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explained; and the chain, the.broken link of which was found ndar the slaughtered animals—it cant* from hit broken chain—the chain he had snap ped, doubtless, in his escape from the asylum where his raging frenzy had been fettered ami bound. The scourge —its marks were there; and the scars of the hard iron fetters, and many a cicatrice and. welt that told a dismal tale of harsh usage. But now he was loose, free to play the brufe —the bait ed, tortured brute that they had mwde him —now without the cage, and ready to gloat over the victims his strength should overpower. Horror! horror! I was the prey —the victim—already in the tiger’s clutch ; and a deadly sickness came over me, and the iron entered into my soul, and I longed to scream, and was dumb! I died a thou sand deaths as that awful morning wore on. I dared not faint. But words cannot paint what I suffered— waiting till the moment when he should open his eyes and be aware of my presence; for I was assured he knew it not. He had entered the chamber as a lair, when weary and gorged with his horrid orgie; and lie had flung himself down to sleep without a suspi- cion that he was not alone. Even his grasping my sleeve was doubtless an - act done betwixt sleeping and waking, like bis unconscious moans and laugh ter, in some frightful dream. Hours went on; then I trembled as I thought that soon the house would be astir, that my maid would come to call me as usual, and awake that ghastly sleeper. And might he not have time to tear me, as he tore the sheep, be fore my aid could arrive ? At last what I dreaded came to pass —a light footstep on the landing—there is a tap at the door. A pause succeeds, and then the tapping is renewed, and this time more loudly. Then the madman stretches his limbs and uttered his moaning cry, and his eyes slowly open ed —very slowly opened, and met mine The girl waited awhile ere she knock ed for the third time. I trembled lest she should open the door unbidden— see that grim thing, and by her idle screams and terror bring about the worst. Long before strong men could arrive I knew that I should be dead— ami what a death ! The maid waited, no doubt surprised at my unusual sound slumbers, for 1 was in general a light sleeper and an early riser, but reluctant to deviate from habit by en tering without permission. I was still alone with the thing in man’s shape, but he was awake now. I saw him stare at me half vacantly, then with a crafty yet wondering look; and then I saw the devil of murder begin to peep forth from those hidden eyes; and the lips to part as in a sneer, and the wolfish teeth to bare themselves. Bat I was not what I had been. Fear posure —a courage foreign* so ture. I had heard of the best method of managing the insane; I could but try; I did try. Calmly, wondering at my own calm, I fronted the glare of those terrible eyes. Steady and undaunted was my gaze —motionless my attitude. I marvelled at myself, but in that agony of sickening terror I was outwardly firm. They sink, they quail abashed, those dreadful eyes, before the gaze of a helpless girl; and the shame that is never ab sent from insanity bears down the pride of strength, the bloody cravings of the wild beast. The lunatic moan ed and drooped his shaggy head be tween his gaunt squalid hands. I lost not an instant. I rose, and with one spring reached the door, tore it open, and, with a shriek, rushed through, caught the wondering girl by 7 the arm, and crying to her to rim for her life, rushed like the wind along the gallery, down the corridor, down the stairs. Mary’s screams filled the house as she fle l beside me. 1 h»-ard a long-drawn raging cry, the roar of a wild animal mocked of its prey, and I knew what was behind me. I never turned my head—l flew rather than ran. I was in the hall already; there was brush of many feet, an outcry of many voices, a sound of scuffling feet, arid brutal yells, and oaths, and heavy blows, and 1 fell to the ground, crying, “Save me!” and lay in a swoon. I awoke from a delirious trance. Kind faces were around mv bed. lov ing looks were bent on me by all, bv my dear father and dear sisteus, but I scarcely saw them before I swooned again. When I recovered from that long illness, the pitying looks I met made me tremble. I asked for a looking glass. It was long denied me, but my importunity prevailed at last—a mir ror was brought. Mv youth was gone at one fell swoop. The glass showed me a livid and haggard face, blanched and bloodless as of one who secs a spectre; and in the ashen lips, and wrinkled brow, and dim eyes, I could trace nothing of my former self. The hair, too, jetty and rich before, was now as white as snow, and in one night the ravages of half a century had passed over my face. Nor have • my nerves ever recovered their tone after that dire shock. Can you won der that my life was blighted, that my lover shrank from me, so sad a wreck was I ? lam old now—old ; and alone. My sisters would have had me to live with them, but I chose not to sadden their genial homes with ! my phantom face and dead eyes.