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.
SUICIDE AT 'A -OARDIG SCHOOL
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
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. "
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
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
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
"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
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".
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
.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.
For the Edgefleld Advertisor.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.)
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 ~ ~
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!"
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