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Sri*.a~ilo, D4.E&C. Poreos %:Detetd 3urwd, Detytvi ti Ie S0uf I Si R t fztt JTW, Siht te, flih , Spoitc f- v "We will cling to the Pillars of the Temple of our LI ties, and If it must fall, we will Perish amidst the Ruin." SDIRISOE & CO., ]Proprietors. ED-GEFIELD, S. C., RIL 21, 1858. " "HOW BEAUTL Is EARTH." BT MRs. sloOURNET. Oh GodI how beautiful is-arth, In sunlight or in shade, Her forest with their waviug arch, Her flowers tfiat gem the glado. Her hillocks, white with fleecy Rocks, Her fieldswith grain that glow, Her sparking rivers, deep and broad, That through the valley flow. Her crested waves that clash the shore, And lift their anthem loud Her mountains with their solemn brows, That woo the yielding cloud. Oh GodI how beautiful is life That thou dost lend us here, With tinted hopes that line the cloud, And joys that gem the tear. With cradle hymns of mothers young, And tread of youthful feet, That scarce, in their elastic bound, Bow down the grass flowers sweet, With brightness round the pilgrims staff, Who, at the set of sun, Behold the golden gates thrown wide, And all his work well done. But if this earth which changes mar, This-life, to death that leads, Are made so beautifully by Him From whom all goods proce-eds, Howglorious must that reginn be Where all the pure and blest, From chance, and- fear, and sorrow fiee, Attain 4tornal rest. o COE WITH M. 0, come with me, my dearest one, The daylight now has fled; Come let us wander while the stars Are glittering over head; For, 0, 'tis sweet with one we love To roam in scenes like this, To gaze in her beaning eyes, And steal a gentle kis. 0, come with me, my dearest one, The moon beam's tender light Is placing glittering diadems Upon the brow of night; And I would pass away the time In roving fancy free, - And dreaming bright and. golden dreams Sflove, and faith-and thee. WRITTEN FOR Tri ADVNRTISER. IDA LATERSP; e a, SUICIDE AT 'A -OARDIG SCHOOL BY RUTH. oONCLUDED. It is now seventeen years, (long to look for ward to, but short in the retrospect) since the events lam about to relate occurredand I cannot look back upon that time, even now, without * shuddering. It was on Friday the 20th of June, at three o'clock in the afternoon, as school was about to close, thatMrs. Staunton informed us that there was to be a prayer meeting in the Methodist Church ; and as she intended going all of her scholars who chose might accompaeny her. We were all delighted at the idea of going. Ida was not present when Mrs. Staunton made the proposal to us, and as soon as we were dismiss ed I went to tell her about it, and ask her to go with us. I found her room door a little ajar and pusLing it open without ceremony what was my consternation to find Ida on her knees, over her writing desk, weeping bitterly. She looked up as I entered, and I shall never to may dying day forget that look, so wild-so haggard -so full of anguish. She arose, trembling from head to foot, went to the door, closed and Slocked it. Then throwing her arms 'round my neck, cried as though her heart would break, exclaiming, "0, Ruth, Ruth! do for God sake help me. Help me before it is too late-too late. 0 kill me ! kill me before I shall have lived too long ! Lived to disobey my kind in dulgent parents. 0, why was I ever born to be so wicked and so miserable ? If I could only die now, before the sun goes down this V nght, what a mercy it would be." As may well be imagined I was very much frightened at the strangeniessof her conduct, and -made several attempts to unclasp her hand from around my neck. 1 asked her to tell me what had happened to make her so very unhappy. - I wanted to go for Mrs. Staunton, but she wo'ald not listen to any thing of the sort. She only cried and trembled tho more, muttering incohe rent sentences, and sobbing as though her heart Swas breaking. This lasted about half an hour. When she became more calm, we sat down ~together on the side of her bed: Ida 1eith her Shead resting on the foot board, and her face as bloodless as though her rash prayer had been granted; for. except that a slight shudder would at intervals pass over her, one might have sup posed that the troubled and weary spirit had indeed taken its flight. I besought her to tell. me what had caused her this great grief? had she heard from home ? were ayof her friends dead ? It struck mae that prasCharles Conover was dead, or very il; but not one word could I get in an swer to m~y questions. *All at once she turned to me suddenly say in lg, "Ruth, don't tell any one a word of this - at least not nlow. Jknow I can rely upon you, Sthough you are but a child. Nothing of any consequence ails me.. I am very foolish no doubt; but you know I have been very much petted all my life, and esinnot bear to be crossed or contradicted in any thing. So forget what has just taken place, and pray excusa me to fMrs. Staunton; tell her I have a head-ache and 'had rather not go to the meeting to-night." So I left Ida's room with a heavy heart, and a vague feeling of uneasiness easily to be ac ~counted for. When I had reached the stair case I turned back and going a"'ain to her room entreated to let me stay and Tthe her heiad, .and assist her in getting to bed. To this however she would not consent, saying, "No, no ! I dont . want any one to' stay with me. I dent need any assistaince, and shall soon feel better if lett to myef; go away now Ruth, and dent: come bany more, please." And those words, repaired to the drawing-room, where I found Mrs. Staunton and most of the girls assembled. We started off directly for the Church, the girls all chatting merrily, for the presence of our Preceptress was never any drawback to our conversation out of school. In fact she appeared at times -to feel'alnost" as youthful and joyous as her pupils. Prayers had already commenced when-we got there, and I dont recollect ever being present at one, either before or since, that appeared so lengthy. 