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i'L'BLISHED EVERY SATURDAY, BY JAMES IcGAFFERTT, MACINTOSH'S IREFT , OPPOSITE POST OFFICE. Terms of Paper. —For a single copy, one year, Two Dollars: for six copies, Ten Dollars; for thirteen copies, T wen ty Dollars, payable in advance. Advertisements will be inscrtej at 50 cents per square for the first insertion, and 25 cents for each continuance — Twelve lines toconstitnte a square. A liberal deduction to yearly advertisers. Tjp No letters taken from the Post Office unless postage free. Officers Augusta VV. T. A Society. Dr. DANIEL HOOK, President. Rev. WM. J. HARD, i “ C. S. DOD. '• Vice Presidents HAWKINS HUFF, Esq. ) WM. HAINES, Jr. Secretary. L. D. LALLERSTEDT, Treasurer. YiK!;E Culture of Potatoes. We rank the potatoe crop in the Uni ted States before w heat, and second only to that ot corn, as constituting the food of the people and their domestic stock. How important then that the crop be a good one. We are not going to write an article now upon the particular cul ture of potatoes, as every farmer under stands that sufficiently well for general purpose; but shall merely content our selves with a few hints on the subject by wav of guarding against the rot. Whatever may be the cause of the rot in potatoes, there is no doubt in our mind, that the application of fresh barn yard manures and animal matter of any kind has a tendency to increase it; and wo would therefore avoid the use of them on this crop for a few seasons, till the rot had in some measure disappeared, and apply the manure chiefly to grass and corn. For the potatoe crop, then, we would plow up a sod just after the grass had well started, and this, with the application of a little plaster, ashes, or guano on the hills near the stalks after] the first time hoeing, will be sufficiently j rich to produce a good crop. Potatoes raised on a sod yre sweeter, more nutri tious, and meal)*, than those raised by the direct application of rank manures. Crops grown by the latter method are al. most invariably watery, and tangy—are eaten with disgust, and have little nutri. ment in them. The best tasted potatoes we ever raised, and the largest crop ob tained, were produced on a piece of sod where the grass had been permitted to grow up till the first week in June. It was then turned over flat, rolled, and harrowed lengthwise with the furrows, and the rows marked out three feet apart with a light one horse plow, running j three inches deep, being careful not to i disturb the sod. The seed was chosen ! of a medium size, dropped six inches apart in the row, and covered two inches deep with hoes. It was a field of about ten acres. No grass sprung up on it, and very few weeds were seen during the season. Just before the potatoe vines bloomed, a single horse plow was passed down and up each row, throwing the dirt to the vines, the men following with hoes and rapidly hilling them. In the fall they were dug with the plow, when the sod was found completely rot ted, and pulverized beautifully. No doubt the unmolested growth of spring grass facilitated the decomposition of the sod, and added to the growth of the potatoes. The season was rather a wet one, which accelerates decomposition; had it been dry the sod would not have decomposed so well. The first week in June is sufficiently early to plant pota toes for the winter and spring use. We j have planted as late as the 3d of July j and got fair crops, when a warm autumn j followed ; but this is too late for this* cli i mate, and we cannot recommend the j practice. Early potatoes should be 1 planted in April. Some think planting , unripe seed prevents the rot. —~ ——» !, Butter Making, By an Ohio girl who is worth having. , Miss Emily says, in the Ohio Cultiva tor, “ I have for several years had the entire care of the milking department in my father’s family. I therefore read ! with great interest, whatever related to j making butter and cheese, and I found much that was different from what I had been in the habit of practicing. One ! case of this kind was directions for raa- j king butter in winter, according to what is called the Russian method, by which it \ was said butter could be made in wink , j as in summer, and with as little churn- j ing. So I set about trying the experi ment, and the result exceeded my expec tations. My new practice is as follows : “Before I go to milk, (this is the way for Christian girls