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I>lnfwl would be shed in retaliation for his
inhuman murders; and having at the mo
ment of attack dispatched several messen
gers by different routes to Ninety-Six, lie
obstinately maintained his desperate resis
tance, in the hope of succor from that post.
The scene presented was truly appalling.
Dead men and horses strewed the ground
in every direction, while the air was preg
nnted with the foul stencil of putrid bodies.
Within the White House the wounded were
suffering extremely, and were often heard
calling to their besiegers for watei and me
dical aid. Hopeless of success, many of
Col. Clarke’s men had left him, carrying
with them such plunder as was within their
reach, and by their desertion dispiriting
those who remained.
Such was the condition of affairs, when
on the morning of the ISth, a detachment
of five hundred British regulars and tories
appeared on the opposite side of the river.
All hope of .success was now abandoned,
and Col. Clarke, in the crippled and reduc
ed condition of his troops, had no alterna
tive but a precipitate retreat. According
ly the siege was raised, the British prisoners
paroled, and a retreat ordered before the
reinforcements could cross the river. With
out baggage-wagons or horses, there was
no means of conveying his wounded from
the ground,’ all of whom he was compelled
to leave at the mercy of the enemy.
“ They are marching, James,” said Hen
ry to his brother, who was sitting by his side
in an oIJ deserted building, in which they
had sought shelter from the cold and rain.
“ Haste, brother, and join them, for Brown
will have no mercy on you if you are found
here.”
“ And leave you, Henry ? never! never!
If you are to he butchered by the inhuman
monsters, l will die with you,” replied the
affectionate hoy, creeping close to his side,
and laying his hand upon his brother’s
breast.
“ But romember our father and mother,
and poor Rose—who will protect them ?”
said ILenry, while a tear stood in his sunken
eye.
** Cob Clarke will prutoot thorn, brother.
I heatil him say that he would give protec
tion to all the families who might determine
to leave the State ; and father, you know,
had resolved upon going in the event of our
failure.”
“ But you should he with them, James—
they cannot spare us both. Dear brother,
do not madly sacrifice your life with me.
You cannot save me, but can save yourself.
For our dear parents’ and our sister’s sake,
fly ere it be too late.”
“ I cannot go, Henry. Should harm come
to you—l never could be happy more. An
impulse I could not w’thstond hade me come
—and now it bids me slay. I cannot leave
you!”
The brothers wept together, while the
American drums beat the retreat, and the
artillery fiom the opposite side of the river
sent forth its sullen roar, mingling with the
exulting shouts of the liberated British.
“ They may not find us here, brother,”
sobbed James. “In the night I will steal
out and obtain you food and water, and in
a few days we may leave our concealment
together.”
Vain hope, fond youth ! Already are the
blood-hounds of savage vengeance in pur
suit.
Every nook and corner was searched,
and wherever a wounded patriot was dis
covered, he was dragged forth to lie sacri
ficed to the demon of revenge. Thirteen
were hanged on the stair-case of the White
House, where Brown was lying wounded,
that he might glut his savage appetite for
vengeance in witnessing their expiring ago
nies, after which their bodies were deliver
ed up to the Indians, to be scalped and
mutilated in accordance with their savage
custom. Five others were hanged upon a
tree before the door, and eight more were
given into the hands of the Indians, that
they might by their sacrifice appease their
savage feelings for the loss they had sustain
ed in the action and siege. The fate of these
poor wretches was truly appalling. Form
ing a circle round them, their merciless
butchers, in their eagerness to shed blood,
sp ired some of them from the lingering tor
ture they had designed for them. Some
weie scalped before they sunk uniter the
tomahawk, others were thrown into the
flames and burned to death.
Though the brothers in their concealment
could hear the agonizing screams of the
victims, they were spared the sight of these
atrocious butcheries, and for ajnoment hope
sprang up within their bosoms. They might
not be found—they might escape the sad
fate of their friends. But a savage yell near
to their place of concealment soon dispelled
the glad thought. James sprang to his feet
—from a rent in the wall he could perceive
a party of Indians and British approaching.
Turning to his brother, he exclaimed,
•• He nry, they are coming.”
