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252 LITERARY. WILLIAM W. MANN, Editor. SATURDAY, DEC. 31, 1859. TRAVELING AGENT. Jobs L. Stockton, of this city, is General Traveling Agent for the Field and Finrsinr. and the Coxsrrrr- TIOSAI.IST. — — NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS. We do not send receipts by mail for subscriptions re mitted. The receipt of The Southern Field and Fireside, after the money is remitted, will be evi dence to each subscriber that his money has been re ceived and his name duly entered on the mail book. £gs= Correspondents, literary and other, will please take notice that all business communica tions to the office of the Southern Field and Fireside should be addressed to Mr. James Gardner, proprietor; and all Literary , Agricul tural and Horticultural communications to the respective editors, by name. — TO CORRESPONDENTS AND CONTRIBUTORS. We have received during the week the follow ing contributions: Spirit Darkness. By B. E. The author s name and address must be communicated, or the communication will not be read. Popular Astronomy. By Lamkin. A Song of Gratitude. By a Minister's Wife. (Accepted.) Q. Q. Q. must send his name with his next “bundle of crackers," or his “crackers” will never explode in the columns of the Field and Fireside. If the name is sent, we will prompt ly determine whether to put Are to them, or them into the fire. We take this opportunity to state that numerous articles, offered last spring in compe tition for our prizes, and which were returned to this office by the committee of decision after its labors were over, still remain on our hands. Many of these articles—tales, essays, and poems —we would probably, upon perusal, be glad to insert in our columns, if the permission, of authors can be obtained. This permission might be presumed, perhaps, as the MSS. have been so long unclaimed; but in the doubt which has existed, they have not 'even been read by us. We would now notify the writers of these articles, that we shall hold their productions during the month of January next, subject to their order. If they remain unclaimed, we shall, after that date, consider that we have permission to use for our columns such of the MSS. as we may find suitable and valuable. — The rest will be destroyed. Several articles, prose and poems, which contended unsuccess fully for the prizes, have, by consent of the authors, already adorned our pages. — THE NEW YEAR. We should not fail—TnE Field and Fireside, perhaps, of all papers in the South —to Improve the opportunity offered by the incoming of an other year, to carry to the ten thousand firesides which we endeavor weekly to amuse and cheer, the expression of our grateful sense of the kind welcome we have received, and the utterance of our hearty wish for a happy New Year! At each and all of them, when these lines shall be read, may a happy hew Year —a happier year than any of the past—have commenced its course. At all of them may there be abundantly experienced, consolation at sight of vacant seats —how many /firesides will show them! —of dear friends who have been buried—at thought of cherished hopes that have vanished, during the year that is now drawing to its close. May the memory of both lose its bitterness, and the young hopes that are already springing up and occupying the place of those that have depart ed, lie more fully realised 1 A happy New Year, and many returns, to all our friends! OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENCE. Paris, December 8, 1859. The result has been so clear from the outset, that is any time since last July, that even the permitted vanity of an “own correspondent” hardly justifies me in boasting oft the fulfillment of my persistent prophecy that a Congress would meet and that England would be represented. It is now a known fact. As to the doings of the Congress, which will probably commence here in Paris next month, and their result I venture no prophecy. Nor do I think that any of the abundant vaticination on the subject uttered by newspaper oracles, shows the slightest proofs of clear vision. For the present let it pass. The state of Italy is on the whole not essentially differ ent from what it has been for a month. The organization of the Central States grows daily more complete; their right and competence to govern themselves more and more approve themselves; their purpose of being annexed to Sardinia seems unchanged and their practical as similation, meantime, to her institutions, is com pleting itself. How far all that strengthens their chance of having their wishes approved or even not disregarded by the Congress, I will not to day trouble you with guessing. The most im portant new fact in their favor is, that Cavour is to be the Sardinian representative in the Con gress—if that is a fact. It is so currently re ported and believed. He is the ablest advocate, if not of Italian liberty, at least of Italian inde