to talk—Ed.) I put a ! kettle, say one-third full of water, and j large enough to let the milk-pail into it,: on the stove, ifliere it will git boiling hot j by the time I come in with the milk. I j then strain the milk into another vessel, j and wash the pail, (which should be of j tin,) then pour the milk back into the i pail, and set it into the kettle of boiling ! AUGUSTA WASHINGTONIAN. A WEEKLY PAPER: DEVOTED TO TEMPERANCE, AGRICULTURE, & MISCELLANEOUS READINGS. iVol. ill.] water, ti.l the milk becomes scalding hot, i taking care not to let it boil, then pour I it into crocks or pans, and set it away in the cellar for the cream to rise in the usual way. Cream procured in this way will seldom require more than twenty minutes to churn, while by the common practice the poor dairy-maid may often churn for hours, and then have to throw all away, as I did myself on two occa sions, before I happened to gain this valuable information. So much, Mr. Editor, for one instance of the advan tage that a young lady may derive from reading an Agricultural paper.” The process given above will answer in summer as well ns in winter.—Ten nessee Agriculturalist. The Death of a Dog. To die “ the death of a dog,” is said to he the fate of any unfortunate who lias been disconnected by misfortune or misconduct from the sympathy and char ity of his kin. The phrase is familiar in every ear, and its signification is well understood. That dogs do generally die wretchedly is most true; and even the hound of high degree, when his day is over, may go to the dust as miserably as any “ bobtail tyke or trundle tail” of the canine fraternity. Dogs are gener ally supposed to die in the gutter; j“ headed,” as we see them in the dog days, or pelted to death by mischevious hoys. Books tell us that dogs, of all the brute creation, manifest clearest in telligence and closest attachment to man; while, at the same time, it is a received opinion that the death of a dog is the most despicable exit from being that can he made by biped or quadruped. At some future time perhaps philosophy may find out how far these facts go to the dis grace of the dog, and how far in favor of the magnanimity of man. The mas tiff, the hound, the spaniel, the shep herd's dog, the harrier, the terrier, the greyhound, the bloodhound, &c., &c., all have their friends and masters during their day of utility; but to grow sick or i old are always to be visited with the i vengeance of neglect. Such being the | unhappy fate of the genus cams , there is. perhaps, no sadder image to be called before the mind than “the death of a dog.” On the first of January, 1827, Col. Win. L. Sublette, accompanied by a fa mous mountaineer called Black Harris, started on foot, on an express expedition from the mountains to St. Louis. The story of the whole trip is too long to be | told now, and we only propose to men tion one remarkable incident of the jour ney. The two men took with them no horses, but pushed forward with snow shoes upon their feet. An Indian dog, trained and broken for service, with a pack of necessaries weighing fifty pounds strapped upon its Lack, was their only friend, assistant, and companion upon this perilous, desolate, and unprecedent ed adventure. After encountering suf fering, hunger, and hardship, in every shape that winter could inflict upon them, I they stopped one evening, sick, and star j ving, under three elm trees, by the side !of a frozen streamlet, still two hundred j miles outside of the settlements. The ; dog was weak and sore footed, out of ; sight behind, as it followed faithfully and i wearily on. Sublette had barely strength !to scrape the snow from a spot, gather his blanket around him, and fall exhaust ed; while Black Harris broke dead branches from the trees and kindled a ; fire. If the cond.tion of the two deso i late travellers at this moment may be i imagined, it must present a picture wor thy of attention. Sublette lay coiled up in his blanket by the side of the lit ! tie camp-fire, while Black Harris, sitting 1 cross-legged opposite, bent for warmth !over the miserable blaze, his eye gleam- J ing with strange earnestness upon the l poor dog that came crawling in just as ! the heaviest shadows of night were gath ! ering around. Harris did not move, as j was his usual custom, to relieve the dog from its load. The animal crawled near the fire, crouched, and closed its eyes, with the burden still bound