0, how I wished I had staid at home with Ida. I felt guilty somehow for having left her. I had almost a mind to leave the Church and go back alone; there was a weight on my mind, a depression of spirits that it is impossible to explain. But as all meetings have an end, so this one came to a close after two weary hours of prayer and ex hortation. Generally I enjoyed these gather ings, for my mind was of a religious turn, but to-night I was not myself. . We arrived at home about ten o'elock. Mrs. Staunton went directly to her.room where her husband was using very profane language to the servant who had been left in charge of him. Some of the girls went to the drawing room, two or three to the music room to practice their new pieces, but far the greater part to their sleeping apartments. I went directly to Ida's room, to ask her how she felt. - I carried in my hand a small night lamp, thinking that proba bly she had gone to bed, and would not. there fore be likely to have a light burning in her room. I knocked at the door, and not receiving any answer, opened the door very softly, fear ing to disturb her, but on looking round the room found that Ida was not there: every thing remained the same as when I left; the bed had not been occupied; the writing desk where I had found her kneeling in the evening, remained open, with writing materials scattered about. A dread foreboding of something terrible took possession of me, .1 trembled in every limb, and felt quite sick and giddy. I concluded to go to- Mrs. Staunton's room, which I did accord mgly, telling her that Ida Lathrop was not in her room. I then told her all that had trans pired before we went to the prayer meeting. he appeared to be much shocked at my coin munication, said, "Ida had conducted herself very strangely for several days, and when ques tioned as to the cause, did not appear willing to give any satisfactory answer." I looked up at Mrs. Staunton and saw that she was very pale; her left hand was pressed to her forehead and her eyes closed; I thought her about to faint, but she did not. In a few moments recovering herself, she resumed, "I am very fearful that Miss Lathrop has eloped with Mr. Conover. I have been in constant dread of it ever since she came here. I only hope I may be mistaken. Perhaps she may be in the parlour." She took me by the hand and we went to the parlour, several girls were there. bw !'4 them. We did not gt wide open and we eoui,. without entering. We room, but every thing re had stated. I could now st wmavery much alarmed; hand in hers, and we I room; every thing there and nothing appeared tr since our dismissal. " summonthe scholars," haps some one of the, - mation." The schoo. sual hour alarmed the whole house; Scholars and servants came rushing en masse from all parts of the building. Every one looked fright ened, and many were in dishabille. Mathew, the Gardener, who lived at the Lodge about two hundred yards from the main builing, was the st to arrive; he, poor old man, being luite infirm from age and rheumatism. I bvatched Mr.i. Staunton and saw that she kept er eyes en the door, 0 how anxiously, hoping ao doubt that Ida might come in-but she did iot come. When all were assembled, Mrs. Stauntou spoke, "I find that Miss Lathrop is missing, and propose that the grounds should be searched ; she may be ill in some part of the yard, or garden. I must request that you will proced very quietly, as I do not wish to alarm the neighborhood unnecessarily. Mathiew you will oblige me by taking the lantern and lead ing the way." So Mathew got the lantern, and we searched, frst evecry part of the house, then the flower yard, and lastly the garden, without the least uccess. Just as we were about to return to the house-Mathew had already commencedl scending the steps, he being foremost-one of the girls said, " let us go to the swing," which was some little distance from the house, in the most retired part of the yard. There was a arge old apple tree-in one corner of the yard ear the garden fence ; it always went by the name of the swing tree, as it was to this tree the swing was aflixed. We did not wait for lathew, but ran, pell mell, down the foot path that led to the swing tree. A little girl about ten years old was a few steps ahead; her name was Betty Byars ; she reached the tree first, gave an unearthly shriek, and fell to the ground. We all rushed to the spot, and there what a sight met our bewildered gaze ! For there,fibr the swing rope, hung 1da Lathrop, a stafened cor pes ! Ilow shall I attempt to discribe the scene that followed ? The screaming and crnfusion. Poor Mrs. Staunton was there, scarcely less pale than her who had rushed unbidden to the pres ence of her Maker. I shall never forget her look as with clasped hands, and trembling voice she said, " Oh, girls, this is ten thousand times worse than my most dread foreboding ! what shall I do? 0 ! what shall I do!"1~ We all gathered closely about Mrs. Staunton and could only echo her own words, " What shall I do !" By this time the neighbours had become alarmed and many had gathered to the spot where so much had taken .place in so short a time ; and in less than an hour from the time we left the house, it was known throughout the Village that one of Mrs. Staunton's scholars had hung herself ! One old gentleman, who appeared to have more presence