pendence on Austria, that will appear in that as sembly. Austria is full of trouble, in Italv, in the Ty rol, in Hungary and in Vienna itself. In Hun gary, above all, the national feeling and, of course, the national discontent, are manifested in every possible way left open to the Magyars. An armed revolution is not imminent, for it is hardly possible; but the agitation is universal. The central government is attentive to and alarm ed by the symptoms, but has as yet proposed no remedy for the deep-seated disease. The Hun garians would apparently be satisfied for the present with a restoration and recognition of their nationality as it existed before 1848 ; Aus tria is not likely to grant Jhis nor nearly this — XKR 80VXKSRB WXXUt MMB BXJUKSIBK. prefers medicating the symptoms, granting par tial temporising reforms, which are practically no reforms, and abiding the risk of a revolution of the Kossuth sort. I was speaking last week of the safety of rail- ! way traveling in Franco, as being greater than i with us. The statistics of other continental Eu ropean countries furnish terms for an equally un- j favorable comparison. In Germany serious ac- | cidents are almost unknown. The reason is that ; in these European countries regulations for rail- I road officers and passengers are ordered by gov- ! emment and enforced by penalties. If you pur- j pose going to Brussels to-night, you must have bought vour ticket, had your baggage weighed and labelled and paid for, and lie yourself in the waiting room five minutes before the hour fixed for the starting of the cars. Into this room and on the platform none but the officers and em ployes of the road and passengers are admitted. Handshakings, kissings, and the other gyrnuas- i tics of adieu must all be done with before enter ing this room. When the doors are opened let ting from the waiting room to the platform, you have three or four minutes to take your seat; then all the doors of the cars are shut and fast ened : then the inspector sees that all is right; and then the train starts. As you pass along, you will notice that when you cross an ordinary road, you either pass under it or over it; or if occasionally and exceptionally the rail and car- j riage road are on the same level, that the latter i is closed on either side by gates, which were \ shut five minutes before the arrival of the train, remain shut all the time that the train stops, if it do stop, and are not opened till the train is fairly out of sight; and if, instead of being a passenger by rail, you were a passenger by horse or a-foot behind one of those gates, aud your house with nine children and your wife were all burning up just the other side of the opposite gate, you would not be permitted to cross till the gates were opened. From the moment you enter that waiting room until you reach Brussels, you are under the control of the railway company. If you stop at away station to lunch, so many min utes are allowed to you; silfpass the limit, hurry out with both cheeks full of unswallowed vic tual, you find the car doors shut, which you are not to open; though the cars may not movoffor the next ten seconds, when they do move they loave you standing on the platform with a ticket to Brussels, now and henceforth become useless, a monument of impatience fuming with grief over the veracity of French reglements. This is but a specimen, a sample end of the spirit of re gulation existing in all the railroad system, which, in its turn, may be regarded as a speci men of the general spirit of regulation that per vades all the system of French society. Every thing, every act is regulated. So far as railway traveling is concerned, I have come to like it. Having read the printed regu lations, being ticketed and paid for, I find it pleasant to be relieved of all care for myself, to consider myself as a piece of irresponsible bag gage, for whose safe delivery at Brussels a highly respectable corporation is answerable. And so it is pleasant enough living here in Paris, to be so well taken care of; to know that over three thousand policemen, besides commissaires and other magistrates, are taking care of one; to know that, whatever is to be done, will be done by some officer appointed for that purpose: that you are pretty much relieved of doing anything. This is all very well, if you are only a passenger. But the grave error, into which too many of our countrymen passing here, fall, is to confound what is pleasant for them with what is good for citizens. Paris is undoubtedly one of the best policed, best regulated towns in the world. I do not know a street within its walls where, with the present organization of the police, a sense of bodily danger would seriously prevent me from passing, alone, between the hours of 11 and 12 P. M., for the next three hundred and sixty-five days. I do not know a street that I cannot cross in this muddy, dirty, drizzly last three days, without destroying