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he began to be convinced that he had been mis.
taken. It must have been the Jow sigh of the
wind in the pines; and although he suspected
the Otter, he did not wish to come to open
enmity with him by searching the cabin.
What could he charge him with —and what
voices could he have heard ? These reflections
passed rapidly through his mind, and although a
dog-like instinct still told him that something
was wrong, he determined to forbear for the
moment from decisive action.
After some more words with the trapper,
therefore, be shouldered his long rifle, and bid
ding him farewell, departed, followed by his
hounds. .
“ Something’s a-going on,” ho muttered,l
dont know what it is, but I’ll find out Its odds
if I dont find you out, Brown Otter, cunnin’ as
you are, you old rascal 1"
And the hunter havihg disburdened his mind,
proceeded on his way to his own cabin.
Half an hour after sunrise, he had crossed the
Opeqnon, in his “ dug out" and was ascending
the hill toward Falling Water. As the mansion
appeared through the dewy foliage, he saw two
figures leave the porch and walk side by side
across the lawn. The figures were Beausire and
Isabel.
XVII.
IS WHICH THE AUTHOR OMITS DETAILS.
When the young man and his companion re
turned, at the end of half an hour, the cheeks of
Isabel were burning with blushes, and her bo
som heaved tumultuously beneath the snowy
bodice
In that deep rich blush, however, thore was
no pain,—rather the fullest happiness. Never
had she looked more lovely. All the life and
joy of the fresh, pure morning, of the sparkling
dews, the dancing leaves, and the happy smiling
sunshine, seemed to have entered the young
breast, and made tho countenance of the girl re
splendent.
He had gone with her to the. rude seat be
neath the great oak on the grassy knoll, in sight
of tho portico, and told her that he loved her
more than his life. But he had not suffered
her to reply. The time had not come for that.
He would go away, he said, —return to the
woods, and endeavor to discover his origin.
Then if he was successful, and it gave him the
right to become the suitor of a young lady, he
would como back, and, poor as he was, demand
her love in return, provided it was sanctioned by
her father. On this very morning ho would go—
they would meet no more, perhaps, forovor—all
rested in the hands of Providonce.
Having said this much, in a voice which was
not so clear as usual, and with a deep blush in
the swarthy cheek, Beausiro rose, and returned
with his companion to the mansion.
Isabel had not spoken a single word—and the
fact made Beausire's heart bound in his broast.
Then she acquiesced in his determination to re
turn if ho wero successful in his search I She
would not forbid him to cherish that wild, all ab
sorbing passion 1
As tho conviction came to him his face was
so rosplondont, such a dazzling light camo to
eyes, that Captain Wagner, who met them
on ll l *‘ threshold, cried emphatically:
Zounu. „ om p an - lon | you look like a Gen
eral after calm, . n [_] lo enom y and coming home
unscratehed I" *.
\ xvim
' CAPTAIN WAOSERW MVAL.
‘‘The truth is, Captain," sfid Beauaire, as the
young lady glided iu, and disappeared up tho
h “ we have had a pleasant
the morning is (leliglil.n*-*-' f
He spoke easily now, andJWic soldier attempt
ed vainly to penetrate his sihiling face, and dis
cover whether his suspicions wcro correct.
Ul nuwMivi —1
“ Delightful, delightful 1” he returned with a
grim smile, "and what made it finer was hav
ing such a fair companion.”
ii Yes.”
“ a lovely maiden, or the devil take me I” said
the worthy, “but beware, my boy I Before you
know it you’ll be in love—and love is the bane
of man’s existence I"
Beausirc laughed.
“ Why you said last night that life was nothing
without ” ,
“A wife; sol did, comrade. But that is
very easily explained. A mau should never
love his wifo as you youngsters love the girls 1
Noverl If he doos, he’ll inevitably boa mark
of laughter, and lie’ll deserve it. The true ba
sis of matrimony, Beausire, is friendship—re
gard. Never bo violent, passionate, romantic,
and all that! Never, above all, bo jealous I”
And the Captaih curled his moustache with a
knowing air, and looked profound.