of mind than the rest, said, " That every thing must remain as it was until a jury could be summonsed and the coroner called." I feel that I have not given a correct descrip tion of what occurred, as words are inadequate to describe the incidents of that night, and T am certain that I shall never feel again as I felt on the night of the 20th of June 1839. Well, there~ we stood. I cannot tell how long-it might have been ten minutes; it might have been five hours as we took no note of time. Our bewildered cries hadl ceased, and Mrs. Staunton had gathered us closely about her, when a dark olject glided noiselei-ly past us. The next moment there camne swelling upon the midnight air a groan so dismal, and unearthly, that with a shudder we turned to see whence it proceeded; and there beside the dead stood Charles Conover ! Then followed a scene that baffles all description. There stood Charles Conover, and they who wrap him in his winding sheet,- will not see him look more deathly, than he did that night. For a moment he stood as if petrified with horror ; then he burst forth, U"O, Ida! My dear Ida! has it cm e t1tis Have they driven you to this'? The curse will be upon your Father's head-not on yours, my Ida! You shall not stay here another minute." And he commenced taking the rope from around her neck, when Mathew interfered, telling him " that every thing must remain as it was, until the Coroner arrived." But Charles Conover shoved him away as though he had been a child, crying " Peace-old man away. Ida Lathrop is mine, and mine only! No power on earth can take her from me now. They denied her to me, in life; and the curse be upon their heads, for they have killed her! Oh, Ida! Ida! my best beloved! speak to me, one word, only one word to tell me that you are mine in death, as you were to have been this night in life. Why did I not come in time to prevent this ?" By this time he had taken her down, and was bearing her toward the house in his arms. We all followed, almost without knowing that we did so. When he had got as far as the steps he appeared to hesitate. Mrs. Staunton re quested him to wait until Mathew came, in order that he might assiat in carrying Ida to her room. He made no reply, but sat down on the steps, and appeared to be much exausted. When Mathew came Charles would not allow him to help, telling him to go on with the lan tern and shew the way. So Charles Conover carried the lifeless form and laid it gently on that bed where I had sat with Ida so short a time before, and witnessed the struggle between love and duty. I understood it all now; those burning tears, that violent grief, the self-np braiding, and the prayer for death. Poor Ida! Poor misguided girl! How still, how fair, how beautiful! Still as a marble stat ue; fair as a waxen image, superhumanly beau tiful even in death. There she lay, like a crushed lilly, or frozen hyacinth. Not a mark or spot disfigured the face; the expression was calm, and even pleasant; the eyes were closed, the lips a little tinted, and slightly parted, dis closing the upper teeth. As soon as Mr. Conover had placed her upon the bed, he knelt down at the pillow, and bending his manly brow above that brow so white and cold, imprinted one kiss, and rising, hurriedly left the room. Mrs. Staunton wept bitter tears, and appeared very much overcome, and scarcely able to sit up. One young lady, a teacher in the school, fainted entirely away, and remained unconcious so long that we beefmne very much alarmed, and were about to send for a Physician when she commenced reviving, though her mind appeared to wander, apd her nerves were a good deal af fected. Some of the girls assisted her in get ting to her room and helped her to bed. By this time the Coroner had arrived and brought with him quite a number of men; there were I think two physicians among them; they went down to the swing tree first. 9 " &g u LUC peopie leaving the hlouse; shortly after, one of the servants came o No 12, and told us that "several of the girls had been taken as evidence, and that the jury had brought in a verdict of suicide." So Ida Lathrop was robed for the tomb! It was almost daylight when they carried her down to the drawing-room and laid her upon a settee. I went down just as day was break ing, and thinking it likely that sone of the Tirls were in the drawing-room opened the door; and on seeing that there was no one there ex cept Mrs. Staunton and Mr. Conover, was abontl to withdraw; but Mrs. Staunton told ine to "come in;" so I went in and satdown beside her. harles onover was seated at tbe head of the ettee, with armse crossed, and chin fallen upon his breast. Hle neither moaned, nor spoke while [ wj ini thme room. The dim gray dawn light. ned into sun-rise, nature awoke refreshed, the birds chirped and carolled their melodious oundelay, but there he still sat as silent and lmost as immovable as the form he watched. When the breakfast bell rang Mrs. Staunton told me I "had better go down now to break fast." I went down to the table but could not eat. Not more thani one third of t'..e girl.