the polish that Madame Martin gave to my upper leathers this morning. (To prevent misconception, it should be stated that Madame Martin is your correspondent’s con cierge, and not, as the last sentence might lead the reader to suppose, relict of the late estimable Mr. Martin of the celebrated firm of Day and dit to.) You can tell better than I how New York is now, but the last time I was in that city, Broadway could be safely crossed in the daytime only in thick boots, so deep was the slush and mud; while at night the passenger through that and many other streets of the metropolis ran grave danger of an attack in the head or an af fection of the throat from a garrotter. That was in February and March of 1851. There were, during that year, sixty homicides in New York city, and arrests to a number that I hesitate to repeat here, although I am assured that the fig ures are official. Suffice it to say, that they are double those of Paris for the same year, although Paris has a population nearly double thatol New York. And for all that, New York is a vastly better place for a man to grow up and live in than Pans—surely not because it is so ill-regu lated, but because it is not over-regulated—bet ter for his whole manly growth. lam loth to believe that democracy must be fierce; that there is a necessary antagonism between self-govern ment and good police; but if there be, then let us by all means renounce the good police. It is the lesser sacrifice of the two. We Parisians are so well taken care of, that we have lost (hav ing no exercise for) the faculty of taking care of ourselves; we have lost the faculty of inde pendent action, letting our individuality be ab sorbed, as it were, in a system. An accident that occurred here only last week, though rather extraordinary even for Paris, offers an apt illustration and complement to these propositions. As the story is curious in other respects, you will pardon me for narrat ing it somewhat in detajj. A man named C—, who had fallen from a better position to that of simple hired workman, and, to soften the fall, had taken to drinking, came home the other evening under the in fluence of barriere wine. His wife received him with deserved reproaches, to which he replied : “Don’t scold, my dear, I shall not trouble you any more, I am going to hang myself.” The poor woman had heard similar talk too often to be alarmed by this. The man went into the next room and shut the door. For a few min utes his wife heard him moving about, and then all was still. The silence seemed strange to her, and opening the door, she saw her husband, as she thought, standing in one corner of the room. It was too dark for her clearly to distinguish what he was doing there, but he was making such strange motions that she went down stairs for the porter’s wife. Returning with her, the poor woman went up to her husband, and taking him by the hand, said kindly: “Come, come, no pouting; go to bed, you will be better there than here.’ ’ As she drew him by the hand, she perceived that his body swung towards her. The porter's wife cried out: “Why, he has hung himself; but he does not seem to be quite dead. I’ll run and tell the landlord.” “And I,” said the wife, “I cannot stay here; I’ll wait on the stairs.” They both went out, leaving the poor wretch in his last convulsions. The porteress found the proprietor, who considered the matter of enough importance to be examined personally, and re paired to the chamber, accompanied by an escort of lodgers, who had caught something of the story. 'Tie breathes yet," remarked one of the latter: "suppose we cut him down ?” "A pretty business you would make for us,’’ exclaimed the landlord. "Don’t you know that it is against the law to touch a man that has hung himself till the comrnissaire of police comes ? I’ll go and let him know right away." Just at the street door the landlord ran upon a Sergent de ville: “ There is a man who has hung himself in the house." ‘‘How long ago?” "Only a little while.” Have you cut him down ?” “ Not I! Am going now for the commissary.” The Ser gent ck ville, without wasting more words, dash ed up stairs and, to the great scandal of the pro prietor of the house—who followed him—made haste to take down the drunkard’s body, which, by this time, as you may well imagine, no lon ger showed any signs of life. The policeman then went and informed the commissary of the quarter, who, when he came, severely reproach ed the bystanders for their silly notions of the law, which had prevented them from cutting down the man C— , and thus, in all probability, saving his life. The commissary was unreason ably severe. The notion of the proprietor was undoubtedly erroneous, but not exactly silly—was, on the contrary, a very natural, not to say logical, no tion for a Frenchman, ignorant of the definite particularities of the law, to entertain. It was an accidentally wrong application of the gene ral notion which the theory ahd