“Then our fate is sealed,” replied Hen
ry, as he closed his sunken eyes, and an ex
pression of pain passed over his pallid coun
tenance.
James graspeJ his rifle, and moved to
wards the door.
“ Stay, James, do not fire.”
“ Brother, must we he murdered in cold
blood? they can but kill us.”
“ They may put us to death by torture,
if you incense them further. But by your
gun, James. It can avail us nothing now.”
They had evidently been discovered, and
as the party advanced towards tho house,
James raised his gun to his face, and his
bright eye beamed with unusual luster.
“ Don’t, brother, don’t ?” feebly articula
ted Henry.
James paused a moment.
“ Hold 1” exclaimed one without—“ sur
render as prisoners of war!”
“ Will you guarantee the safety of our
persons ?” demanded James.
“ Yes, you shall bo respected as prisoners
of wai.”
James sat down his gun—the next mo
ment the door was opened—his guu seized,
and himself and brother bound, lludcly
they dragged the bleeding Henry and his
weeping brother forth. No appeals could
awaken one emotion of sympathy for their
youth.
“ Hang the darn’d rebel fry—the sooner
the country is rid of the 3toek the better !”
%
was tho stern command of the British offi
cer.
No respite, no moment for prayer or pre
paration was allowed, but throwing them
both upon a horse’s back, ropes were at
tached to the limb of a tree and to their
necks, and the horse led from under them.
Thus expired the patriot brothers. Tru
ly were their “ fraternal bonds preserved
unbroken,” till death emancipated their no
ble spirits, and freed them from a world too
gross for their exalted natures.
■■'■ara—
O, that men should pm an enemy in their mouths,
to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy,
revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into
beasts!—Suakspeare.
A Smasher. —At the picnic at Brookline,
last week, Rev. Mr. Whittemore of Gam
bridge, gave the following exhibition cf in
dignation against rum-selling. If such wo
men were to be found in the neighborhood
of every giog-shop, our work would soon be
finished.
“ A certain woman in that town had a
poor drunkard for'a husband. He was in
dolent and cross—a perfect specimen of the
power of rum to ruin and degrade. She
was smart, industrious, patient, persevering
—'att humble washer-woman, but possessed
of an indomitable spirit to meet and conquer
the mountain difficulties which stood in the
way of bringing up her children as her ear
ly pride and expectations had determined.
She first purchased a piece of land, then
built a house and found herself with prop
erty to the amount of some twelve or fifteen
hundred dollars, rubbed out by her knuckles,
and saved by her prudence. The grog
shops under the late movement and by force
of law, had been shut up in her neighbor
hood, and hope had again swelled her heart
with expectations of a more peaceful and
happy home.
All at once a poor mortal gained posses
sion of an old blacksmith shop near
opened, not a grocery, but a groggery. —
There was no apology offered, the old shop
was not sanctified by the appearance of any
thing else. No nutmegs, sugar, orrandy
—all rum and grog. Our watchful MBRine
saw the trap, and knew the power of the
bait, and she presented herself at the coun
ter, and demanded a promise that none
should be sold to her husband, and told her
story.
The poor victim of appetite, however,
could not refrain and the grog-seller would
not withhold, and he came home in liquor,
and administered his abuse arid tyranny up
on his wife and daugliteis a3 usual. It was
more than she could bear. She appeared
again before the counter of the blacksmith
shop. She charged upon him tiie villany
and guilt of his business—described the suf
ferings of herself ami family, and with an
indignation like a trip-hammer, and accord
ing to tire ancient law of the shop, “to strike
while the iron is hot,” she threw her arm
across the counter and brushed upon the
floor ever y bottle and glass, arid finished the
breaking with her feet. She then demand
ed the cask or jug which contained his sup
ply, and commenced her search. The grog
seller stood aghast and afraid. At length
she found a huge demijohn of rum and
threw it into the street, and not having bro
ken it, she seized a rock nearly as large as
the bottle, and with all her strength raised
it in her arms and demolished it instantly.
She now began to think upon the legali
ty of this outbreak. Having her enemy un
der her feet, her “ caution ” bump came into
action and she could see there might be
some legal question to settle. The rum-sel
lers preach against the law which is against
themselves, not that which is in their favor.