"Well, well,” said Beausire, "perhapsyou
are right, friend; and now who is that large
man coming up the hill with Major Stockton ? ’
The Captain looked, and a deep frown came
to his brow.
"Yon Broni, or I’m a Dutchman—like lnm!
was the growling reply, “a fellow that has the
audacity to come hero courting the fair Miss
l’attyl Rascal!” muttered the Captain, “I’ll
cut his ears off, or I’m a dandv
Beausire smiled more than evor at this dis
play of the trait which Wagner had just warned
him specially against; and in a few moments
the Major and Mynheer You Brom, a large,
portly, and substantial Dutch farmer residing
lower down upon the Opequou, approached and
dismounted. They had met at the ford, on the
Major's early ride,’and Mynheer had cheerfully
accepted the invitation to breakfast again.
“ Von Brom, or the devil take me 1” cried the
Captain with exuberant friendliness, “ why how
goes, it Mvnheer—everybody well ?"
"I thank you, Captain,” said Mr. Von Brom,
with all the dignity of a large landed proprietor,
and speaking with a strong fatherland accent,
“ burty well, burty well.”
“ See noW,” said Wagner, more friendly than
before, and pointing to old Davy Burus, who,
having spelled through an item in the I irginia
Gazette which he found' in the breakfast room,
appeared upon the threshold, flanked by his
deer hounds. " See, now what a pleasant
meeting. Here’s Davy Burns, the prince of
hunters, too, and I not see him when I came
down, owing to the fact that I never wake up
till after breakfast! And the fair Miss Tatty 1”
cried the Captain still more joyfully, as that la
dy appeared, buxom and smiling, upon the
threshold, “but one thing is wanting to this
happy hour—breakfast!”
“That will soon be ready, Captain,” replied
the smiling lady, returning the salute of Mr. Von
Brora, "it is now coming in.”
And she retired, followed by the eyes of the
rivals.
They were soon seated at the broad board,
the profuse meal was despatched, and then the
Captain, Beausire. and Will, mounted their
horses. Beausire had explained that he would
probably proceed immediately to Fort Cumbei
land in the suite of General Braddock, and the
old Major had vainly pressed him with hos
pitable warmth to remain a few days longer.
That was impossible, he said, but he would not
V3KS 80VVKXU VXS&S JUTO YXM&TOS.
fail to return when he could—and so, with a
last expression of thanks and gratitude, on the
old man’s part, for the restoration of his daugh
ter, the young man departed.
All the way to Winchester, he remained
thoughtful, and almost silent, leaving Will and
Captain Wagner to conduct the conversation.
, He was thinking of the large sad eyes which
had met his own as he went away.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
— m
[For the Sonthem Field and Fireside.]
TWILIGHT AT THE WEST WINDOW.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
In that entrancing hour, between sunset and
star-coming, there was not wind enough to stir
the plume-like leaves of the locust trees, or the
lighter curl upon Arantbe’s forehead. The sun
had gone from tree top and hill, but his colored
light still flushed the range of phantom moun
tains—the cloud-ridge that stretched from the
horizon to the zenith. We watched it—that won
derful cloud-picture with its panoramic changes
of form and color; and each change seemed
lovelier than the last. At length, Aranthe press
ed my hand convulsively; I looked, and lo! a
dream of Paradise shadowed in the western
sky!
The mountains had receded and stood in the
distance—their paly purple touched with gold
at the summit —guarding a land of beauty—the
Beulah of a poet’s vision—a plain, whose hues
of rose and amber seemed given by unnumber
ed flowers, while through it flowed a stream
more blue and lustrous than the Rhine, and fleck
ed with innumerable golden fleets—such barques
as angels might glide in over the waters of the
Celestial Land. We watched it until it faded,
and a wind of the upper heavens bore tho clouds
slowly away to the north, while through the pale
amber of the Bky the evening star trembled
forth.
