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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“