And off she went to a good temperance law
yer. She was told to be quiet. She was
quiet; the fellow has not opened his lips
nor has he revived his business. This we
call the washer-woman’s moral suasion.
The Drunken Sow and her poor Pips. —
A woman who drank deep at the wine
cup, as well as the brandy bottle, was the
mother of a lovely little girl about ten years
of age, who often went in secret at her mo
ther’s degradation. One day observing the
grocer, where her mother used to get her
supplies, empty a quantity of cherries into
the street that had been in a barrel of rum,
and a sow with a brood of pigs, eagerly de
vouring them, till she could neither stand
nor walk, and her pigs running and squeal
ing in alarm, the little girl cried, “ Mother,
mother, come to the window ;” —“ Why,”
what’s there, tny dear ?” “ O mother, see,
see the sow, how my heart bleeds for those
poor pigs.” “And why do you feel so much
for the pigs ?” “ Because to think how a
shamed they must he to have a drunken
mother.” The rebuke was effectual; the
mother thus far has ceased to drink.
Tenting the Devil. —Not long since a par
cel of rowdies rode up to a temperance tav
ern in Illinois, says the Illinois Herald, and
dismounting, wentin. They were of course
treated with attention and politeness by our
host, as it is impossible for him to treat his
guests in any oilier way. But looking about
the room, they soon inquired, “ Wheie is
your bar, landlord (” “ I keep no bar,” he
replied. “ What, no bar ?” “ None but
what you see, gentlemen.” “Well, it beats
the devil!” exclaimed our disappointed
rowdies. “ The very thing we have been
! for a long time endeavoring to do, gentle
men,” was the prompt and cutting reply.
Success to Temperance. —We cut the fol
lowing from the New Haven Palladium.—
Facts are stubborn things; no gagging facts,
they will speak ; common sense will get the
advantage of stupidity, after awhile, it only
wants half fair play to triumph.
“ It will doubtless be interesting to the
friends of temperance, as well as to the pub
lic morals generally, to know that the crim
inal prosecutions for this year are less, by
more than one half, than they were in the
same length of time last year. We have it
from unquestionable authority, that the crim
inal prosecutions in the town of New Haven,
from the Ist of January, 1841, to the Ist
July, 1811, amounted to 175, while from the
Ist of January, 1542, to the Ist of July, 1842,
they amounted to only 76. and of those 65
weie caused by intoxicating drinks.
B<D UM* HUB H BUM API?*
fo®e@b®e
“ Come, aniher round the blazing hearth,
And with reflection temper mirth ”
Children. —They are the blessings of
this world—the sweets among its sorrows—
the roses among the thorns. With joyous
voices, they light up yor bodies as with a
ray from heaven. Whose heart does not
leap within him to hear their shouts ?
Who can look on their smiling faces and
not rejoice that there are such happy crea
tures on this dull earth ?-—they meet the
poor man coming from his labors, and he
forgets his fatigue, and his whole soul bless
es them. They ga'.het round the rich man’s
hearth, and he who is haughty to others must
stoop to fondle them. The fortunate man
comes home, and his success thrill him with
deeper pleasure, as his children welcome
him—and the unfortunate retires from a
world where every face is stern and every
look cold, and once more is happy among
his children. They are a bond to hind us
together—they keep our hearts from being
chilled by contact witli the world. God
bless little children.
The paradise of Content. —The rosy hori
zon beyond which youth cannot see—the
gay rainbow that over-arches fancy’s land
scape—the halo that genius spreads around
the barren pathways of existence —the green
fairy ring encircling ever the beloved; what
are they, in their glory and their gladness,
to the fireside glow of a contented spirit—
to the smile that is no mockery of bitterness
within—to the laugh that springs not up from
the restlessness of a hidden woe ? Beauti
ful as an island in the wide heaving ocean to
the sea-weary voyager—welcome asthe lone
fountain, with its few waving palms, and its
venlant brim, to the desert pilgrim’s aching
eyes, is the Paradise of Content, which a
happy few may make for themselves in the j
wilderness of a desolate world. Suns roll
swiftly onward above their blest abode;
but no ferverish eagerness, no heait-sick
dread, would hurry or delay their course.
tynrvowa anil cares and privations mingle in
their social circle, but have no power upon
the adamantine chain which brightly binds
them to some far off sphere of bliss.
