” “ None that is lasting. lam much better at times, and I have sometimes thought some remedies have been of service to me—but I hardly know. I have suffered so much, that I have been induced to try almost every thing, inside and outside—until I am tiled out with remedies—and I now do nothing at all for it, and 1 dont know whether I shall take any tiling more.” “ What remedies do you think have been of most service to you, Madam ?” “ Why, I am inclined to think I have been most benefitted liy an external application of Goose Grease, rubbed on with a rabbit skin, pretty briskly.” “ 1 should think that a pleasant remedy.” “Very pleasant indeed, sir, and I believe that is the principal reason why I prefer it.” “Friction of the parts I have often known recommended, but your remedy is new to me.” “I could tell you of others, perhaps, equally as new. I have been rubbed in va rious ways. I have had cold water poured on me, and have then been rubbed down first with flannel, and then with coarse linen or tow cloth, as coarse as bagging. I have been exposed to the heat of a rousing fire, greased with British oil, and rubbed down with corn cobs. I have been almost used up with external applications —I have been rubbed and rubbed until the skin was almost rubbed oil', and yet, I am no better off than I was before; and I have taken almost every thing, from simple whiskey up to No. 6, in all the various ways in which it can be mix ed—and here I am now, none the better off for the whole kit and bilin—plague take the physic and the rheumatics too.” “And yet, Madam, though you have great reason to be discouraged, from repeated failures, I think I know a remedy which would be likely to succeed, if you would give it a fair frial.” “ What is it 1” she asked with eagerness. “It is very simple. It is Poke berry bounce.” • “Poke berry bounce! and pray how do you make it?” “It is very easily made. Take good ripe poke berries—stew them well—fill a jug with them—after which pour to them as much whiskey as the jug will contain; stop it well, and set it away for a week; after that time it will be ready for use.” “ And do you rub with it ?” “Oh no, Madam, it is to be drank.” “Drink poke benies—l’d as soon drink stump water —it is rank poison.” “You do not drink the berries, Madam, you only drink the whiskey, and you would not call that poison, would you ?” “ Why some of the new lights call it poi son. But it’s very palatable poisou, when well sweetened, and not bad to take; but about the physic, sir, tell me more of that.” “It is very innocent, Madam, as to its na ture —the whiskey is certainly the most poi sonous ingredient of the two—and its effects are truly remarkable. I have known it to cure when every other remedy tiled, had failed, I know this from experience.” “And you have had the rheumatics too— well, aint they next to kin to old Sack him self?” “I am not prepared to give an account of its genealogy—and cannot say whether it is connected with the old fellow by blood or marriage; but it is certainly a troublesome companion.” “Dreadful! dreadful! Oh me, oh dear!” and the old lady writhed as if in agony as giving force to the term dreadful, she at tempted to raise her hands, but the sudden upward raising was checked by the great pain of the effort, and she cried out in very anguish. I was really sorry for, and sympa thised with her, as much as I could. I again informed her that the remedy was certainly an excellent one, I had not only tried it my self, but had known others try it, and it hardly ever failed in affording relief in a short time. But as I was anxious to break off the conversation from this topic, I re minded her of my request of the night be fore, that she would furnish me with a copy of her verses on the hard times. This brought the old body to herself again, and 1 could see that it had more effect on her rheumatics than physic. Her pain left her on the instant; and I could see at a glance, that she was much gratified. But as it often happens with ladies, old or young, that you have to ask again and again for that thing which they are as willing to give as you to receive—so was it, with the old lady—she was determined to exercise the right of her sex, and coquet a little—she positively re fused to give me the verses. “I will not give them to you,” said she, “ you are only presiding with me.” I protested most bitterly against the charge, assured her I was never more in j Earnest in my life, than I was at that time; and expressed in suitable terms my great desire to possess so rare, and so fine a pro duclion—telling her that I envied her great ly the reputation which would be hers, whenever her verses should be spread before the world. “And do you really think they will do to publish?”