practice of French law and government teach and enforce —that you and your neighbors are to be taken care of by law and government and their offi cers, and that you are not to take care of your self or your neighbors. Let me give two instances within my own personal experience, of the danger of an indi vidual's acting out from his sense of natural right. My worthy concierge, k pere Martin, a most pacific man and tailor by profession, heard one day last autumn, a great noise in the court yard. He unreefed liis legs and hurried thither, where he found an ill-conditioned fellow abusing, in the grossest language, his wife, the worthy Madame Martin. Martin, though a tailor, is a man, a very loving husband, and has been a soldier. lie caught up the first thing within reach of his indignant hands. It chanced to be a stout-handled broom, with the which he dealt a proper blow at the ill-conditioned fellow’s head, hit the same, and started a drop from blood on it —only a drop. And for this,despite the certifi cates of his peacefid disposition and good nature, furnished by all the old lodgers, despite the proofs of the excessive provocation, Martin was condemned to a month’s imprisonment and a fine of 300 francs, his earnings for a year. Now had Martin sent for the commissary, and listen ed legally meanwhile to the fellow’s abuse of Madame, the penalties would have been laid upon the scoundrel, who, as it was, escaped not only scot free, but with a gain of 300 francs. Some while ago, an American, a passing trav eler, died here. A friend of his and mine, Mr. 11., after his death, sent home to his family his trunk, containing the ordinary baggage of a sim ple traveler, of the value, to any one but his family, of say S2O, at the outside. For this act of common friendship, Mr. 11. learns that he has made himself liable to a serious fine and other troubles. But to return to the story of our suicide. The commissary asked for the rope by which he hung himself, and was handed a piece only a few inches long. “ But it is not possible that he could have hung himself with that; it would not go half round his neck 1" And thereupon the bystanders looked at each other and finally began drawing from their pockets each one a piece of the cord of the same length. They had shared it among themselves with scrupulous care; for it is a valuable talisman, sure to bring good luck, the rope with which a man has been hung. And this in the middle of the nineteenth century, in the most enlightened capital of the most spirituelte nation of the world 1 And all these incidents really befel, as I have narrated them, in a street not far from the Pantheon where repose the remains of Voltaire ! If that American friend Mr. H., with his odious bump of comparison, did not remind me of Mormon ism and certain other isms now flourishing in the country of a contemporary of Voltaire, the late Ben Franklin, I should be tempted to be se- J vere on France. There is somewhere in your State, a famous collector of autography. Os his collection I have often heard. It has often excited my envy. With the charitable purpose of exciting his, I mention here, on the authority of the official Journal of Constantinople , an authority to be re lied on in this case, that the Grand Vizier has just purchased from two Italians, Signori Roban di and Maucini, the autograph letter written by Mahomet, in the year 3, of the Hegria, address ed to the Macancaj of Egypt, in which he ex horts the Copts to accept the faith of Islam.— The authenticity of this MS. of the eighth cen tury of our era, has been certified by the ablest French archeologues and orientalists. — What is a Lady? —The term lady is an abbre viation of the Saxon word “ Leofday,” which means bread giver. The “ Lady of the Manor,” was accustomed once a week to move among the poor as alms giver, enriching their tables, and bearing away their blessings. She moved in queenly beauty, and to her queenly robe clung the children of the lowly, looking atlierasif there little eyes could never be satisfied with seeing— “ Their little hearts could never ntter, How well they loved her bread and butter." But they loved her smiling face more. They needed not that any tell them how priceless is a smile. It was May-day with them whenever she came among thefti with smiles and bread, and al ways May-day with her, for the poor loved her, and crowned her queen of all the year. Reader, are you a lady? Smoking Tested. —The Dublin Medical Press asserts that the pupils of the Polytechnic School in Paris, have recently furnished some curious statistics bearing on tobacco. Dividing the young gentlemen of that college into two groups—the smokers and the non-smokers—it shows that the smokers have proved themselves, in the various competitive examinations, far in ferior to the others. Not only in the examina tions on entering the school are smokers in the lower rank, but in the various ordeals that they have to pass