< caine own that morning to breakfast, and those wvho were there did not eat. I count that and the day following, as the two most dismal days of y life. This was Saturday. All that day and night, nd all Sunday, Charles Conover sat beside the inanimate form of Ida Lathrop, refusing to take ny nourishment. Ite had told Mrs. Staunton all, on Friday night; and had just finished as I ntered the drawing-room. It was as follows: Ida had promised to elope witidhb~n; they were to have been married in the church at twelve 'clock that night; the samie church ini which we attended prayer meeting. Charles was near the church. at the time Mrs. Staunton and her scholars left it; was watching to see if Ida was not among them; was still there waiting for her arrival, when he heard several per:ons talking urriedly, aind gathering from their coniversa tion that a young lady belonging to Mrs. Staun ton's school had hung herself, hastened to the spot, and found his worst fears realized. It was Sunday night about ten o'clock. I was in No 12 reading, when I heard the sound of wheels-in a few monients the door bell sounded ; and presently Margery came to tell me that my father wished to see me. flow my heart bounded, add how strangely T felt. I dnt recollect how I got down stairs; I only remember meeting Papa in the drawing-room passage, and how much affected lie appeared to be at what had happened. Ie was very much shocked to think that Ida had so forgotten her duty to her parents as to give her consent to an elopement, and perfectly horrified at her coin miting suicide. "Ida's Father," said Pa pa to nie, "was lying very ill from the effects of the intelligence ; was perfectly delirious-a raving maniac. IHer mother was ini a great deal of distress, and did not know what to do, but was anxious to start off directly for Pittsburg." But Papa says he told her she must not do so on any account; urging as an excuse that she must not leave her husband. Papa volunteered to get a couple of gentlemen to accompany him and go him~lf. Papa appeared to feel deeply for Mr. Conover ; though he could say but little to console him. Papa and time two gentlomen who caine with him, sat up all night, as also did Charles Cono-. ver. The coflin had been senat to Mmrs. Staun ton's on Saturday night, and now came the un dertakers to perform their sad office. It was on Monday morning just after run-rise that we all assembled in the drawing-room to take one last long look of Ida Lathrop l The body was already in the coffin-and after a short and appropriate prayer, the lid wras screwed down, and the coffinpiaced in a rough box ready for removal. At ten o'clock Papa and the two gentlemen left with. 'the remains 6f-poor Ida Charles Conover accoimpanying them.- Idaha no brohers both of themhaima dierl in esn19 childhood; so at her death, Ju Lathrop was childless. About a week after Papa I received a letter from him bringing the news that Judge Lathrop was the 'i of a Lunatic Asylum. Twice after the de -of his daugh ter had he attempted to com 'suicide. He lived several years, but never drward recov ered his mind. He died in 1 'Mrs. Lathrop is, I believe, still living. She a ed to grieve very much for her daughter, bu vered after a few months. She was by no a brilliant 'Iwoman, not even intellectual, or teigent; but, to her credit be it spoken, she **-*most devo ted wife, staying with her h at the Asy lum as long as he lived. Mrs. Conover had always Ida and ap peared to grieve fully as much " .Lathrop. Mrs. Conover was a woman of intellectual capacity and the most ingenio n I have over met. She knew that Ida is idolized by her parents, but not apprecit- as there was no congeniality between them. When Mrs. Conover .and son came to make Brook Valley their ho they brought with them a little girl about ten rs of age,who was a hopeless cripple, having it are called club feet, i. e. the feet doubled, toes turning back on the inside of the foot ard the heel. This little girl they called Mil 11artin. She had been a foundling left at '"door of Mrs. Conover's brother-in-aw, who I in the State of New Hampshire, where M Xonover and Charles happened to be visitin - .'the time. I have heard Mrs. Conover of poor little Milly's desertion many times; Milly would sit and listen very attentively le tale of her own hapless infancy. It was ollows: Mrs. Conover and Charles were on' 4isit to a Mr. Denton who had married a sis" of Mrs. Cono ver; they lived in New 'Ham' 'ire '(I forget the name of the Town) wei ery wealthy, and had no children. It was o a very bleak, cold night in Decomber,.that aj ent knocking wa:si heard at the 'front.door I.. Denton's elegant mansion.- The family. at the:ime seated in the drawing-room, enj ng a psant chat. There was Mr. Dento'a mai-about sixty years of age, tine looki ' though'very gray; Mrs. Denton, aged abo thirty-five, though in appearance much ynDger, -being a mnst be. 1 tiful blond; Mrs. Co whom I have already described, and C1arley, th whom the reader must be by this time ty well ac quainted. These composed the 'ily seated'in that luxurious parlour, on that k and stor my night in December. A few m nts afterthe servant who had answered the mons to the door, entered the parlour with ' ket on her arm, directed to "Mr. Denton.) That gtle man took the basket very deli telv 'saving "I wonder what it it". -noping i all things as though it had been their own. Mrs. Denton loved children, had always de sired then and was very hnxious to keep the little foundling committed to their care, until she ascertained that the little feet were deformed. "0 my" she exclaimed, "Poor little thing! Why its feet are dreadfully deformed-what shall we do with it'?" Charley, who had been a silent looker on until now, said very earnestly, "0, Mother, I wish we could take the little child. I have wished so many times for a sister, and I am afraid no one else will be willing to take her, because something ails her feet." Mrs. Conover who had been looking very tenderly at the little creature, sleeping on her sister's lap, now said, " Well, sister, if you do not want to keep the child, I will take her; true I cannot do as well by her as you could, but I will try to be all to her that I ~jd be were she amy own." So it was settled',' 'd at