— • Reginald married another. He has been dead many years.-. Lnever caascd to pray for him, though he left nje' when I was bereft of all. The sad weird is nearly over now. lam old, j and war the end, and wishful for it., I have not been bitter or hard, but I cannot bear to sec many people, ami am best Alone. I try to do what good I cah with the worthless wealth Lady Speldhurst left me, for at my wish my portion was shared between my sisters. What need had I of inheritances?—l, the shattered wreck made by that one night of horror. (Written for the Georgia Weekly.) Lines to Miss Lizzie Malone. »Y LIZZIE. The rosei of Summer bloom bright on thy cliei k_ The azure of lleuveu beams bright in thy eye; The mow flakes of Winter, pearly and meek Soft on thy brow in purity lie Filled in thy heart with love and with peace, No norms have arisen to darken thy skies, But freedom from sorrow softens tbv voiie, And gleams in the light of thy beautiful eyes. Oh ! thus would I ask, thy future may be, Cnclouded by sorrow, unshadowed by woe ! That flowers of joy may spring in your path And yield you their fragrance where’er you go. And in death may some angel descend, On pinions of light from the m msions above, And bear thy pure spirit away lo the land Where thou'lt spend an eternity of glory end , . love. Hickory Hill Academy , March, 1860. *■ •‘•(For The Georgia Weekly ) Westminster Abbey [Concluded.] There are several monuments of note in the south transept, or what is usually called the poet’s corner. Amongthem we find the following: William Shakspeare.—Both the de sign and workmanship of this monument are extremely elegant. The figure of the great poet, and his attitude, his dress, his gentlemanly air, and fine composure, all so delicately expressed by the sculptor, cannot be sufficiently admired, and those beautiful lines of his that appear on a scroll are very happily chosen. , ‘ The cloud-capped tow«rs, the gorgeous pal ace?, Th~ solemn temple?, the grear globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit**, shall dissolve, \nd likn the baseless fabric of a vision Leave not a wreck behind/' The heads of Henry V, Richard 111, and Elizabeth are on the pedestal. The monument was erected one hun dred and twenty-five years after his death, by the contributions of a grate ful public. He died in 1617, in the 53d year of his age, and was buried in the church of Stratford on Avon. David Garrick.—This monument is stated to be the tribute of a friend. Garrick aside the curtain, fcwfe'teb -discovers a medallion and is meant to represent his superior power to unveil the the beauties of Sliaks peare. lie died in 1770 aged 63. John Dryden and John Milton.— There are monuments to both of these great poets, but nothing peculiar about either, worthy of attention. Milton needs none in marble. It is stated that the Duke of Buckingham erected the one to Dryden, and that he valued his writings so much that he thought no inscription necessary to spread his fame. Edmund Spencer—This was an old and decayed monument, but was re stored in 1718, Nothing worthy of remark except the inscription—“ Here lies (expecting the second coming of our Savior Christ Jesus) the body of Edmund Spencer, the Prince of Poets in his time, whose divine spirit needs no other witness than the works which he left behind him. lie was born in 1553—died 1598.’' Ben Johnson.