Then Aranthe turned to me with eyes full of
the shadows of pensivo thought.
“It reminds me of life,” she said; “ as those
aerial cloud-pictures form and fade in the sky
without visible result or purpose, or any law to
govern their changes, bo do the experiences of
human life—its love, joy, sorrow—pass over the
heart, often from the memory with no more re
sult than follows the shifting of a cloud, or tho
passing of a swallow’s shadow over the bosom
of a lake.”
She was thinking of an experience of her
own —recalled a moment before by so slight a
thing as a lock of hair—ono which, deep and
strong as it had been, had now only power to
call to the regal lip a smile half sad, half scorn
ful, and to awaken a train of cynical musings.
It was in her opening girlhood, ten years before,
that her soul had passed through its experience
of love; now the majesty of matured woman
hood sat on her brow, and if the object of that
misdirected passion had stood before her then,
she would have given him hand in greeting
without a tremor of tho white fingers or a quick
ening of the pulse. Thus do we change—thus,
as she had said, do passions and emotions that
have possessed the soul pass from it as cloud
shapes molt from the evening sky; but are they,
like these, objectless ?—do they produce no re
sult?—do they leave the soul unchanged as is
the sky when the wind shifts the scene of the
cloud-panorama?
“Aranthe,” I said, “you wrong your own
reason, your own conviction of truth, by the
words you have Jttorod. No experience of life
is vain—not its joy, its love, its. sorrow- rAll
“ In farming the soul?” she repeated.
“Even so. Look at tho hugi tall trunk of
this sycamore, shoeting up like A column crown
ed with broad branches and rich foliage. The
suns, tho dews, the airs and rains of half a cen
tury have gone to form this tree. They have
been absorbed by it, have become part of its
substance.' It stands hore, combining in itself
the essence of tho rains ami dows that have fall
en, the sunshine and the breezes that have shone
and breathed upon the earth during days and
years that aro no more. Thus with tho soul.
All the experiences through which it passes aid
its growth and development; every emotion it
feeU, all the beauty it enjoys, through the me
dium of the senses, become a part of itself, are
incorporated, as it were, into its spiritual sub
stance, as are the food we partake, tho air we
breathe, into our physical being. Tho soul, in
deed, exists prior to all experiences—exists as a
germ, a seed from the paternal and perfect tree
of Deity; but for its development outer influen
ces aro necessary, as air and light and moisture
are essential to the germination and growth of
the plant.
“ The soul 1 the soul I " said Aranthe, with a
half smile ou her lip. •' Always the same theme,
Esther. Once, the phenomena of nature and
the external manifestations of passion, employed
your attention, then, the grandeur of human in
tellect, displayed in the works it has produced,
engaged your thoughts and pen; now, the soul,
its attributes and its destiny seem to you the
only themes important enough for the contem
plation ol an immortal being.”
“ I have simply learned to look beyond the
surface of things I have advanced from the'
contemplation of effects to that of causes—one
step on the great ladder of thought which leads
up to eternal truth, and whose ascent shall
employ the soul through the countless ages of
eternity.”