Religion. —The contemplation of the Di
vine Being, and thtf exercises of virtue, are
in their nature so farfrom excluding all glad
ness of heart that they are perpetual sources
of it. In a word, the true spirit of religion
cheers, as well as composes the soul. It
banishes indeed all levity of behavior, all
vicious and dissolute mirth, but in exchange
fills the mind with a perpetual serenity, un
interrupted cheerfulness, and a habitual in
clination to please others a3 well a3 to be
pleased in itself.
The Grave. —O, the grave, the grave! It
buries every error, covers every defect, ex
tinguishes every resentment. From its
peaceful bosom springs none but fond regrets
and tender recollections. Who can look
down upon the grave even of an enemy, and
not feel a compunctious throb that ever lie
should have warred with the poor handful
of earth that lies mouldering before him ?
But the grave of those we loved; what a
place of mediation ! There it is we call up
a long review, the whole history of the
truth of gentleness, and the thousand en
dearments lavished upon us almost unheard
in the daily courts of intimacy. Then it is
we dwell upon tenderness of tire parting
sene, the bed of death with all its stifled
grief, its noisless attendants, its mule watch
ful assiduities ; the last testimonies of ex
piring love; the feeble, fluttering, thrilling,
of the hand, the last fond look of the glazing
eye turned upon us even from the threshold
of existence ; the faint, faltering accent,
struggling in death to give one more assur
ance of affection. Ay, go to the grave of
buried love and mediate ! There settle the
account with thy conscience of past endear
ments unregarded of that departed being
who never, never can return to be soothed
by contrition. Ifthouarta child, and hast
ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow
to the silvered brow of an affectionate par
ent ; if thou art a husband, and hast ever
caused the bosom that ventured its whole
happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment
of thy kindness or thy truth ; if thou art a
friend, and hast wronged by thought, by
woid, or deed, the spirit that generously
confided in thee; if thou art a lover and
hast ever given one unmerited pang to the
true heart that now lies cold and still be
neath thy feet, then be sure that every un
kind look, every ungracious word, every un
gentle action, will come thronging back
upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at
thy soul; then be sure thou wilt lie down
sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and
utter the unheard groan, and pour the una
vailing tear—bitter, because unheard and un
availing.—lrving.
The dead. —There is, perhaps, no feeling
of our nature so complicated, so vague, so
mysterious, as that with which we look upon
the cold remains of our fellow mortals. The
dignity with which death invests even the
meanest of victims, inspires us with an awe
no living creature can create. The mon
arch on his throne is less awful than the beg
gar in his shroud. The marble features,
the powerless hand, the stiffened limb, the
eye closed and glazed—oh ! who can con
template these with feelings which can be
defined ! These are the mockery of all our
hopes and fears—of our fondest love, and of
our fullest hate.
Public sentiment may be represented by
the infant Hercules, who is said to have
strangled two huge serpents, which attack
ed him in a cradle. Public sentiment may
appear imbecile, because both immature anil
slumbering; but arouse it, and with the
blessing of Heaven, it is capable of destroy
ing every Monster vice, that preys on hu
man happiness.
There are stars so near the Sun, that al
though their rays may reach the earth, their
forms cannot be distinguished—so the most
pious and humble saints may shed more
light in their obscurity, than those who arc
better known, and obtain greater distinction
among men.
Thought. —The mind that thinks can
never be solitary. Ideas and reflections,
those sweetest of companions, will not fail
in their attendance upon it; and a single
volume of some favorite author, ora lonely
stroll along the brink of Ocean when its
billows roar, and boil, andbuist with a yeast
of foam at your feet—or one glance at the
calm blue heavens When mortal sounds are
all hushed—will bring with them myriads of
glorious imaginings, and an overflowing tide
of thought which finds no vent in words,
though our inmost soul is filled with a per
vading influence of the purest delight.