—This monument is of fine.marble and neatly ornamented with various figures. Ilis epitaph, •• Oh rare Ben Johnson !” is cut in the pavement where he is buried. Died August 16, 1637, aged 63. Abraham Cowley.:—This monument, though plain, is very expressive. The chaplet of laurel that begins his urn. and the fire issuing from the mouth of the urn, are emblems of the glory ac quired by his writings. The epitaph and inscription on the pedestal are thus: “Near this place lies Abraham Cowley, the Pindar, Horace, ami Vir gil of England, and the delight, orna ment and admiration of his age — While paired Bard, for worlds thy works pro claim And \o»i survive in an immortal fame, Here may >oti,bl ssed in pleasant quiet lie! To guard thy urn may hoary Faiih stand by, And all thy far- rile tuneful Nine repair T«. watch thy dust with a perpetual care. Sacred for 'er may this place tie made, And may no desperate hand presume 10 inrade With touch unhallowed tbi3 religious room, Or dare affront thy veneratde tomb, Unmoved and undisturbed till time shall end, May Cowley’s dust th's marble shrine defend.” lie died in 1667, in the 49th year of his age. The monument was erect ed by the Duke of Buckingham. Joseph Addison.—This monument consists of a fine figure of Addison on a circular, basement, about which; are small figures of the nine muses. The inscription is to the following pur port .thou art, venerate the memory of Joseph Addison, in whom Christian faith, virtue, and good morals found a continual patron—- THE GEOrG I A WEEK LY . whose genius was shown in verse, and every exquisite kind of writing; who gave to posterity the best example* of pure language, and the best rule* of living well, which remain, and tier will remain sacred ; whoso weight of ( argument was tempered with wit, and accurato judgment with politenftf i4O that he encouraged the gS formed the improvident, C.* t*/*me wicked, and in some degree m»de them in love with virtue. He was born in 1672. Died the 48th year of his age, the honor and delight of the British nation.” Oliver Goldsmith.—This monument represents Goldsmith in profile. Olive branches and books are the chief or naments. Underneath is an inscrip tion of the following import: “That he was eminent as a Poet, Philosopher and Historian. That he scarcely left any species of writing unattempted, and none that he attempted, unim proved—(hat he was master of the softer passions, and could at pleasure command tears or provoke laughter, but in every thing he good nature was predominant—that he was witty,sublime, and facetious; in speech, pompous in conversation, ele gant and graceful ; that the love of his associates, fidelity of his friends, and the veneration of his readers, has raised this monument to his memory.” He was born in Ireland. November 29, 1731. Died in London, April 14, 1774. James Thompson.—The figure of Mr. Thompson leans its- left arm upon a pedestal, holding a book in one hand, and a cap of liberty in the other. Upon the pedestal in has relief are are seasons, to which a boy points, offering him a laurel crown. At the figure is the tragic mask and the ancient harp. The whole is supported by a projecting pedestal, and in a panel is the following inscription — “James Thompson, aged 48, died Aug., 1748. Tutored by thee, sweet poetry exalts her voice to ages, and informs the page with music, image, sentiment, and thought, never to die.” John Gay.—This monument is said to have been erected by the bounty of the Duke and Duchess of Queensbury. The masks, tragedy, dagger, and in struments of tnnsic. which are blend- ed together in a group, are emblemati cal devices, alluding to the various ways of writing in which he excelled. The following’shlfTt epitaph 3 ten by himself: “Life is a jest, and all things show it; I thought so once, but now I know it.” Underneath are these verses, by Pope: Os manners gentle, of affection? mild, In wit a man, simplicity a child ; With native humor* tempering? virtuous rage, Formed to delight at once, ar*d lash the age. \hove temptation in a low estate, And uncorrupt* and e’en among the great; A safe companion and an easy friend, (TnMamed through life, lamented in the end These are thy honors ; not that here thy bust, fs mixed with heroes, or with kimrs thy dust, But that the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms—Here lies Gay! ’ lie died in 1732, aged 45. There are many other monuments in the Abbey worthy of special notice, but having already exceeded tlrt limits at first intended, anil probably wearied my readers, in ruminating on these trophies of mortality, it is proper to decline ai.y farther exploration of the gloomy recesses of this huge fabric, and sacred depository of fafee and grandeur. Temple. Ingenuity of the Spide&.