“And your theory of the development of the
soul is, that its every thought and en.otion-ex
pand and unfold it, as exercise and material
food add to the physical statue of the adolescent
man. But tell me how the soul can expand by
absorbing what it has itself created. Are not
thought and emotion independent exertions of
the soul, produced within itself? ”
“ A moment's thought would have told you
that they are not. They result from the connec
tion of tho soul with the outer world of objects,
and circumstances. As well say of the seeds,
that it germinates, grows, produces leaves and
branches of itself, without the aid of soil-rain
and atmosphere, as to affirm that the soul can feel
or think by its own inherent powers—indepen
dent of outer things. Matter, and what is call
ed spirit, are, in this life at least, indissolubly
associated. The soul is not an independent ex
istence. It depends for its growth as much
upon external things, as does the body itself;
for external objects, actions and circumstances
produce thought and emotion, and these cause,
as I have said, the growth of the soul, or mind
—for I use the former in preference to the
latter term, only bet ause of its greater fullness of
of meaning—being expressive of that which
feels as well as thinks, which possesses instinc
tive powers, as well as reasoning faculties. ”
“But abstract thought ”
“Is also associated, either by analogy, or com
parison with outer things. How far so ever the
chain of speculation extend, its first links must
be fastened in the solid earth. Thus does the
external world of matter contribute to the
growth of the inner spirit. Thus do the senses
act as aqueducts, conveying to the mind the
aliment needed for its development —aliment,
purified from its material grossness by.an action
of the mind itself, as by a chemical process the
nutriment absorbed by a plant is changed and
fitted to be incorporated into its substance.”
“ Esther! Esther, you refine too much!
Searching for its essence of truth, you distill a
thought until it is quite evaporated. You be
gan our conversation with a simple and rather
poetical thought, but all its coloring of senti
ment has vanished in the analytic ordeal to
which you have subjected it. But apropos of
this development theory, have you not over
looked an inconsistency? Will you tell me how
harsh experiences, emotions of a disagreeable
and discordant kind, can contribute to the har
monious growth of the soul ?”
“May they not be needed to preserve the nice
equilibrium of the soul, or to fit it for some des
tiny, for the future performance of some part
necessaryjn the great plan of the Universe;
and thus (ifjitain the harmony of the whole
creation, every part of whose intricate machine
ry is connected by relations, seemingly remote,
but whose severance would be followed by dis
cord and confusion ? Who shall say that such
experiences do not conduce to the harmonious
development of the soul? Good results from
evil, as the rose draws redness from the muck
heap. What, to our finite conception, may seem
useless or inexpedient, may, to tho far-seeing
eye of Diety, appear as right and needful; and
I believe that the wholj.. Universe of Nature
and Humanity are worETng out the sublime end
and purpose for which all were created; and
that every act, thought and emotion, assist in
unfolding and perfecting this grand scheme of
Divine conception. Why may not harsh and
disagreeable experiences strengthen the soul,
and beautiful and pleasant ones refine it, as the
coarser nutriment absorbed by yonder plant
furnishes its fibres, whilff the less material food,
obtained from the air, the dew and the light,
goes to form its delicate and fragrant blos
soms ?”
Besides, the soul is not a passively receptive
existence. It possesses reason and will, which
enable it to perceive and to struggle agaiust
the inordinate power of passions—useful if
moderately exercised, but injurious when car
ried to extreme. This aery exertion of strug
gling agaiust inordinate pSssions, is, of itself, an
exercise that strengthens and develops the
soul."
“But the inequality of this development in
different individuals, Esther——"
“Is owing in part to the original inequality
of the minds themsolves, and in part to the un
equal distribution of circumstances favorable to
their development. Why this should be so, is
ono of tho many mysteries that perhaps shall
bo made plain to our understandings, when, in
the life to como, they are sufficiently unfolded'
to comprehend the harmony and completeness
of God's plan of creation. Inequality iif a law
of the Universe. We aee it exemplified, not
only in men, mentally and physically consider
ed, but in all animate and inanimate creation—
in animals, trees, flowers, of tho samo species,
but differing from each other in strength, size
and beauty.”
She had risen and stood‘before me—one foot
caressing the shaggy beadof her reclining New
foundland, while sbo looked down upon me with
a just perceptible curl, lu(lf playful, half con
temptuous on her superb lie.