through in a year, the average rank of the smokers had constantly fallen, and in considerably, while the men who did not smoke were found lo enjoy a cerebral atmosphere of the clearest kind. — Glass Coffins. —Mr. J. R. CanoD, of New Al bany, Ind., lias just obtained a patent for glass coffins. Bodies placed in these coffins may be preserved in their natural state for all time to come, and when placed in vaults, can always be accessible to the gaze of those left behind. [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE FAITHFUL WRITER. BY MBS. M. A. M'< KIMMOX. The poet Goethe has a saying to the effect that the life of the most insignificant man, faith fully written, would prove interesting to the highest. Who doubts it ? The human soul is a royal guest, even in the meanest tenement, and its love, joy and sorrow being heaven-boro, appeal to our sympathies wherever found. But in the contemplation of our own inner life, we are too apt to forget that the faculty of possessing and enjoying this inner life, is a common boon. We each have a little sanctum hid away in our heart, where we can retire from the world ; watch the lovely images along its walls; listen to soft mu sic murmuring there, and hold communion with spirits all unseen without. This is one of our most precious enjoyments—this hidden shrine — so sweet, because it is owe men —eur holy haunt ed hall, where no one can intrude. And of the pictures there, hallowed by time and memory, our hearts contain the only copies, for our fancy colored them just as she would. But while wo glory in our treasure, and feast upon it, miser like, at midnight hour, let us not forget that others are equally as blest. Yon toiling man may not be gifted with the power to tell his inner life, but it is not less real, for all that. Could we but tear away the unattractive veil that hides it from our view, we would step noise less on the threshhold, awed into reverence at the revelation. Scenes as lovely as our dreams; incense as fragrant as our own ; and music’s echo, low and sweet as fairy bells, would be re vealed. Astonished at the unexpected view, we would grasp a brother’s hand. How wide is, then, the bond of brotherhood ! All who love, and mourn and hope as we, are of the band. The faithful writer holds this veil aside, dis closing this common characteristic which proves that all of our human race are brother men. But who is equal to the task? He alone who knows the human heart and loves it. This is the great requisition. A love for others is the key that unlocks to us the great truths of the inner life. The metaphysical process embraced in tins idea we will not now seek to untold. The idea itself is enough—that the faithful delineator of the heart of man requires in the delineator warm and extended sympathies. If self is his idol, he can have no conception of the hidden drama around him—no glimpse of the beautiful scenes behind its veil; the soft strains that fall on char ity’s ear, are all unheard by him, and the per fume of human violets (gentle, modest worth,) touches not his sense. Love is like light, un seen itself, and yet revealing beauties unnnm bered*and indescribable. It is with writing as with painting. The ar tist looks without for his inspiring themes. Ho toils to imbue his mind with nature’s truths; studies the masters not so much as nature in her varied loveliness. The true artist blends togeth er the beautiful and plain, the grand and simple, as it is found in life. His imagination may shade and color it, but the grond-work is laid in truth, and the universal heart responds to what is true. It is the part of genius to detect and possess it self of delicate simple truths, which the common mind overlooks. For this, men yield to genius the willing tribute of their gratitude and ad miration. We bless the hand that brings us gems we passed, unheeded, by, and such are the true artist and the faithful writer. They bring out the moral beauty to what we saw as only common things, and not suspecting the deepest hidden meaning, till they discovered the meaning and their hands removed the veil. But the dauber in the art divine, contents himself with gleaning from his more gifted breth ren. Too listless, or too dull to woo at Na ture’s shrine, he gathers here and there, until he gets together a bundle of nice things, about as much a work of art, as the merchant’s fashion form is a living, breathing woman. And so with tho commonplace writer—he gathers the tinsel from the crown that Genius wears; lie scorns the flowers that grow in wild simplicity, and plucks exotics from rich boquets, wilted and cast aside —leaves the sweet, fresh violet, for a grand japonica with its perfume all breathed out He must give us something beautiful; so he arrays a jackdaw in the peacock’s plumes, and dresses out a goose as a bird of paradise. Judge Longstreet’s “Master Mitten,” is a life faithfully written. The outline is clearly marked; the shading delicate