Our city at this moment is warmed into a singular state of excitement.  A Georgia editor (we regard editors as belonging to a very windy class of men), not having the mightiness of our chivalry before him, said the Union would have peace if South Carolina were shut up in a penitentiary.  And for this we have invited the indiscreet gentleman to step over the border, that we may hang him, being extremely fond of such common-place amusements.  What the facetious fellow meant was, that our own State would enjoy peace and prosperity were our mob-politicians all in the penitentiary.  And with this sensible opinion we heartily agree.

We regard our state of civilization as extremely enviable.  To-day we made a lion of the notorious Hines, the forger.  Hines, fashioning after our hapless chivalry, boasts that South Carolina is his State-his political mother.  He has, nevertheless, graced with his presence no few penitentiaries.  We feasted him in that same prison where we degrade and starve the honest poor; we knew him guilty of an henious crime-yet we carried him jubilantly to the “halls of justice.”  And while distinguished lawyers tendered their services to the “clever villain,” you might have witnessed in sorrow a mock trial, and heard a mob sanction with its acclamations his release.

Oh, truth and justice! how feeble is thy existence where the god slavery reigns.  And while men are heard sounding the praises of this highwayman at the street corners, extolling men who have shot down their fellow-men in the streets, and calling those “Hon. gentlemen,” who have in the most cowardly manner assassinated their opponents, let us turn to a different picture.  Two genteely-dressed men are seen entering the old jail.  “I have twice promised them a happy surprise,” says one, whose pale, studious features, wear an expression of gentleness.  The face of the other is somewhat florid, but beaming with warmth of heart.  They enter, having passed up one of the long halls, a room looking into the prison-yard.  Several weary-faced prisoners are seated round a deal table, playing cards; among them is the old sailor described in the early part of this history.  “You don’t know my friend, here?” says the young man of the studious face, addressing the prisoners, and pointing to his companion.  The prisoners look inquiringly at the stranger, then shake their heads in response.

“No, you don’t know me:  you never knew me when I was a man,” speaks the stranger, raising his hat, as a smile lights up his features.  “You don’t know Tom Swiggs, the miserable inebriate—­”

A spontaneaus shout of recognition, echoing and re-echoing through the old halls, interrupts this declaration.  One by one the imprisoned men grasp him by the hand, and shower upon him the warmest, the heartiest congratulations.  A once fallen brother has risen to a knowledge of his own happiness.  Hands that raised him from that mat of straw, when the mental man seemed lost, now welcome him restored, a purer being.