The Ladder. —That is a beautiful inter
pretation of the wonderful emblem of the
Ladder that Jacob saw in his vision, on his
way to Haran, which represents it as con
taining three principal rounds, Faith, Hope
and Charity—faith in God through Christ,
hope in immortality, and charity to all man
kind. The greatest of these is Charity; for
our Faith may be lost in sight; Hope ends
in fruition; but Charity extends through the
boundless realms of eternity.
The union of two true hearts in marriage,
is a scene which art decorates with the most
splendid and imposing works of her hands,
innocent curiosity flocks to it as a marvel
and a show, the moral sentiments of man
kind sanction it, religion blesses it. Christ
himself once hallowed it with his presence,
and God adds to it the choicest smiles of’his
providence.
Manners are of more importance than laws.
Upon them, in a great measure, the law
depends. The law touches us but here and
there, now and then. Manners are what
vex or sooth, corrupt or purify, exalt or de
base, barberize or refine us, by a constant,
steady uniform, insensible operation like
that of air we breath in. They give their
whole form and color to our lives. Accor
ding to their quality, they totally destroy
them.— Burke.
__ m 3 a© E QL L A M Y □
Woman and Marriage. —l have specula
ted a great deal upon matrimony. I have
seen young and beautiful women, the pride
of gay circles married—as the world says—
well! Some have moved into costly houses,
and their friends have all cSmc and looked
at their fine furniture and their splendid ar
rangements for happiness, and they have
gone away and committed them to their sun
ny hopes cheerfully and without fear. It is
natural to be sanguine for the young, and at
such times ‘I am carried away by similar
feelings. I love to get unobserved into a
corner, and watch the bride in her white at
tire, and with her smiling face and her soft
eyes moving before mein their pride of life,
weave a waking dream of her future happi
ness, and persuade myself that it will be
true. 1 think how they will sit upon the
luxurious sofa as the twilight falls, and build
gay hopes, and murmur in low tones the
now forbidden tenderness ; and how tbrill
ingly the allowed kiss, and the beautiful en
dearments of wedded life, will make even
their parting joyous, and how gladly come
back from the crowd and the empty mirth of
the gay to each other’s quiet company. I
pictured to myself that young creature, who
blushes even now at his hesitating caress,
iistening eagerly for his footsteps as the
night steals on, and wishing that he would
come; and when he enters at last, and, with
aa affection a3 undying as his pulse, folds
her to his besom, I can feel the very tide
that goes flowing through his heart, and gaze
with him on her graceful form as she moves
about him for the kind offices of affection,
soothing all his unquiet cares, and making
him forget even himself in her young and
unshadowing beauty.
I go forward for years, anil see her luxu
riant hair put soberly away from her brow,
and her girlish graces ripen into dignity,
and her bright loveliness chastened with the
gentle meekness of maternal affection. Her
husband looks on her with a proud eye, and
sliow her the same fervent love and the
delicate attentions which first won her, atul
fair children are growing about them, anil
they go> on full of honor anil untroubled
years, and are remembered when they die !
I say I love to dream thus when I go to
give the young bride joy. It is the natural
tendency of feeling touched by loveliness,
that fears nothing for itself; and if ever I
yield to darkened feelings, it is because the
light of the picture is changed. lam not
fond of dwelling upon such changes, anil I
will not minutely now. I allude to it only
because I trust that my simple page will be
read by some of the young and beautiful be
ings who daily move across my path ; and I
would whisper to them, as they glide by
joyously and confidently, the secret of an un
clouded future.
The picture I have drawn above is not
peculiar. It is colored like the fancies of
the bride; and many, oh ! many an hour
will she sit, with her rich jewels lying loose
in her fingers, and dream such dreams as
these. She believes them too—and she
goes on for a while undeceived. The even
ing is not too long while they talk of plans
for happiness, and the quiet meal is still a
pleasant and delightful novelty of mutual
reliance and attention. There comes soon,
however, a time when personal topics be
come hare and slight attentions will not a
lone keep up the Social excitement. There
are long intervals of silence, and defected
symptoms of weariness; and the husband,
Hist, in his manhood, breaks in upon the
hours they were wont to spend together. I
cannot follow it circumstantially. There
came long hours of unhappy, restless, anil
terrible misgivings of each other’s worth
and affection, till, by-and-by they can con
ceal their uneasiness no longer, and go out
separately to seek relief, and lean upon the
hollow world for the support which one who
as their lover and friend could not give
them !