“ Highly satisfactory 1" fttie said. “ I see you
are determined, during thistevening at least, to
cling to your theory, or ra' «to the misty idea
“ Why not ask of what Practical good is any
abstract truth, or any sucli demonstrations of
science as the Milky Way] being composed of
nebulie, or the world haviiig been many thou
sand years in existence ? (Truth has a value of
its own. The knowledge oif even the smallest
truth is of importance to {he mind. Besides,
any contemplation of this .fonstant and gradual
unfolding of our spiritual i and eternal being
tends to assist this development by impressing
us with our own important as immortal exis
tences, susceptible of infinite progress—thus
giving us grand and soul-expanding thoughts;
and also by rendering us attentive to the culti
vation of our spiritual facilities, emotional as
well as intellectual, for the exercise of the in
tellectual powers alone would produce but par
tial and insufficient development—feeling, no
less than thought, being cssentinl to the growth
of the soul. This idea of our continual spirit
ual growth creates also high and far reaching
thoughts, that go beyond this present life and
contemplate the future progress and develop
ment of the soul through tho unnumbered cycles
of its endless existence, in which, ever advan
cing, ever absorbing into itself now truth and
beauty, ever circling nearer and nearer the
great perfection of spiritual development—Deity
itself—it fulfils its sublime destiny and glorious
ly unfolds the great thought of its Creator.”
" A sublime belief,” said Aranthe slowly,
with her eyes upon the steadfast heavens, strewn
with tho large, bright stars of the twilight.
Then she dropped her gaze upon the floor, and
her s nail foot toyed again with Eric’s silken
oars. “ But lam not so hopeful,” sho added,
“ I cannot look so clearly and triumphantly into
the future. Life, I feel as a reality, but all after
Death'closes the scene of mortal existence, is
mystery and darkness. The grave-stone stops
the upward struggling of all my thoughts and
hopes, and Reason and Nature are powerless to
roll it away. But yon, Esther, are ever looking
forward, ever seeking to raise the veil of mys
tic Isis, with the belief that ‘lmmortality’ is the
secret written upon her brow. You spin the
silken thread of some new theory every day,
and a new breath of thought breaks it to-mor
row. Many are the snarls in these delicate
webs, for theories concerning aught so myste
rious, incomprehensible and intangible as the
human soul, must necessarily be vague and im
perfect. But I confess that you build up your
cloudy ideas plausibly enough. In this discus
sion concerning the soul—its development and
its destiny—l might, by throwing in occasional
doubts, prolong your argument until words and
thoughts multiplied like the fast-gathering stars
in yonder sky. For instance, I might ask what
you did with the expanded minds of children
and infants, early removed by death; and you
might answer that tho work of development
went on in the life upon which the soul entered
after bodily dissolution, and then I might bring
forward the question, of what use was Oiis life
—intended, according to your theory, to develop
tho soul and prepare it for a higher state of ex
istence —and you—Oh I I know what you would
say, Esther; you would look grave, and answer
that this was another of the many mysteries of
God—inscrutable to our weak, imperfectly un
folded understandings. I might suggest such
difficulties for you to solve, but I will not.
Your first words have impressed me. I have
been thinking of them, rather than listening to
your refinements and abstractions. I No expe
rience ot life is vaiu.’ See. for their sake, I re
place this laded tress—sole memento of a van-
ished dream —vanished, but I will not think
that it came to me in vain; my soul is still col
ored with its beauty and poetry, as the clouds
retain the radiance of the sun long after he has
sunk beneath the western wave. Your theory,
my Esther, tends to invest with interest and
dignity all the experiences that make up life,
since it teaches that they develop the human
heart and the noble human intellect. It does
not, indeed, lead my thoughts beyond the night
of Death to any glorious To-morrow, but it gives
jne, I confess, a fuller idea oLthe beauty and
harmony of this pres3nt life.”
She laid her fair, firm hand upon my arm,
looked at nqe one moment with Tier calm eyes,
and then passed from the room—seeming, as
her queenly presence glided by me, the highest
embodiment of perfect physical development.