upon its back, while Black Harris “did rest his chin upon his clenched hands and smiled,” as : his eye roved back and forth from the ] poor, starved dog, to a little axe or toma j hawk that lay near. “Captain,” said Harris, addressing ' Sublette. “ Um ?” muttered the worn out roan. : “ The dog.” AUGUSTA, GA. MAY 31, 1845. ,: “Um r • j“I say, the dog 1” Ij “ Well ?” : “ Well 1 well, then you ain’t hungry, ’; I suppose ? I won’t say dog to you a- : ' gain 1” and Biack Harris made a misera 1j ble attempt to whistle, his wild eye still j 1 1 fixed upon the poor beast that lay near ! r : him. “ He can’t travel any more, any how,” s said Harris. “ Urn ?” “0, go to sleep, if you’ve had your i supper; I’m just talking to my friend here with four legs.” “Are you hungry, Harris?” asked ■ Sublette, faintly. “Hungry! O Lord, no! I have ea ten three full meals in only a fortnight! Hungry, Captain! why you are joking me; goto sleep, Captain, go to sleep; you have been dining out and indulging! | go to sleep.” ) “ Must we kill the dog, Harris ?” “(>, not at all, Captain; I can wait .; awhile myself, and lie’ll save us the r ■ trouble before morning!” [! “Um ?” , “We’ve got nothing more for him to , i carry, any how.” i “O, Lord!” . “And he couldn’t carry anything if f 1 we had it. I don’t want to kill the dog!” .: “Um r . “There’s nothing to eat on his bones, , any how; good night. Captain!” • | “Kill the dog! kill the dog, Harris,” 1 said Sublette; “ you aro starving: I cant . |eat the flesh of the miserable creature; ; but if you can, kill it, kill it, in God’s I name!” . Harris snatched the axe. and reeled , with weakness as lie rose to strike the ; dog. He struck and missed his aim.— The dog rose and looked in his face. He . struck again, and the blow descended with • fearful effect upon the skull of the animal. . It fell and rose again with a pitiful howl. “Get up, get up and help me, Captain,” ! said Harris, “n dizziness • coming over | i me, and I can’t see the brute.” r “No! no! no!” replied the prostrate i man, curling himself up closer and closer . in the folds of his blanket. , “ Get up /” repeated Harris, with '■ : phrenzied earnestness in his words, and | Sublette rose with sudden energy to as , sist. The wounded dog had crawled away,! and lay moaning pitiously somewhere in , the dark. The two men groped about, 1 , blindly, and half crazy with hunger and wretchedness, in search of it, and at 1 . length it was found. “Hold it! hold it!” cried Harris, ns !l he threw more sticks on the fire to get a 1 j light. i Sublette held the dog, while Harris 1 gave it two more rapid blows upon the ' skull with his tomahawk, stretching the 1 creature out upon the blood-stained snow, i apparently dead. Without pausing an I instant the hungry man threw the carcass j on the fire to singe the hair off when it 1 life again, wriggled out of the ■ flame, and ran madly away 1 By its i own burning hair the poor travellers i traced it, and, after being stabbed and 1 stabbed again, and knocked in the head i again, the heart yet moved when the im- ’ patient butcher opened his prey 1 i Sublette returned, sick, to his bed in * ' the snow, but Harris cooked supper and < feasted alone, setting the Captain’s share I aside to serve for breakfast. They both I ate heartily in the morning, and with re- I newed vigor set forward for home. Such is one story of the death of a I dog.— Picayune. l , .... < Green, the reformed Gambler, recent- 1 ly made an excursion through the Auburn * State Prison. He gives the following ! account of his interview with a murder- I er: “On my return to the prison office I was introduced to the chaplain, Rev. O. E. Morrill, which reverend gentleman informed me that a man by the name of Wyatt, then confined in one of the cells, for the murder of Gordon, on the 16th of March, in the Auburn State Prison, had i confessed to him that he had lived a gam- i bier several years in the South and West 1 and he would like I should call upon him. < I accompanied him to the cell of the mur- ] derer. The door was thrown open upon its i grating hinges, when the reverend gentle- ■< man introduced me as an acquaintance of his who had travelled South several years, I and thought that he (Wyatt) would be < glad to converse with him. He said, he i was happy to see me, and asked me to \ be seated. After a short discourse rela- i tive to the different classes of men then j in confinement, 1 asked him what he fol lowed in his travels through the South. He told me gambling. I asked how ! long he had been engaged in that nefari- j ious business? He said twelve or thir- j j *een years. 