. “Do to publish!” said I, in feigned aston ishment, “my dear Madam, they will be published in all the political, religious, and miscellaneous papers throughout the Union. Asa satire on whiggery, they are inimitable —and as descriptive of the hard times, I as sure you, they are hard to beat.” I saw the old lady began to cave, and I counted the verses mine. She was evident ly yielding, like wax before the fire. “Well my old man here has often said he thought my talents lay in poetry.” “Most assuredly they do, Madam, and if I only had your genius for poetry, I’d—l’d —l’d The lie stuck in my throat— my conscience demurred most stoutly—and I knocked under. “What would you do?” said the old lady, evidently eager to catch the thought I found it so hard to utter. “I would certainly cultivate it, Madam, with as much care, as the nature of my other engagements would permit, and in the end might be able to rival the greatest poets of the day. What a great misfortune you did not begin at an earlier age. How long since you began to write ?” “Since I became deaf, and have turned politician, 1 have amused myself by it—a good deal. But you mistake if you think I have written much. I have composed a great but have written but little. I think it over and over and over again, and then I never forget it—and I have no occa sion to write it. I repeat some verses some times, as I did last night when engaged in conversation about politics and the times— so that if you get any of them you will have to write them down as I tell them over to you.” “ I shall be most happy to be your scribe,” said I, “and as I have pen, ink and paper along, I will begin at once. But you must certainly allow me the liberty to publish them whenever I find it convenient to do so.” “Oh, you can do what you think proper about it. 1 have no objection at all, hut you must not mention my name. I should feel ashamed for my name to get into the pa pers.” “ You would have no cause to be ashamed if your name accompanied your poetry, Madam, even were it written in the broad est capitals. Ashamed! why others would glory in it—as soon would I expect the mo ther to be ashamed of her first born, her fair and beautiful boy, as that any author would be ashamed to affix his or her name to the poetical specimens you gave me last night. All I can say is, that if all are as good as these, you have reason to be proud of your verses —anti proud of your gifts, Madam. Ashamed indeed!—they will, if you will allow me to mention your name, become your crown of rejoicing—and I shall feel greatly honored myself in being the medium through which these verses shall find the light.” But I could not persuade her to let her name be affixed to them; so the literary world will have to puzzle their brains to find out. All I can say about it is, that before she would let me copy them oft', she made me pro mise most faithfully, that if they were pub lished, that I must keep dark, and look se vere—and after the world had got upon the tiptoe to find out the author, that then, per haps, she would condescend to slip from be hind the clouds of concealment, and aston ish the world with her name, as she had already done with her verses. So, good reader, you see my predicamet. lam bound not to disclose the name of the gifted au thoress of the following poem; so, however anxious you may be to know—and who will not be anxious!—l cannot tell you—sodon’t ask me. JOSHUA SWIPES. Yamacraw, May 13,1512. P. S. During breakfast, which was an nounced about the time our conversation had arrived at the point indicated above, our old lady introduced the subject of religion; and I intended in this chapter to give her re marks upon that, as also some further hints on politics, which engaged us after breakfast while my horse was being caught, but I must defer it for the present. J. SWIPES. The Old Lady's Verses—alias Poetry— alias The times are tight and money scarce, And creditors look very fierce, And it’s hard times. Now let me tell you, if you please, What’s made us kick up such a breeze, And cry it’s hard times. Until from Georgia unto Maine, We hear the oft repeated strain, Oh yes, it's hard times. The Whigs—nay, but it is a fact, Passed first the bill act To ease thWiard times. And next the distribution bill Was passed, our pockets all to fill, And it’s hard times. Again they passed the Bankrupt laws, With here and there a saving clause, And it’s hard times. The Loan hill next was on the docket. Ah, that would fill Uncle Sam's pocket, Against the hard times. From trick to trick—from shift to shift, The Whigs have gone, to make a lift, And it's hard times. Experiments have all been tried, And some have sworn and some have lied, And it’s hard times. Until old llarrv Clay himself, Laid as he is upon the shelf, Cries out, it’s hard times. The greatest of all coonskin hutnbuggers, Hal