Left alone with the deepening shadows, I bow
od my head upon the embrasure of the window
and mused upon my own words—no experience
of life is vain. I looked back into the past, its
successive events recurred to my memory, and
by a lightning flash of supernatural discern
' ment, I saw, for one momont only, the harmo
nious tendency of those seemingly chance and
discordant experiences—saw that the path of
my life, despite its apparent irregular and some
times retrograde course, had still wound up
ward; that each experience had been a step
forward in the unfolding of my intellectual and
emotional being; that every tear I had shed,
every joy I had felt, every thought I had pur
sued, had been as drops added to the ever
widening, ever deepening tide of thought and
feeling. And my life had been crowded full of
intense experiences; I had thought, suffered
and enjoyed much. Death and disappointment
had wrung tears from the very core of my
heart, and the grandeur of nature, the beauty
of men and women, and the majesty of human
actions and attainments, had thrilled me with
emotions of admiration, homage and happiness.
I had loved, too—Oh! sweetest and holiest ex
perience, I had loved—vainly, foolishly it might
seem to the short-sighted eyes of the world;
but I felt that this love, though uncrowned with
fulfilment, had not been in vain. It had given
me larger sympathies, deeper capabilities for af
fection, and more refined appreciation of the
Beautiful. It had interpreted for me the subtle
mysteries of music and of poetry: it had given
a twilight softness to my waking fancies, and a
sweetness to my dreams. The flower of love —
unfed by hope—had indeed perished, but the
perfume and the dewy freshness of its presence
still lingered behind.
As the night closed in and the stars multi
plied in the dusky heavens, more sublime con
templations rolled like organ music through my
soul. My thoughts took a higher range, and
rose, beating back the fears and doubts that im
peded its flight; as the wing of the eagle beats
down the clouds In his upward soaring. The
glorious theme of the soul’s destiny and its
eternal progress possessed me.
I rose at length—thrilled and dizzy from that
sublime dream—and saw that tho silver rim of
the rising moon looked over the eastern hills,
and its rays skimmered on the soft, white-lined
lerives of the tall sycamore. Looking on the
tree, I remembered my simile. “Aye,” I said,
with a triumphant consciousness of its truth,
“the soul of man is indoed a seed, iu which is
folded the germ of a perfect plant, that shall
develop and expand, and grow ever upward and
nearer to the heaven of everlasting truth. It
but germinates here —its glorious growth, its
perfect blossom, is for eternity.”
Mr. Editor: —The distinguished eminence and
extensive circulation to which The Southern
Field and Fireside has attu.ned, induces the se
lection of tho columns of that interesting period
ical for the insertion of the well merited compli
ment, recently paid in the city of Washington, to
the gallant officer whose name heads this com
munication.
Prefixed to the complimentary notice of Com
modore Tattnall, the subjoined history of the
Tattnall family, it is believed, will be found in
teresting generally, and not alone to Georgians.
Josiah Tattnall, the grandfather of the Commo
dore, was the son of Thomas Tattnall and Eliz
abeth Barnwell, the daughter of the first of that
family name that came to America. This Barn
well was a son of Barnwell, Baron of Trim, an
Irish Peer. Josiah Tattnall, the grandfather,
was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1741,
and was therefore but 35 years old when the
revolution commenced. He had been a seasoned
soldier during the Indian wars in South Carolina
and Georgia, in which he received two wounds,
one in the arm and the other in the hip. He
was a whig and opposed to the measures of
England—but opposed, also, to an appeal to
arms. He was offered the command of forces,
raised for the defence of Savannah, but declined
it. He was too much ol an American, however,
to arm against the country, and as neutrals were
not tolerated, he left the country. Ho took his
son, then eleven years old, to England with him
and placed him at Eaton school, much against
his will, as ho was ardently desirous of remain
ing in the country of his birth. His father sub
sequen’ y returned to Nassau, New Providence,
leaving his son in England under the care of
his uncle, Col. Thomas Boone, formerly Royal
Governor of South Carolina, who placed him on
board of a British man-of-war, bound to Indiai
The destination of tho ship was suddenly
changed for America. Young Tattnall was
placed under the patronage of the captain of the
ship, with strong assurance of rapid promotion,
if he behaved well. v A large proportion of the
crew were Americans, forced on board. Muti
nies occurred, and young Tattnall, with the
American portion of the crew, were turned over
from ship to ship, and with the assistance of his
godfather, by the name of Elliott, from whom
he obtained a small amount of money, and after
years of suffering, he found his way to America.