— Let me put a spider into a lady’s hand. She is aghast. She shrieks. The nasty, ugly thing. Madam, the spider is perhaps shocked at your Brussels lace, and although you may be the most exquisite painter living, the spi der has a right to laugh at your coarse daubs as she runs over them. Just show her your crochet-work when you shriek at her. “ Have you spent half your days," the spitefufr VCiiiark —“have you spent half your days upon these clumsy, anti-macassar and ottoman covers ? My dear ladv, is that your web ? If 1 were big enough I might with reason drop you and cry out at you. “ Let me spend a day with you and bring my work. I have four little bags of thread—such little hags ! In every bag there are about 4000 holes —such tiny holes! Out of each hole a thread runs, and all the threads— more than 4000 threads —I spin to gether as they run, and when they are spun they make but one thread of the web I weave. I have a member of my family who is no bigger than a grain of sand. Imagine what a slen der web she makes, and of that, too, each thread is made or 5000 threads that have passed out of her four bags through 4000 or 5000 little holes. Would you drop her, too, crying out about her ugliness? A pretty thing for you to plume your self on your delicacy', and scream at us.” - Many arc vain of their high living. But if ju man.-become* honorable->y eating, how much more honorable is the worm that eata him. Nothing is Valuable Without Labor. BT Bill M. 0. 1. In pursuing the daily occupations of life, we always appreciate most highly that which has required the greatest labor to obtain. We are all aware, that without nothing is ac complished." We often hear our tal ented men, er the sons of the South, deliver their elegant orations, and we appreciate them very much, for we know that without mental labor, they could not have accomplished their speeches, and we feel a thrill of grati fied pride, when we turn aside, and contemplate these things. When we I see a splendid edifice, we admire it for the grace and skill with which it was built; and it is worthy of admiration, for there has been much labor expend ed on it. When we write a labored composi tion, we value it more than one which is not. We always labor, for we are comforted with the assurance, that we have beon laboring. The in dolent person is not happy. He lias nothing to exhibit as the recompense of his labors. We should always re member that “Omnia Vincit Labor.” The musician could not have acquired the knowledge of music that he has, had he not exerted all his mind in la boring to learn. I have heard of a man, who was ridiculed by his friends, because he could not sing, having no talent for music. He often blushed and stammered, when asked to play or sing a piece, lie determined to learn music, to cultivate his voice. For this purpose, he absented himself from his friends, spent his time in an old rural dwelling, inhabited by an eminent' musician, who taught him all he desired. By continued labor, he at length succeeded in acquiring a mellow voice, could sing fluently and perform well on the piano. After a lapse of a few months, he again ap peared on the stage of life. His friends for a while,-desisted from laugh ing and plaguing him. At a soiree given by an intimate friend of his, which he attended, he was solici'ed to give them a song, for they- were not aware, that he had been laboring to learn music. He arose calmly, went to the musical instrument, and began to sing in a clear, sweet and powerful voice. His friends were surprised and resourul ed throughout the room, and he who hut ayEew months before, had looked pule dhil dejected, now stood, -with flashing eyes, heart full of joy jind gratitude, for then lie knew, how “ sweet was the recompense ,of his labors.” Franklin, the son of a poor tallow chandler, and who never went to school during his youth,Tiy laboring or study ing late at night, acquired knowledge and information. lie once remarked to Governor Burnet, when he was in New York, “That he was never so happy a3 when he had read through Locke.” llow could he have discov ered electricity, had he not labored. He was distinguished for his maxims and discoveries. This shows us that by laboring we can accomplish almost anything. Columbus would have never discov ered this beautiful continent of ours, had he given up in despair, as we do sometimes. He continued to labor, and after seven years of pleading in the courts of Europe, at last succeed ed. And was not his labor of some value ? Show me a person who has labored, and I’ll show you one that is happ) 7 , beloved and is seldom troubled With ennui. . , Alfred, the Great, when but a child, was told by his mother that if lie, or any of his brothers, would learn to read a certain book, she would give it to the reader. lie resolved to win the prize. By studying he at length read it