Our story here is ended. We need not follow Richard Coulter through the remaining vicissitudes of the war. Enough that he continued to distinguish himself, rising to the rank of major in the service of the state. With the return of peace, he removed to the farm-house of his wife’s parents. But for him, in all probability, the estate might have been forfeited; and the great love which the good old Dutchman professed for King George might have led to the transfer of his grant to some one less devoted to the house of Hanover. It happened, only a few months after the evacuation of Charleston by the British, that Felix Long, one of the commissioners, was again on a visit to Orangeburg. It was at the village, and a considerable number of persons had collected. Among them was old Frederick Sabb and Major Coulter. Long approached the old man, and, after the first salutation, said to him—“Well, Frederick, have we any late news from goot King Tshorge?” The old Dutchman started as if he had trodden upon an adder—gave a hasty glance of indignation to the interrogator, and turned away ex-claiming—“D—n King Tshorge! I don’t care dough I nebber more hears de name agen!” * * * * * AUDUBON’S BLINDNESS. BY PARK BENJAMIN. John James Audubon, the great American naturalist, has entirely lost his sight. _Newspaper Paragraph._ Blind—blind! yes, blind—those eyes that loved to look On the bright pictures in great Nature’s book. Quenched is that visual glory which arrayed All the winged habitants of grove and glade, And hill and prairie, in a garb as fair As their own plumage stirred by golden air. Alas! no more can he behold the beam Of morning touch the meadow or the stream; No more the noontide’s rays pervade the scene, Nor evening’s shadows softly intervene, But on his sense funereal Night lets fall The moveless folds of her impervious pall. But he shall wake! and in a grander clime, With vales more lovely, mountains more sublime, There shall he view, without a film to hide, Delicious pastures, streams that softly glide, Groves clothed in living greenness, filled with plumes Bright as the dawn, and various as the blooms With which the early Summer decks his bowers— Gems all in motion, life-invested flowers. Fairer than those, albeit surpassing fair, His pencil painted with a skill so rare That they, whose feet have never trod the far And wondrous places where such creatures are, Know all their beauty with familiar love— From the stained oriole to the snow-white dove.