the expiration of the holydays, when Mrs. Conover and Char ley returned home, they carried the little Milly with thenm; and from that time, she found a place, not only in their home, but ini their hearts. Milly was a little beauty ; I ami almost afraid to attempt a description of her, as I am certain that I shall not do her justice. I never before saw eyes so blue, or skin so fair, and her hair was itself a treasure, so golden in hue, so soft and curly ; I always envied her the possession of it. Then her features were perfect. I have always thought her one of the most beautiful and intellhgent children that I have ever seen. Mrs. Conover would never let her go from home, to attend school, but had a teacher to come to her residence and give her lessons, -aflirmuing that "something might happen to her;" but many thought that it was because Mrs. Conover could not bear to have the child out of her sight, even for a few hours at a time, so necessary had her presence become to the happiness of her more than mother. Well, so years rolled round; and they who were girls and boys in 1839 had grown to be women and men, called upon to act their parts in the great drama of life. 'Others were called to that' dreamless sleep ; and among these Mrs. Conover was called to join her husband, and reap the reward of her well doing. May my last hours be like hers. Poor Charles grieved as only auch natures as his are capable-of griey ing, and Milly (now fifteen years of age) was inconsolable. Mrs. Conover 'died in 1844. I was not in Brook Valley when she died, and did not hear of it until a few years ago, when on a risit to my childhood home. 'Chen I learned also that Mrs. Staunton was still living, though something. older and more grave than when I last saw her; that she was wearing caps, and using spectacles, and " growing old very grace fully." Mr. Staunton died in 1842. IHe became very much changed before his death, and dieda sincere Christian. .And, now reader,Tknow you are very anxious to learn what has become of Charles Conover. Well I must tell you: He married, nine years ago-and whom do you suppose he married? I know you will never guess so I will tell you: lie married Milly Martin, the little foundling ! Perhaps you think he ought to have lived single all his life. If so, I difler fromn you. I think he acted perfectly right, and I am certain ho could not have found a lovhier wife, had he searched the world over. Well my story is almost finished: Charles Conover is now one of the leading men of New York state; for manmy years he oceupied a place in the Halls of Legislation; has been called twice to Washington to fill aplace in Congress, and stands at the head of his profession. .He is beloved and esteemed by all who know him. .When last I had tidings of him he was the fathier of two sons and a daughter, is a most.. devoted parent, and one of the kindestof' huisbands. Ts perfect in every relation of life; but s'till retains within his heart of hearts, the image of the. beautiful and accomplished, but rash and. inisguided; IDA W There was ialight fall of'snow at Atlanta en Tre..ayme 1a th inst. COMXUNIOATIONS. For the Edgefleld Advertisor. BANKS--" SIU." A man gets into a.corn speculation,-gets credit at a Bank,---iis securities are by the Bank doubted,-the Bank makes excuse for stopping credit,-does not wish to assail the credit of the partie,-does not rail out, " want of confidence"-and he forthwith, if on a grand jury, tries to indict the Bank as a nuisance, or rails out "Down with the Banks." A man buys much property,-surrounds himself with luxury,-wants money to pay, or purchase more -Bank will not be able to accommodate, and he shouts out "Down with the Banks." I do not know whether "SALU'DA" is in any of these categories; neither is it a matter of concern with me. I know that the above, is the general rule. Will it be wise in the rest of mankind, or even with them, to say "Down with the Banks?" ORIGIN OF MONEY-Gold and silver were adopted, as the measure of value, in exchanges; because they were precious, and thereby porta ble. And because they were furnished, from the bowels of the earth, in uniform quantities, and as a measure of ralue, would not be as corn, cattle, slaves, .&c., which would change their measure, as they became scarce or plentiful. ' Usury, or interest for the use of money, was forbidden by antiquity, because money was not property, but the measure of the value of Prop erty. See Exodus, and see Ilerodatus. THE NATURE OF MONEY HAS CHANGED-The intermingling of the Christian nations, by the wans of the Crusades, started the modern com merce which has develop itself, in a system of exchanges for goods, Mich may be called " Commercial Credit" covering the whole com mercial World. Bills of exchange, due bills, notes, mortgages, &c., &c., &c. This is using paper " promi.ses" instead of cash. And so long as they are convertible into cash, on their ma turity,-or demand, they serve the purpose of cash. By properly adjusting the maturity of bills, and the positior; of " promise to pay on demand," so that they may not come all at once, the merchant may keep up an immense business, with great profit. But by the intro ductibn of " promises" on paper, the original idea (which was essential to money) as to uni formnity of quantity is concerned, was oblitera ted, and all the currency with gold and silver too became merchandise; so that, gold, silver, stocks, bonds, broad-cloth, and beef, are all alike articles of commerce. ORiIN oF BANKs-When the Credit system became fully inaugurated, then its great organic Symbols (Banks) were bnrn - 1..