Clay, Has resigned, and to Kanetuck is now making his way, And it’s hard times. To build a great Bank, he set down to work. But Tyler knocked it all up with a backhanded jerk, And it’s hard times. The poor Whiggies no ware nil in a great pother, So that you can now hardly tell the one from the other, And it’s hard times. , Great promises they made of large prices for wheat, For cotton and corn, labor, whiskey and meat, But it’s hard times. The Farmer lods his wagon with his own cotton bags, And sells them in Macon for lampblack and rags, And it’s hard times. Now I think myself, without joking or jesting, The Whigs have too long the land been infesting, For it’s hard times. But their ranks are now broken, and I hope before long, I shall no longer hear the old hacknied song Os its hard times. Their watchword no longer is now Tip and Tyler, For Tyler himself has burst his own boiler, And it's hard times. To bamboozle the peopie they cried Tip and Ty, But now the whole mulgus is blow’d up sky high, And it’s hard times. The poor Whigs are out at their elbows and knees, For they dont handle much of the Government’s fees, And it’s hard times. After all their great boasting, they’ve fallen quite thro,, Kicked up a tall rumpus, and made a great stew, And it’s hard times. And poor Tyler now, betwixt friends and foes, Is a case quite in point, to prove as he knows That it's hard times. It makes the Democrats all kind o’laugh in their sleeve i To see the poor Whiggies, how they fret and they grieve That it’s hard times. But Benton, God bless him, will keep ‘em all straight And tells them most clearly what must be their fate, And it’s hard times. For a house so divided, most surely must fall. Then farewell old Harry, Tip, Tyler and all, Aint it hard times ? Good by to your coonskins, log cabins, and hard cider, The crack nags have caved in, and so has their riders, Still it’s hard times. J County, Ga. April 10,1842. Written for the “ Southern Miscellany.” THE DOCTOR. ” Och! Hullaloo, Hullaloo! Oh ! why did you die ? McToodle, my darlint, The Docthor was nigh.”— lrish nowr.. The trading business of the day, at five in the afternoon, had just given that twilight to trade, which, to a man who stands up to it all day long, is indeed a treat. I had just set my pen in the inkstand, and was reclin ing at leisure on the back of my chair—in dulging in a pleasant reverie of feeling. Another day had nearly slipped off the calen der of time—l had tried to do that which was right in the sight of God—and felt that my labors amongst my fellow men had not been vainly spent. But enough of prosing. In stepped a portly old gentleman, clad in that domestic garb so creditable to the in dustrious females of our country—a cop peras colored suit of homespun. It present ed several shades—for the sun could not shine all over him at once. He had both latitude and longitude. I should say, if his name was not “Goliah,” it ought to be. The expression of his face savored some thing of an apple dumpling which had burst itself in boiling—the only difference must be allowed in the color. I should say ho was not a member of a temperance society. “Well, Mister, ain’t your name R .” “Exactly,” said I. “Do you ever trade for notes?” “Certainly—Bank notes, when we can get good ones.” “You know Mr. W , don’t you ?” “ Like a book,” said I. “Well, I have his note for five dollars, and I want to trade it to you for a hat; the old gentleman is mighty good; I sold hint some medicine to cure him and his family, and took his note.” “Ah ! then you are a Doctor!” “No, not'a doctor; I used to trade in bacon and horses into this State. I was diseased with dyspepsia and liver com plaint; but I cured myself, so I thought I could cure others. I can cure all sorts of consumption, fevers, liver complaints, rheu matics, ague, gTavel, sick head-ache, bowel complaints,” “Stop! a little if you please, my dear sir—that’s enough at once, 1 that’s sufficient,’ as Tom Haynes said, when they showed him the Elephant. If you could cure any one of those diseases you have named, you would have no occasion to travel about. Thousands of afflicted mor tals would find you out, and little short of adoration upon earth, as well as worldly wealth would be your portion.” I am rather a short spoken man; and of all things upon earth I do hate a humbug. 