1 asked him if he ever knew one by the name of Green ? He j ' said he did. I asked his name ? He | answered, ‘John;’ said he knew him in 1832, 3, 4 and 5, and saw him in 1842,1 in St. Louis. I asked him if he was in-! tirnate with Green? lie said he knew him as one gambler knew another. I asked him if I favored him? He said if I would stand in the light he would tell 1 me. I did so. He said I looked like the l man. I told him I was the man, but that I never knew him by the name of Wyatt. He said I did not; that Wyatt i was not his real name. He then told me another, which was not his real name, and asked me if I did not hear of a man being murdered near St. Louis in the year 1841, and of two men being arrest- ] ed, both tried and convicted, one having , a new trial granted him, the other being hung. 1 told him that I thought I had. He said he was the man that had the new trial granted, and was acquitted; i ‘and,’ said he, ‘they hung the wrong man ; he was innocent; lam the guilty man; but they hung fiim and cleared me.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘you were under a different name still at that time.’ , He said, ‘Yes, by none of those names ' do you know me, but my real name you are familiar with. Your name,’ said , he, ‘I knew in the year 1832; the gam blers called you John, but Jonathan isj: your real name.’ My curiosity was high-1 ly excited at the strange management of i the murderer. But you may imagine < the increase of it when he told me his i real name. I looked at the murderer < and could scarcely believe my own eyes; i yet lie stood before me a living marvel. * 1 have pledged secresy as to his real s name until his execution. I interroga- | ted him on his first steps in vice, and i how he became so hardened. He told | me to remember the treatment he had 1 received from the Lyncher’s lash at f Vicksburg. I did, but my eyes could i scarcely credit reality. I had known him in 1832,3, 4, and in the early part of ’35, as a bar-keeper in Vicksburg. He i was never a shrewd card player, but at l that time was considered an inoffensive < youth. The coffee house he kept was f owned by North, who with four others t were executed on the sth of July, 1635, i by Lynch law. Wyatt and three others c were taken on the morning of the 7th, > stripped and one thousand lashes given i to the Tour, tarred and feathered, and put \ into a canoe and set adrift on the Mis- s sissippi River. It makes my blood cur- * die and my flesh quiver to think of the ( sufferings of these unfortunate men, set t adrift on the morning of the 7th of Ju- c ly, with the broiling sun upon their man- t gled bodies. Two died in about two f hours after they were set afloat. Wyatt r and another remained with their hands r and feet bound forty hours, suffering more r than tongue can tell or pen describe, j when they were picked up by some slave negroes, who started with the two sur- j vivors to their quarters. His compan- t ion died before they arrived. Wyatt t survives to tell the horrors of the Lynch- c er’s lash. He told me seven murders ] had been occasioned by their unmerciful v treatment to him, and one innocent man s hung. a I know his statement to be true, for I s had known him before 1835, and his 'j truth in other particulars cannot be a doubted. He murdered his seventh a man, for which crime he will be execu- j ted. I have another communication for 4 your paper concerning the murderer and t his prospects in the world to come. 'j Yours truly t J. H. GREEN. '] Auburn, April 10, 1845. c ' 1= c Anecdote of Wolcot. ; “Expressing mv surprise one day to s Wolcot, that his satirical disposition had s not got him into more scrapes, he told j me he never was in but one that serious- c ly alarmed him. It was with the late c General M’Cormic. We had passed the \ previous forenoon alone together, when j i something I said more severe than I t ought, to the General, roused his anger, c He retorted. I was more sarcastic than j before. He went away, and sent tee a challenge for the next morning. Bix o’clock was the hour fixed; and the ‘ ground to be the Green at Truro, which c at that time was sufficiently retired.