- -1 0 ., utu yer., t see that she has injured hersen uv keeping out of line from the great roads to commercial wealth, which were followed by ther sections, with which she was commercial ly connected, by trying to keep uniformity of price in money by her usury laws. Suppose South Carolina should make a law, that corn should never sell above fifty cents per bushel. How much corn would be carried' from Chattanooga to Charleston when Savannah would give seventy-five cents? Not a bushel! By unanimous consent of commercial circles in New York, money is left to bring its market value. Last fall, men with perfect impunity, sold the use of their money fin 10 per cent, per month. Do we not know that it is as caiy for money to find a market as Corn? " Cotton is King," but where is the palace where he shows his royal forms of wealth, and power? Ts it in Charleston? or New Orleans? -where he' is born ? No, it is where the pro eeds of sales, (money) can make the best in vestment-Wall street New York. While by orcing capitalists to find the best markets for their Inoney, the grass grows in thre streets of Charleston. 7 per cent Bonds in N. Y., now, are is cheap, as 6 per cent Bonds equally safe in Charleston. WH.AT Is ME.ANT IN FAcT laY "DOWN wITH rH BANKs?"-lt m~eans destruction to credit In commerce. If it is to apply only to otur S'tate, then we will circulate the bills, and cred its of our neighbor States, to their great advan age and our loss, if "Down with the Banks" is to have universal application, then Gold, and I Silver is to be the old uniform measure. And if there be .3 paper dollars for one dollar gold, then "SAILUDA" means by his cry, "let the prices be 3 times their present value, by nmaking money 3 times as scarce." What a hard time for the debtor ! and what a good time for the capitalist. The capital now used for Banking purposes would then purchase the poor debtor's property for i of the nominal value it now has. This would be, to make the present Bank own ers richer, and the debtors poorer. At present some of our Banks are only making 6 per cent per annum; then, the same capital would make 300 per cent at one dash. -Now "SA LuDA," my friend, study the nature of Currency, and Banks, and Usury laws, and Credit, and 'Trade, and Union. And when you. go to sail again, "keep near the shore." "But if you swear by the gold that is in the temple," we will be tempted to say of you " he is a deb tor." -1f you rail out so much against "the whole world, and thme h st of mankind" we will suspect something is wrong., "bFeI,,' qumi potuit rerumlm cogn.oscere causae." Do not think that I am a Bank officer, or a candidate for any other office: for I am not--I am only is well wisher to you and all else, and A P'LAIN AIAN. A BRAvE WoKAs.-Early last Sunday morn ing, Mr Baker, the jailor at Watertown, N. Y., was called upon toadminmister some medicine to~ a prisoner, who pretended to be sick, and, while attending to this duty, lie was attacked and bru tall.beaten by three other prisoners, as well as the pretended sick man. They took the keys from his pocket, anid were preparing to make their exit, when Mfrs. Baker, who had been awakened by the senifie,stood at the'iate with a loaded revolver, and threatened to shoot the first that should attemnpt to pass. She kept the vil lains at bay until assistance was procured, and they were then secured in their cells again. AN Qantmisc Juar.-The story is told that a jury at Taunton, Mass., recently, being unable to agree in a certain ease where a man was ac cused of stealing two dollars and fifty cents worth of nails, reported that they were willing to pay for the nails and let the~ prisoner go. .Every vice and folly has a train of secret and necessary punmrishmnenmt. If we are lazy, w's must expect to be pool.; if intemperate, to be dis eased; if luxurious, to die prematurely. A favorite mode of introduction, in Brazil ris said to be :".This is my friend-; if he steals -any thin fro youn ani responsible for it." From the Washington Union, April 11. , DEATH OF MR. BENTON. Mr. Benton died at his residence in this cit yesterday morning, after an illness .of severa days. The event was not unexpected by li family, and the country has been long prepare( for the announcement. Up to within a singl day of his demise, he continued to labor at th, great work he had undertaken-the Condensei Congressional Debates, which, we believe ho had nearly brought t. seventy-five. As hi life has been full of honors, the award of hi. fellow-men, so did he die full of years, the boot of Providence. His disease was cancer in the bowels. H( had endured severe surgical treatment a few months. before his death, and obtained tempo. rary relief. His alliction returned upon him, however In a more aggravated form, and resul ted in a lingering and painful death. His intel lect remained unimpaired to the end, and he made every arrangement and preparation for his demise with Roman fortitude. The President, hearing of the extreme ill ness of his ancient compeer, called upon him on Friday evening. The dying statesman declared afterwards his exceeding gratification at the visit. The interview is said to have been pro tracted. Mr. Benton is said to have expressed his extreme solicitude for the condition of pub lic affairs, and a painful sense of the imminent dangers which threaten the country. He is said to have exhorted the President to rely upon Divine support and guidance, and not upon that of men, who would deceive him. 31r. Benton was a native of North Carolina, where he was reared. His ancestors were among the leaders of the revolution. The fami ly of Harts, from which he descended on the maternal side, were among the early emigrants from North Carolina