Heed this, ye who are winning, by your
innocent beauty, the affections of high mind
ed and thinking beings. Remember that he
will give up the brother of his heai t, with
whom lie lias had even a fellowship of mind,
the society of his contemporary runners in
the race of fame, who have held with him a
stern companionship ; and frequently, in his
passionate love, he will break away from
the arena of his burning ambition, to come
anti listen to the “ voice of the charmer.”
It will bewilder him at first; but it will not
long. And then, think you that an idle
blandishment will chain the mind that has
been used, for years to an erjual commun
ion I Think you he will give up,for a weak
alliance, the animating themes of men, and
the search into the mysteries of knowledge]
Oh, no, lady! believe me, no! Trust not
your influence to such light fetters. Credit
not the old-fashioned absurdity, that wo
man’s is a secondary lot, ministering to the
necessities of her lord and master. If your
immortality is as complete, and your gift of
mind as capable as ours, I would put no wis
dom of mine against God’s allotment. I
would charge you to water the undying bud,
and give it a healthy culture, and open its
beauty to the sun ; and then you may hope
that, when your life is bound with another,
you will go on equally, and in a fellowship
that shall pervade every earthly interest.—
Irving.
A Lesson. —Cant as we may, and as we
shall to the* end of all things, it is very much
harder for the poor to be virtuous than it is
for the rich; and the good that is in them
shines the brighter for it. In many a noble
mansion lives a man, the best of husbands
and of fathers, whose private worth in both
capacities is justly landed to the skies.—
Hut bring him here, upon this crowded
deck. Strip from his fair young wife her
silken dress and jewels, unbind her braided
hair, stamp early wrinkles on her brow,
pinch her pale cheek with care and much
privation, array her faded form in coarsely
patched attire, let there be nothing but his
love to set her forth or deck her out and you
shall put it to the proof indeed. So change
his station in the world, that he shall see in
thoseyoungthings who climb about his knee,
not records of his wealth and name; but
little wrestlers with him for his daily bread;
so many poachers on his scanty meal; so
many units to divide his every sum of com
fort, and farther to reduce its small amount.
In lieu of the endearments of childhood in
its svveetned aspect, heap upon him all its
pains and wants, its sicknesses and ills, its
fretfulness, caprice, and quarrulous indu
rance ; let its prattle bo, not of engaging in
fant fancies, but of cold, and thirst, and hun
ger; and if his fatherly affection outlive all
this, and he be patient, watchful, tender ;
careful of his children’s lives, and mindful
always of their joys and sorrows ; then send
him back to Parliament, and Pulpit, and
Quarter Sessions, and when he hears fine
talk of the depravity of those who live from
hand to mouth, and labor hard to do it, let
him speak up, as one who knows, and tell
those holders forth that they, by parallel
with such a class, should he High Angels
in their daily lives, and lay but humble seige
to Heaven at last.
Which of us shall say what we would do,
if such realities, with small relief or change
all through his days, were his! Looking
round upon these people; far from home,
houseless, indigent, wandering, weary, with
travel and hard living; and seeing how
patiently they nursed and tended their
young children; lmvv they consulted over
their wants first, and ti.en half supplied their
own; what gentle ministers of hope and faith
the women were; how the men profited by
their example; and how very, very seldom
even a moment’s petulence or harsh com
plaint broke out among them ; I felt a
stronger love and honor of my kind come
glowing on my heart, and wish to God there
had been many Atheists in the better part
of human nature there, to read with me
this simple lesson in the book of Life.
Let the rosy cheeked young ladies of the
country read the following, and never again
envy their sisters of the City.