and true. Each actor (to change the figure) moves upon the board in his proper character; and each character is strong ly marked. There is no confusion in the scenes; no crowding or mistaking the hero for tho clown, but all is simple, and true, and lifelike. Con trast it with many of the fictions we are expect ed to read, where characterless characters are distinguished alone by their dress and mode of living. See the Duke and his man Friday, ex ulting in an equal amount of sense, wit, and meanness. Look at the scores of little beggars, ala Hot Corn—faint reflections of a bright ori ginal. What is the matter with them ? Their originals are to be met with daily. Yes, but the original never sat for those pictures. The first daguerreotypes might have been good, but these second and third impressions are vague and dim. Poetry is the medium that reflects most per fectly the inner life ; hence it requires a finer order of mind to write good poetry, than prose. '"'By poetry, I do not mean mere rhyme and meas ure, but the subtle, exquisite thoughts, and del icate crayon touches, which make the soul of poetry. The poets have ever been wont to glean from one another—Homer and Shakspeare excepted, who, giant-like, drew strength from God alone. Even Virgil borrowed from Homer, and Tasso and Dante from Virgil; but they impressed the stamp of their own genius upon the borrowed thought, and colored it with their glowing fancy. Some one has said of Milton, that "he borrowed his ideas, but he improved and beautified what he borrowed—as if he had borrowed your coat, and returned it to you a more elegant coat than when he got it.” But all borrowers do not so well. They often beriddle the borrowed coat— stick it over with feathers, flowers, and tinsel finery, till the owner would not know it. The sublime simplicity of “ God said let there be light and there was light,”would be en tirely too tame to suit the taste of many versifi ers. They would prefer the modern improve ment : "The sovereign Arbiter of Nature, by the potent energy of a single word, commanded the light to exist.” Among this class was the young gentleman who announced in a “society” meeting at college, that he had made an im provement on the celebrated lines: “ Ah, who C!UI tell how hard it Is to climb I he steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar ?” Having tho reputation of a poet among his companions, he was requested to read his amendment, when it appeared that ho had changed the second line to read: “Where Fame’s temple dazzles at a distance.” The society decided that Beattie’s simplicity suited their taste better than the more pretend ing emendation, but the r oung poetaster persist ed in his opinion, and believed that his critics were envious of Itis genius, or bad not sufficient taste to appreciate his rare talents. This cir cumstance was told me by an eye-witness, a number of years ago, long enough to have for gotten it, if Iliad not been so often reminded of it by the “ poet’s comer’’ of my family news paper. The rude couplet: “• Not every one can be a poet. No more'n a sheep can be a goct,"’ contains a truth which no one will deny, but still there are rules by which those who belong to the favored class may improve in the glorious art. “ Poeta nascitur ” is very true, but as their health and growth depend on circumstances subsequent to their birth, it may be well to con sider what would lie most favorable to the de velopment of the “divine afflatus.” Patience and labor are the two things needful. Patience, to let a thought grow and ripen; and labor, to sift the chaff from the wheat. A painter goes over a picture many times before he gives it to the world. Even after the figures are all brought out, he continues to touch and retouch—a touch here, a line or shade there, until it glows upon the canvass like a thing of life. Pen painting, to reach its highest perfection, should be done just so. Never exhibit the first sketch, but touch slowly and with a delicate hand; lay it aside and let it rest; then take it out, re-write and re-touch. Thus you will finally produce an article that will deserve and obtain applause, unless you are utterly ignorant of the rules of sound literarj' criticism. If you are thus igno rant, your labor would be lost. A rough coun try cobbler cannot by ten years’ assiduous toil produce from his stall a beautiful French boot. Though we may study nothing about it in the meantime, yet the mind is insensibly at work, and we will find a vast improvement in our thoughts and expressions occurring to us when we resume the work. This is another one of those nice ideas which I will not try to explain; but it is true, as all may * prove by making the experiment. AH great things are of slow growth. Gibbon was twenty years writing the great work that immortalized his name. Tom Moore sometimes spent a week on a verse, which, when comple ted, seemed so simply and natural, one would have thought it flowed impromptu from his pen. Benjamin West was seventeen years painting that noble picture “ Christ healing the sick.’’