who settled in Kentucky, under the name of the Transylvania colony, and who were supporters of Daniel Boone. It was through this circumstance that Col. Benton was led to choose the West for his home when he had grown to manhood and left the army. le established himself at Nashville, rather than ii Kentucky, where he immediately rose to dis tinction at the bar. About the year 1815, he emigrated again, still westward, to St. Louis, Missouri. His senatorial life, which lasted for the unprecedented period of thirty years, com menged in 1820, when he was -elected by the legislature of Missouri, anterior to the:formal admission of that State into the Union. Big history since that event has been intimately interwoven with that of the country ; and for twentydfive years constituted some of the most thrilling and illustrious pages of the history of to between the two friends until one or two evenings before Gen. Jackson's final departure from Washington for the Hermitage in March, 1838, when a very solemn and affecting conver sation occurred, the nature of which we may readily conjecture, but which of course has never transpired. Mr. Benton was a determined member of the opposition to Mr. Adams' administration during his wholc term. He warmly supported Gen. Jackson for the presidency, and was one of the main pillara of support to his two administra tions. IL is unnecessary to specify the particu sl occasions on which he ditiuguished himself in his conspicuous parliamentary service. The panic session, however, cannot be passed without a special notice. In this .3r. Benton sustained, aided by a few powerful De)mocratic debaters, among thenm our now Pres-ident, the whole brunt of the tremendous attack by which General Jackson'. administration was then assailed with a fury and inweriful array of talent and elo quence never before or since witnieied in any legislative body. IHis services then rendered to the Democratic cause ranked him among the first intellects and statesmen of his age, and hve placed his name among those of our first American statesmen. His controversy with Mr. Clay, in the famous eto debate In 1852, affords, perhaps, as striking a specimen of his powers in the gladiation of debate as any that could be selected. If either knight in that celebrated encounter was borne worsted from the ground, it was certainly not the Democratic orator. The measure upon which he won the largest degree of popular eclat was, however, that of the expungimg resolution, a measure which he hiself conceived, amii, without bronching the subject to a human being, moved in the Senate. t was on the 17th of January, 1837, at the close of the long debate which had occurred on this famous resolve, shortly before the vote was to be taken, that Col. Benton rose in his place, and-addressing himself to the chair, in the course of a brief and emphatic speech, referimg back to the scene which had been enacted in the Senate chamber three years before, on the adoption of Mr. Clay's memorable resolution of condemnation upon Gen. Jackson for the re moval of the deposits, and to his own prophecy, then fearle-sly hazarded, that that resolution should be expuged by the people of the United States from the journal of the fSenate-uttered the well-known words, which are the synonymes of his name, "soLITAR AND ALON(E I sET TiIls BALL IN MOTION." We believe that it was in 1851 that Mr. Ben ton retired from the Senate. Duiring the last dozen years, though the mortal part has lingered amongst the living, yet has the esteem of our generation for him been chiefly retrospective, and been chiefly concentrated in the historical man as ho was in the pride of intellect and in the prime of manhood. These later years of Mr. Benton's eventful life have been appropriately devoted to regis tering the events of those in which his intellect and his fame were at their zeninth. His two great histarical works, the Thirty Year.' Vieus and the Abridgment, though they may not 'be exempt from defects and blemishes, are valua ble depositories of political knowledge, and the frmer will popularize a period of the history of our institutions that will exert as great an inluence upon the destiny of o'cutry as any equal length through w yet passed. It would be superfluous po the character of a man whose istory are as familiar as household among the American people. Of gig eect, strong physical constitution) and presence, o: inlexible will, undaunted co, immense ap plication, vast erudition, capacious memory, di rect manner of thought, and nervous emphat4 eloquence-it was impossible thiat he should have lived under institutons like ours and failed to reach, and to figures upon, the moui Iconspicuous theatres of action-impossible tha1 he could have failed to stamp the unpress o ..s gnins indelibly upon our public policyr The hiAtory of-no public man of our'couns during the. quarter of a century which ter vened from-1820 fo1845 is more cloesfylnrter woven with'the history of our country than Mr. Benton'. In private life, in the circle of his own fRf Colonel Beton possessed none of thafsteh:tb nes of character and angularity of mnann~r e that distinguished him in public. As a husbmnd, '.. he was-tender, anxious, thoughtful, andgentlei to a degvee never exqeded ; and this feature o character aldne would have been conclusivq - proof of a noble and exalted nature.: He -'s as devoted, affectionate, and assiduous a fathe r 3 as husband, an indefatigable tutor In his own household; no less proud of the results of his' unremiting labors in this domestic departmen of duty than of his more conspicuous laborson,!Z. the public theatre. THE DEATH BED or CoL. BRWoN.