City Ladies. —City ladies boast of beim*
more delicate than country maidens. The
one breathes an air polluted with many thou
sand breaths; the other inhales the breeze
freshened over the new mown hay. The
one drinks water from the sewer-mingling
pump, through impure pipes from the open
horse-pond ; the other poms it from the
moss-covered bucket, or dips it from the
pure spring. The one walks over the hard
pavements, along the dusty piles of brick ;
the other trips over the soft grass, along the
graceful rows of trees. The one is pale and
sickly, from watching at the evening con
cert ; the other is ruddy and healthy, from
rising with the morning birds. The one is
the lily of the green house ; the other is the
rose beside the stone wall. In the city is
seen and admired the ingenious handiwork
of man ; in the country are traced and hal
lowed the stately trappings of the Almighty.
fLumP-LS r m
!□
THE CURRENCY—CORRECTED.
Par Banks. —The issues of tho following
banks are received at par in Augusta : Au
gusta Insurance and Banking Company—
Bank of Augusta—Branch .State of Geor
gia at Augusta —Agency Bank of Bruns
wick—Branch Georgia Roil Road—Me
chanics’Bank—Bank of St. Mary’s—Bank
of Milledgeville—Bank of the State of
Georgia, at Savannah—Commercial Bank
at Macon —Georgia Rail Road and Banking
Company Athens—Marine and Fire Insur
ance Bank, Savannah—Branch of ditto, at
Macon—Planters’ Bank, Savannah—Ruck
ersville Banking Company Charleston
Banks—Bank of Camden—Batik of George
town —Commercial Bank, Columbus—Mer
chants’ Bank at Cheraw—Bank of Hamburg
—Exchange Bank Brunswick.
Banks at Discount. —Phoenix Bank at
Columbus, at 6 a 10 cents discount; Oc
mulgee Bank, broke ; Central Bank of
Georgia, 35 a3B ; Central Rail Road and
Banking Company at Savannah, 3 ; Insur
ance Bank of Columbus, at Macon, G a 10;
Alabama notes, 13 a 15 ; Bank of Hawkins
ville, 30 a 35.
No Sale or uncertain. —The following
banks aio thus quoted : Bank of Darien
and Branches ; Bank of Columbus ; Chat
tahoochie Rail Road and Banking Compa
ny ; Monroe Rail Road and Banking Com
pany ; Planters’ and Mechanics’ Bank, Cos
lumiius; Western Bank of Georgia, at
Rome.
© R Q © 0 K! A IL □
For the “ Southern Miscellany.'’
THE BIBLE.
Thou blessed Book ! Upon thy sacred page
Eternal Truth is writ. Thy history
Bears the impress of the Eternal One !
Tlinti nrt the record true of time and man,
Os angels, and of Goo. To man thou ’rt a guide :
Thou tcllest when Eternity was marked
By this lone point of time ; when man was made,
By whom, and how—and all that is of earth.
A faithful picture thou hast drawn ofhia
Unsinning state, when with the Eternal,
Face to face, communion sweet he held ;
And how the Lnw was given, and how ’twas broke
By our lore-parents both : regardless of
The high behests of Heaven, they lifted high
The gate, through which the pent-up tide of sin
Might pour its flood of bitter waters o’er
This beauteous Earth—just sprining into life.
Blighted were all his hopes by sin, and lost
The expectation of all future good.
The moral image of his Maker now
Was gone; yea, lost amidst the general wreck !
But yet, though clouds and darkness did arise
And cast their mantling gloom upon this scene
Os human woe: though thunder's muttering
Were heard to issue from the Eternal throne—
Though darkness, deeper than eternal night,
Had gathered thick around Jehovah’s brow—
Though Justice whet her glittering sword and
Blandished it on high: amidst this general
Gloom the star of Hope arose, and shed its
Bright and joyous light all o’er the scene of
Woe. The thunder’s voice was hushed—a smile
Os peace shone out upon the Eternal’s brow—
The glittering sword was sheathed, and Mercy’s
Voice, in melting accents breathed, was heard,
“The woman’s seed shall bruise the serpent's head !”
Thrice blessed Book! A mark thou ’rt to guide
Our wandering footsteps through life’s dreary waste.