through, and was the winner. He once remarked to his courtiers, “ That he thought much of that book, because he had labored to obtain it ” It is no disgrace to labor. Peter, the Great, of Russia, descended from his throne, and etr ployed himself in ship building, and many other things, which he thought would be useful to him and his subjects. God rewards that husy one, Who lahorß with all his might, Who rises early with the sim, And never stops till night. But those who love to sit, Idling under the shade, Are those who will not work a bit, Unless thev are always made. Greenville Mtuonic Female College. Handkerchiefs were first manufac tured at Paisley, Scotland, in 1742. Hats were invented for men in Paris ir> 1404. ” Khittitig stockings were in'- Touted in Spain in 1550. &jje Georgia Prtklg. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 6. Protection for the White Me chanic- It is our firm belief, that the time has come, when the law makers of our Southern Republic, should raise the standard of white mechanical labor among our people ; and not only ele vate it to its inherent position of high and honorable rank, as the most im portant grade of republican aristocra cy, but make that position firm and impregnable by jealous and stringent laws. Briefly, our proposition is this: No negro , free or enslaved, should he taught the mechanic arts, from this time forth forever; nor should any n-gro he brought into this Republic to labor as an artisan or mechanic of any grade whatever. Such an edict, or one similar, would at once exert a most powerful and in -suit«dy salutary influence upon the present and future progress and wel fare of the Southern Confederacy.— At once white labor would be recog nized as the most powerful estate of our political society, and negro labor be forever perpetuated and confined to tilling the soil as its proper and nat ural sphere. This influence would in crease with its existence, until every white man, both rich and poor, would become, perforce, a firm advocate ol the great institution of Southern ser vitude and bondage of the negro. It would become invulunerable from the number and power of its defend ers and upholders—the white median ics of the South. But, as the matter now stands, we are fostering an enemy in our homes, creating what may prove an incurable cancer in our body politic, which will eventuate, sooner or later, in the de struction, or utter degradation of the entire South. As it is now, the mas ter of many negro mechanics is un doubtedly an insurmountable, though perhaps innocent barrier, to Southern progress in the greatest, most useful and most necessary of all arts —the mechanical arts. The South stands in deplorable need of good mechanics, white mechanics; above nil, white Southern mechanics. Her duty to herself demands that she shall* inakeirfostep nn*l i«*wYmf]hei u tuvn« native born artisans; and to do this she must first abolish all negro rival ry in whatever is done best by the white man, and in all that belongs to him as of the dominant race of South ern soil. That being consummated the honor able avenues to wealth and indepen dence will be speedily sought and quickly filled by our young men ; for then that instinctive disgust, jvhicli every white mechanic feels in being forced to labor, side by side, with the negro, will have been forever destroy ed by the destruction of its cause.— Thousands and tens of thousands of our high-spirited and ambitious young men, who now live in ind dence, undei the unuttered but terrible ban of negro equality in labor, will forsake the race course, the drinking house, the gain bling hell and the great sea of South ern indolence and recklessness, to compete in the industrious and useful paths of life. We would never advocate the pas sage of a law that should in the slight est degree militate against the rights and interests of the present owners of negro mechanics j but to the utmost of our ability oppose it. Let the law so read a<s to allow such the full en joyment of the present system, but let the law be the death blow to that system, as regards its extension and perpetuation. The policy of such a law must be patent to all, whose self-interest does not close their eyes against the rights of the white mechanic and the future welfare of the South. The present system is the silent and irresistible war of capital against labor—of ne gro property against the white me chanic’s toil. For the future let the negro labor in the field or in the lowest menial sta tion, and for this