-A Wash:" ington correspondent of the New York TribuniW writing on the Gth inst., says: Col. Benton is dying. His disease, cancer of the bowels, has made such progress that he can not survive much longer. -He suffers extreme.' pain, and'is exhausted to almost the last degree of physical prostration. But his mind is as clear and as powerful as ever, and the high, resolute, Roman spirit of the old statesman atruggles witi- 1 indomitable-energy and fortitude. against sick-_, ness and weakness and the awful presence ofth king of terrors. He dies in harness, working to the last for his country and mankind., An old and intimate friend from Missouri called upon him this morning. Benton was in bed, scarce ly able to move hand or foot, and not able to speak much above a whisper. But he was-hard at work, closing up his Abridgement of the D.-' bates of Congress, which he has brought down to 1850, to tMe passage of the compromise mess ures. He was dictating the eloeing chapter ofU-"' the work. His daughter,.Mrs. Jones, sitting e side the bed, received it, sentence by sentencei .whispered in her ear, and repeated it aloud to her husband, who wrote it down. It was thein 4." read over to Col. Benton, and received his cor- '5 rections, made with as much anxious particular- .7 1z ity as if it were the maiden work of a young au thor. MoUNT VcnoN.-We have .writtenandful ' lished ninch on this subject,- but -there isst one argument in favor of the purhase ofih "sacred sport" that we have left untouched. is this; nearly every .society in the Upl States have contributed their mite, .e The Odd Fellows have contribted .a hand, the Masons have come to ths resene the Church as yet has not raised. her'migy';.! voice in furtherauce of one of the greates - - t h waserthe..otfminan :''i 4 V'.j .a upon. Washington himseit was ons - most refulgent examples of the practiesiappre-. ciatios of those principles which it is the pro-- Z vince and duty of the Church to illustrate, and we see no reason why this. great body of ten millions should neglect their duty. We hope these hints will be acted upon.-Marion (Ala.) American. DrITURIaANCE AT A BArisx.-I he rite of bar. tisin was administered on Sunday at Providence, to over fifty persons. At Thurber's Pond, where a number of per-ions from the Fourth Baptist Church were immersed, about three thousand peions were aiseimbled, half of whom were Irish, as Miss Carroll, who was converted from the Catholic to the Protestaqt faith some time ago, was one of the persons to be baptised. On en tering the water, says the Providence Journal, she was insulted with eries of " kill her," "dirown her," &c., the crowd ' wth dilliculty kept behind a rope which ii~n to keep them~ from the shore. After reony, the car. riage which conveyed lius Carroll to her resi dence was followed bya large crowd of Irish'. The presence of the police, however, preventcd any further disturbance. THE Hfoor TniAru.-Douglas and Sherwood,' the hoop-skirt manufacturers, turn out 4000. skirts every day,. and constantly employ 500 hands, besidecs 180J sewing machines ; so says the Journal of Commeree. There is used each week not less than ones ton of steel, to aid the ladies' in spreading themselves. Several floors in a large building are exclusively occupied to their full extent with persons engaged in cutting cloth, tape, bone, and steel7 and mauufaicturing small metallic pieces used in constructing the skirt, for all of which processes cunningly devised ma. chinery is employed by those who are engaged in adjusting the parts to each other and bringmng - order out of apparent coiifusion. Hoop-skirt making is a science, and one on which patient' study has been bestowed, till by successive im provements, an article of dress has been produced which is thought to be favorable to health, while it conduces to conmfort and beauty. To illustrate - the dilliculty experienced in obtaining the exact - desideratum, ratau, cord, whalebone and bras have becen successively employed and reete in whole or in part, as too brittle, too rige, too lexible, &c., and, of course, much valuabl ma hinery had to be thrown aside as useless, with each change introduced. Now, a kind of En glish steel is substituted, after being subjected to a high heat, and suddenly plu:ge into cold oil and again transfered'to a bath ofmelted lead to give it the proper temper and elasticity. Such quantities of the materia thu. prepared are used, that the railway train which forwards the weekly instalment from Connecticut to the factor in this city, is yelepe the "hoop train," and of course, is regarded with more than ordinary con sideration. The factory, with its industrious population of 500 young women, is an interesting place to visit. - The Grand Division, Sons of Temperance, of South.Caroliua, will meet for the second quar- - teriy session of the current year, at Cheraw on the 28th inst. Delegates will be conveyel on the South Carolina 'al Road for one fare1 pro- e vided thirty or more use that road; and on the . ' Greenville, Charlotte~ Lauren., King's Mountain. Northeastern and-Cheraw Rail Roads for one' fare, without edndition as to numbers. A young man was lately arrested in Pennsyl- .1 . r vania for stealing a horse, and confessed the - -1 rime, stating that he knew of no other way to id get 'rid of a woman who was constantly impor.,kg6" -5 tuning him to marrf her. Between a wife n~t' a prison he chosegus he belieyed, the lessr#m ~ ~ two evils. Governor McWilie of Miss., and his.i~~' wir'e, have just been blessed with a'tes at~4 pledge of conjugal affection ! -~~ A gentleaman having fle i~a~g ~asked what he intenddt'i ilf( shall stay at home a wie ~ ~ a with my family!"