1 felt that one of these compounds of ignor ance and folly stood before me. I fear that his age did not shelter him from the severe castigation which I give him, in one of my frowning castes of countenance. I was really angry. There was an industrious eld man, who labored hard to earn a subsistence-, imposed upon by a travelling quack, who said “he felt it his duty to go about doing good.” “Go about!” said I—“clear out— you are a humbug; and the greatest pity that I know is, that all the simple, indus trious, honest people amongst whom you will move and gull! will not be able to de tect it.” . It is to be regretted, that there is such a fondness for the nostrums and prescriptions of quacks. I should say, one of the great est (in size) not in mind, “made himself scarce” out of my store, no doubt thinking to himself, “all the fools ain’t dead yet;’ I’ll go on.” Q. Written for the “Southern Miscellany.” A short notice of anew and interesting work recently published in the town of Madison, Morgan County, Georgia, and now to be seen by application to old Aunt Tamar. — By J. Brown, of Pinchback. Mr. Editor —We live in an age of im provement: every breeze almost bears upon its wings the story that another and another is added to the already swollen catalogue of discoveries which are making in the civiliz ed world. Every department of specula tive and practical knowledge is receiving daily, nay, almost hourly additions. By some, our age has been termed the utilitari an age: Perhaps.no department in mechan ics has in these late years excelled the im provements in the art of printing, and no class of our citizens has increased more rapidly than Bookmakers. Indeed, sir, an author is now looked upon, in many parts of the country, as a very ordinary and eve ry-day-sort of a personage, and book-mak ing has become a regular trade. But from these facts we may gather some useful hints, and one of them is this, that as in every ov ertrade there are many persons to be found, who never become any thing more than coblera or botchers—so is it with bookma! - ing. Many persons engage in this trade, who are, as Davy Crockett has it, evidently “ barking up the wrong tree.” Another useful hint which we gather is thi*, that as the world has improved with rapid strides in the march of mechanics, it has advanced with equal rapidity in the march of mind ; and as this is the case, the country is ever on the lookout for new and interesting publications, whether they should relate to agriculture, commerce, or the arts, or sciences, or whether they embody facts, or deal alone in fiction. The avidity mani fested upon the part of the eou'utry to obtain every thing new in the literary world, has made it necessary that there should be cer tain persons competent to the task, whose duty it should be to read carefully, and re view, critically, all new boohs, as they issue from the press or manufactory ; for it is a fact, Mr. Printer, that your craft is in dan ger, for authors have now, in some parts of the country, become so chary of their fame, and sofearful to trust their productions in the hands of publishers, lest a typographical er ror, or some other cause should mar the fair proportions of a word, or destroy the rhe torical rotundity of a sentence, that they have altogether abandoned the oldfasbionea practice of printing with types upon paper, and have adopted the new and remarkable plan of doing their own printing on parch ment cut from the trunk of a pine tree. The advantages of this plan, you will perceive, are very great. It is certainly economical, be cause pine boards, in this wooden country .will cost nothing like as much as paper—besides books of this description will endure far rougher usage than books made in the usual way, and for school purposes are invaluable. I would like to see a chap at school nibbling at the corners of a primer made of heart pine, or tear out one of the “ picters,” which are so beautifully sketched on the pages of some of these books. I have been led to these reflections, sir, by my desire to introduce to your readers a new and stereotyped edition of a work which has now passed through a fourth edi tion of the description indicated above. I# is neatly “ got up,” as the booksellers say, but thanks to the new improvement of the day—it is neither done up in calf, or sheep, or morocco, or muslin, but is most neatly bound with a strip of plank about one inch thick. This binding sets off the exterior most handsomely, and combines, what is better than all, and suits this age, the useful with the ornamental. The inside of the book certainly does not discredit the outside. Its leaves or rather leaf, for it has but one, is made of the most beautiful piece of heart pine, handsomely polished, and whitened by the artist’s hand, and the letters have been produced from anew kind of type, made of hogs’ bristles, and it is most hand somely embellished with an engraving, I presume of some distinguished personage, whose name, however, tne author has not seen proper to give ns. The work is the production of J. Brown of Pinchhack. But it is to the literary department of the work in question, that I would more parti cularly call your attention, and through your paper, the attention of tho literary world.