While under, the British flag, some question
arose upon the matters in issue between the
the two countries, when he maintained the side
of his country. A duel was the consequence,
iii which he wounded the English lieutenant.
At the age of eighteen years, without a shilling
in his pocket, he landed on the north side of the
Savannah river, the south being in possession of
the British, and traveling alone, on foot, through
the country, arrived at Purysburg, where he
crossed into Georgia and there joined the army
of Genera' Wayne at Ebenezer. The war was
coming to a close, and no opportunity was pre
sented for drawing his sword, devoted to the
cause of freedom. On the surrender of Savan
nah he was favorably presented to the public
eye, enjoying the countenance of General
Wajne, General Greene, General Jackson and
others. His conduct was the theme of every
patriot's praise. Possessed of the blandest man
ners and of fine talents, he was soon placed in
office. All Chatham county, at that time, con
stituted one regiment He was soon elected
captain of the White Bluff District, in which
lay Bonaventure, and then densely inhabited.
In 1792, he took command of the Chatham Ar
tillery, which continued one of the most efficient
companies in the State. He had previoudy
been Major of the battallion. In' 1793 be be
came Colonel of the regiment. In his military
capacity he rendered good service in 1788 and
1798, in organizing detachments of militia, sent
from Chatham into the counties of Bryan, Ef
fingham and Liberty, then much harrassed by
the Creek Indians.
In 1787, as Captain of a body of Light In
fantry, he was engaged in an expedition under
Col. James Gunn, composed of South Carolina
and Georgia troops, called into service by Gov
ernors Pinckney and Matthews, which destroyed
a very large and well fortified camp of slaves,
in full insurrection, on the waters of Abercom
creek. The slaves were led by certain notorious
negro brigands, who had acted with the British
at the siege of Savannah, and had been particu
larly active against that portion of the assailing
force which was commanded by Col. Laurens,
and in which the brave Jasper fell. This was
the most serious insurrection that ever occurred
in Georgia. It had its origin as far back as
1786. The negroes had been embodied many
months, were many hundreds in number, well
armed, and so formidable, that after various at
tempts in both years to subdue them, iHaedg of
Catawba Indians and some pieces of cannon
was finally employed in the expedition against
them. In 1798, CoL Tattnall was much engaged,
when not in attendance in the session of Con
gress, in the drill of his regiment—war and in
vasion by the French being momently appre
hended. The civil services of this eminent
patriot were much more important. He was
frequently sent to the Legislature, and served
in the year 1796, at Louisville, in the General
Assembly that rescinded the Yazoo Act, of Jan
uary, 1795. He was the Senator from Chatham
county, the deadly foe of that infamous specu
lation, and the leading member of the Senate—
as General Jackson was of the House —who
carried through the rescinding act. So sensibler
was the Legislature of 1796, of his ardent de
votion to the interests of Georgia, that they »
passed an act, relieving his brother John Mul
ryne Tattnall, from the pains of the confiscation
laws—and also elected Col. Tattnall Senator in
Congress, to serve out the remainder of Gen
eral Jackson's term. It was believed that the
speculators, having-been defeated in Georgia,
would renew the war against her rights in the
Federal Legislature, and Tattnall’s talents and
influence were called in requisition to defeat
them on the floor of the National Senate. His
correspondence with the Executive of Georgia
shows with what fidelity he discharged his
trust, on this and every other matter interesting
to the State. In general politics he was of the
Democratic party. In 1798, he retired, for a
short period, from public life to his residence at
Bonaventure, extending a refined and elegant
hospitality to all who visited him.