— t WASHINGTONIAN ; TOTAL ABSTINENCE PLEBGE, , We, whose names are hereunto an nexed, desirous of forming & Society for our mutual benefit, and to guard against a pernicious practice, which is injurious to our health, standing and families, do ee ourselves as GENTI.EME&, not t* any Spirituous or Malt I.iquors, Wine or Cider , [No. 46 j T , ller e were no seconds. The window of my room, however, commanded the ; Green. I had scarcely g?t out of bed to dress for the appointment, when pull* iflg aside the curtains, I saw the General walking up and down on the next side of : the river, half an hour before the time. Ihe sun was just rising cloudily, the morning bitterly cold ; which, with the i s ‘ght °f the General’s pistols and his at | tendance on the grouud before the hour I appointed, were by no means calculated ; i0 strengthen my nerves. I dressed, and, while doing so, made up my mind it was great folly for two old friends to pop j aw 'ay at each other’s lives. My resolu ; tion was speedily taken. I rang for mv i servant girl: “ Molly, light the fire instantly j make some good toast; let the breakfast be got in a minute tor two.” “Yes Sir.” My watch was within a minute of the time. Pistol in hand, I went out the back way from my house, which opened on the Green. I crossed like a lion, and went up to M’Cormick. He looked firm, but did not speak. I did. “ Good morning t’ ye, General.” The General bowed. “This is too cold a morning for fighting.” “ riier e is but one alternative,” said the General distinctly. “It is what you soldiers call an apolo gy- My dear fellow, I would rather make twenty when I was so much in the wrong as I was yesterday; but I will only make it on one condition.” “I cannot talk of conditions, sir,” said the General. “ W by, then I will consider the condi tions assented to. It is, that you will come in and take a good breakfast with me, now ready on the table. I am ex ceedingly sorry if I hurt your feelings yesterday, tor I meant not to do it.”— N\ o shook hands like old friends, and soon forgot our difference over tea and toast: but I did not like the pistols and that cold morning; notwithstanding, J believe many duels might end harmless ly, could the combattants command the field as I did, and on such a bitter cold morning.”— New Monthly Magazine. We have repeatedly alluded to the rap id progress of manufacturing at the South, and have expressed the belief that ere many years the whole South, even South Carolina not excepted, would be come generally and earnestly engaged in making cotton fabrics for their own consumption, as well as for export to the various quarters of the world. The im mediate vicinity of th- r»w material, which can be used wit- i icurring the slightest expense for transportation, the abundant water power, and the greater cheapness of labor, would seem to give to the South extraordinary advantages over the North for the prosecution of the cotton manufacture; and we find fre quent indications that Southern states men, and especially Southern business men, are entering upon this, to them new, but extremely promising branch of industry. An Alabama paper gives aft interest ing description of a flourishing manufac turing village which has recently sprung up in Bibb county, on Schultz Creek, called Scottsville. It was founded in 1834 by David Scott, of Tuscaloosa, who continues to be much the largest stockholder in the cotton factory. The shares are rated at 8100, and the capital stock taken and paid in is 870,000. —- The company now run 13,00 spindles and 24 looms, making on an average about 4,500 yards of heavy negro shirt ing per week, consuming during the year 400 bales of cotton, and employing in the factory, large and small, 45 hands.— The building is 90 feet long by 40 wide, three stories high, and built of brick.— The entire establishment is under the charge of Mr. Scott; and as an evidence of his success and skill, it is stated that the lowest divident ever declared on the stock for a year was 15 per cent; while some years it has reached as high as S 3 per cent. The books will be opened the coming summer in order to extend the capital to SIOO,OOO. Bibb county, in which it is situated, abounds in iron ore, in coal, and in water power; and has thus extraordinary advantages, for a suc cessful prosecution of manufactures.—• N. Y. Courier df Enquirer. ‘My dear,’ said a wife to her husband, ‘did you efer read of the plague in Lon don V No, I don’t want to read it. It is enough to have a plague in my own house.