A light thou art to shine upon the gloom
That gathers o’er the grave. Thou art the star—
The polar star —by which the mariner
Upon life’s troubled sea, shall safely guide
His frail and fragile bark above tho w aves;
The beacon true that marks the dang’rous shoal
On which his boat may strand, and points
The harbour out beyond life’s utmost verge,
Where, every danger past, the vessel safe
May ride at anchor through Eternity ! E.L. W.
Madison, Georgia.
For the “ Southern Miscellany.”
A SCENE AT BEAVER TAIL
AMONG THE COTTON-BUYERS.
A few days ago, being in Madison, I saun
tered down to Beaver Tail, as it is termed.
As many of my distant readers ntay not
comprehend its locality, I will describe its
geography. The present terminus of the
Georgia Rail-Road lias caused—around its ‘
Depot for receiving at.d forwarding freight.
—a new kind of business to spring up, and
has, to a great extent, diverted the trade a
way from the common mart, which was in
days gone by, as in most of our interior vil
lages, the Court House Square. Around
the Depot—especially on the South-eastern
side—some extensive dealing is daily carri
ed on, in the way of buying and selling Cot
ton, and supplying the great demand for gro
ceries and heavy staple goods. 1 will here
furnish a description of the boundaries of
this now very public place, that its metes
and bounds may be marked historically—
that, when its space shall be covered with
houses and inhabitants, its classical and po
etical cognomens may not bo lost to poster
ity. On the opposite side of the above de
scribed—which “ the boys,” as they are fa
miliarly called, have christened—Beaver
Tail, is the Wagon-Yard which is in pos
session of a name somewhat like its shape—
thus, > . Start not. gentle reader! it is not
called Elysium, or Paradise, but Tickle-giz
zard! Its lower suburb is called Bcnny-
Jield —that being the name of the founder of
this new town, who is still a resident and
continues to drive a striking business. Op
posite this delightful plain, which is daily
covered with wagons, carts, horses, mules,
oxen and dogs, is the new, rising villages of
Slip-gap, Hook-'cm-snivey, ami Pin-hook.
It is supposed that a great effort will be
made at some future day in the Legislature
of our State for a Suitable name for this city
of a most promising community, who are at
present engaged in the manufacture and
vending of ginger cakes and chicken pies to
the migratory inhabitants of Tickle-gizzard
—who are daily arriving and departing, like
the caravans of Arabia, and like them, of all
colors from black to white, but principally
of a dirt color.
So much for metes and boutids. I now
come to the descriptive part —the Scene
amongst the Cotton Buyers.
An old man, with his son, had just arri
ved at the entrance of Beaver Tail, with an
ox cart and two bales of Cotton. The frost
of sixty winters had not mellowed the ex
pression of the old man's countenance; ex
posure to the summer’s sun and the winter’s
wind had—to use a common saying—“ case
hardened him,” and he wore a grum aspect.
He was readily accosted by the Colton
Buyers ; and here let me say a word or two
in relation to the ” gimlet fraternity,” as
they arc commonly called. Solomon lias
said, “ There is nothing new under the sun.’’
He would not have said this, however, had
lie lived to see a regular built Cotton Buyer
marching up and down the streets, flourish
ing a barbed dagger, with an eye which soon
becomes as keen as his gimhlet. They are
decidedly suigencris. Most undoubtedly a
new species of our race will ultimately
spring up from this peculiar class of men,
who are almost as distinct in their modes of
thinking anil acting as the Gypsies of Spain
are from the regular and beautiful maidens
of Andalusia.
“ Do you want to sell that Cotton 1” ask
ed a short, snug, compact looking man, who,
by bis distinct and pointed pronunciation,
might be easily supposed to be a son of the
Emerald Isle.
“ Sartingly,” said the old man, grumly;
“ that’s what I come here for.”
“ Shall 1 sample it 1”
“ Yes, you may look at it.”
The gimblet was soon into the bales, and
I discovered that the old man looked vexed
as the buyer strewed his Cotton on the
ground, apparently wasting it in getting what
he conceived to he necessary for a sample.
“ What do you ask for it I” asked the
man with the gimhlet.
“ l must have five cents, and God knows
that’s mighty little for it.”
“ Five cents I” said tho buyer, “ fi ye
cents! My dear sir, you stand no wore
chance to get five cents for your Cottc“