the decree of Hea ven, endorsed by the seal of History, has doomed him to be—the slave of the white man; and never should he be permitted to labor as the white man’s equal. The consciousness of his ability to labor in the mechanical trades renders the negro indolent, proud and discon tented, and the history of all insur rections am.ong slaves proves this startling fact— the leading spirits of all black , conspirators have been negro mechanics. Thus -the -system now obtaining not only debars the white mechanic from his rights, but endangers the domestic peace and safety of our country. Ne gro mechanical labor ruins that of the white man by its cheapness, and this cheapness arises simply from the fact that the negro mechanic is supported by his master, while the white is forced to support himstelf, and generally * large family. There must be a radical change in this system, or our posterity will bo the sufferer and our scape-goat. Let every working man henceforth de mand of the Candidate that asks his vote— Protection for the white me chanic. Lincoln’s Inaugural Is now before the public, but too late in its arrival to allow us to publish it in this issue; and before our next it will have grown stale, in the mean time we will try to furnish it an extra. The address is neither, bird nor beast, yet si mongrel affair considerably more beast thanbirtL Lint&ln affirms the Union is in fact unbroken, and looks warlike with this falling from his lips: “ The power confided to me will be used to hold, occupy, and possess the property belonging to the Government, and to collect the duties and imports ; but beyond what may be necessary for these objects, there will be no invasion, no using of force against or among the people anywhere.” He declares it to be his duty to en force the laws of the Federal Govern ment in the seceded States—which he styles “ insurrectionary and revolu tionary. In fact he says in meaning: “ I in tend to get all I can, keep all I get, take it by force, steal or beg, from you , seceded States, and there’ll be no ■ fighting unless you dare to snarl while I I kick, cuff and flog you—as I have a perfect right to do, and will do, so help me Jacob !” Then again as follows: “ But when you snail awfully and will bite, I’ll i hold off till you grow cool !” i This latter refers to the “ interior localities ” only, whence it is plain to - see that the localities elsewhere, our seaports, are in Illinois vatois —“ gone | suckers!” I In the meantime Fort Sumter rc , mains in the hands of the enemy. h mi ——■— Plant Lp -- t As it now seems morally certain that we are to have immediate war, and war to the bitter end, it is the ur gent policy of the entire South to plant. Plant cotton, corn, wheat, and ill kinds of grain. Plant cotton; for cotton will bring money, and money is the potency of war. Plant corn and .Train; for the foreign supply may be cut off. In th’s strife, which is coming down upon us like a tempest, our victory will be but a question of time; and, that we may not suffer during that fear ful time, let every planter look jeal ously to his fields of grain, and to his stock, as well as to his fields of cotton. Few can hope to make much mon •jy during a civil war. Our aim, then, -hould be to live as economically as possible. Onr soil is our best and most power ful friend, and will not desert us in our need. Our enemies tell us that we are dependent upon them for the very food we eat. Let the facts of our grain produce for 1861 give them the lie. During this coming struggle oftr warriors must be fed. C9nsumers will be greatly increased, for the waste and not the necessities of war, is ruin ous to a nation. Let us, at least, be able to feed our own people, and ask no odds of antagonistic or neutral States. Let us take from our open foes, rather than purchase of lukewarm friends. jjgy The scenes transpiring day and night upon our Court House square have inspired even our “ devil” with warlike ardor. The drilling, facing, countermarching and other bel ligerent manoeuvres remind us of the times of the Mexican war, and lead us to believe that Old Abe will “run agin a snag” if he tries what he threatens in his inaugural. The war spirit is nniversal, and if we have no fight our boys will “ blue mould” for the want of a battle. The latest news cheers us with the hope that the border States have te solved to cast their destiny with the Southern Confederacy. Perhaps Uncle Sam —U. S. will find more than a match in Sam s Cousin S. C.—that is the Southern Confed eracy.