In November 1801, he was elected Governor
of Georgia. In the same year, by the same
Legislature, he was made a Brigadier Gen
eral. As a further evidence of his great
popularity, and of the sense Georgia
of his purity of character, and high public ser
vices, the Legislature took off the name of his
father from the confiscation acts, “with full
liberty to remove into the State with his prop
erty," subject “to his solo and entire future
disposal ” —and restored him to all the rights of
citizenship. Governor Tattnall had the inex
pressible pleasure to sign the act, absolving his
own father from the penalties of the confisca
tion laws—the only act, it is believed, ever ap
' These were words of gratitude from a public
servant to the State of his nativity, for acts of
generosity rendered to his earthly parent. Nor
was this all—for the same Legislature laid off
the present county of Tattnall, and gave it its
name. The Executive office, a Brigadier-Gen
eralcy, the pardon of his father, and a county
named after him, conferred at one and the samo
session! In 1802, from extreme ill health, he
surrendered the Executive chair. In October,
he addressed a message to the Legislature, giv
ing an account of the affairs of the State during
his short administration—expressing his sorrow
that the rupture of a blood vessel rendered it
impossible for him to be with them, and made
it necessary that he should withdraw from pub
lic life. He assured them, that “were he
blessed with sufficient health, both duty and in
clination would forcibly urge him to a continu
ance in offico to the end of the constitutional
term.” “ Indeed,” said he, “ were this not the
case, I should bo deficient in gratitude to my
country for the distinguished marks of favor
and confidence I have so frequently experienced,
which claim, and IVust I may be permitted to
add, secure my lasting affection and devotion to
her services.”
Governor Tattnall went, without delay, to the
West Indies, where he died in June, 1804. His
body was brought back to Savannah by his dy
ing roquest, and lies interred at Bonaventure,
the home of bis forefathers. He left two sons:
the one, the chivalrous Col. Edward Fenwick
Tattnall, who was an officer in the United States
Army in the war of 1812, as a Captain of Regu
lars, and who was wounded at Point Petre, near
St. Mary’s in Georgia, in repelling the enemy
from Cumberland Island—the effects of his
wound being felt throughout his life. This
_high-minded gentleman afterwards became emi
nent in the State Legislature and in Congress.
The other son, Commodore Josiah Tattnall, of
whom the subjoined complimentary notice and
editorial is taken from the Middletown, Conn.,
Sentinel & Witness:
“ COMMODORE TATTNALL.
“ Among the many pleasing thoughts connect
ed with the arrival in this country, and the re
ception by our government of an embassy from
that heretofore sealed empire, Japan, is that of
the part taken in the matter by one of our own
townsmen, the gallant Commodore Tattnall, who
has thus added increased lustre to his already
high reputation. It is, therefore, with much
gratification that we publish an extract from the
National (Washington) Intelligencer, giving an
account of the reception of the Commodore, at
the Navy Yard, in Washington ; and also a de
served complimentary editorial from the same -
paper.
“ NAVAL COURTESIES.
“ The veteran Commodore Tattnall, recently
in command of the East India Squadron, visited
the Navy Yard in this city on Tuesday last, and
was received with every demonstration of res
pect by Commodore Buchanan and the officers
under his command. Upon the entrance of the
distinguished visitor, the Marine Guard, which
was drawn up in line, paid him the military
honors, befitting his high rank, and the saluting
battery poured forth a lond welcome to the gal
lant officer, whose humane and heroic conduct
on the Peiho, in behalf of the naval forces, un
der Admiral Hope, in their sanguinary battle
with the Chinese, elicited the praise and admi
ration of the whole country. Commodore Tatt
nall, after having been escorted through the
Yard by Commodore Buchanan and Commodore
Mcßlair, visited the quarters of the Command-