— He painted the head of Christ eleven times, before he produced that heavenly countenance that will ever stand as the crowning effort of Ins great genius. Seventeen years of toil, to give his bright conception form and life upon the glow ing.canvass—seventeen years of hard study, with the New Testament as his daily guide, to em body each character in each face, till we need no guide to point out the life-like personages. Seventeen years may seem long, but who would not strive seven times seven to accomplish such a work ? The sum of it all seems to be, that what action is to oratory, so is intelligent labor to excellence in writing. The faithful and able writer must be no idler; he must love his calling, and give it the best powers of his mind and heart. The ride our teacher used to give us about learning, would, with a slight change, be a good one for writers —it was this, “Learn but little and learn that little well,” (meaning but little at a time, of course). Write but a little, and write that little well, would be a good rule, at least for young writers. It is also a lamentable fact that some of the oldest and best living writers have run dry, and the cry is— still they m ite. It is a good thing to know when to stop, and when to rest and recuperate—so suiting the action to the word, I close for the present. ——- ♦» » I Execution of Col. Hayne.— Among the dis tinguished men who fell victims during the war of the Revolution, was Col. Isaac Hayne, of South Carolina ; a man who, by his amiability of character and high sentiments of honor and uprightness, had secured the good will and af fection of all who knew him. He had a wife and six small children, the oldest a boy of thir teen years of age. His wife, to whom he was tenderly attached, fell a victim to disease ; an event hastened not improbably by the inconve niences and suffering incident to a state of war, in which the whole family largely participated. Col. Hayne himself was taken prisoner by the British forces, and in a short time was executed on the gallows, under circumstances calculated to excite the deepest commiseration. A great number of persons, both English and American, interceded for his life. The Indies of Charles ton signed a petition in Ins behalf; his mother less children were presented on their bended knees as humble suitors for their beloved father but all in vain. During the imprisonment of the father, the eldest son was permitted to stay with him in prison. Beholding his only surviving parent, for whom he felt the deepest affection, loaded with irons and condemned to die, he was overwhelm ed with consternation and sorrow. The wretch ed father endeavored to console him, by remind ing him that the unavailing grief of the son tend ed only to increase his own misery; that we came to this world merely to die, and he could even rejoice that his troubles were so near at an end. “To-morrow,” said he, “ i set out for im mortality. You will accompany me to the place of execution; and when lam dead, take my body and bury it by the side of your mother.” • The youth here fell on his father's neck, crying, “Oh. my father! my father 1 I will die for you! I will die with you!” Colonel Hayne, as he was loaded with irons, was unable to return the em brace of his son, and merely said to him in reply: “Live, my son; live to honor God by a good life; live to serve your country; and live to take care of your brother and little sisters.” The next morning Col. Hayne was conducted to the place of execution, llis son accompanied him. Soon as they came in sight of the gallows the father strengthened himself and said: “ Now, my son, show yourself a man! That tree is the boundary of my life, and all my life’s sorrows. Beyond that, the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. Don’t lay too much at heart our separation ; it will be but short. To-day I die, and you, my son, though but young, must shortly follow me.” “Yes, my father,” replied the broken-hearted youth, “ I shall shortly follow you, for, indeed, I feel that I cannot live long.” And his melancholy anticipation was fulfilled in a manner more dreadful than is implied in the mere extinction of lifo. On seeing his father in the hands of the executioner, and then struggling in the halter, he stood like one transfixed and motionless with horror. Till then he had wept incessantly: but soon os he saw that sight, the fountains of his tears wero staunched, and he never wept more. He died insane; and in his last moments often called upon his father in terms that brought tears from the hardest hearts. — Philadelphia Press. * The Lincoln Times says: Itis not improbable that Newstead Abbey, formerly the residence of Lord Byron, will shortly pass into the hiands of Mr. Charles Seely, of Heighington Hall, who is in treaty for this interesting property.