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BY JAMES W. JONES. The Southern Whig, ptJSGirIHD EVERY SATURDAY MORNIN'b. TEB3K. 'Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the fit st number, or four dollars if nut paid within the year. Sub scribers living out of the State, will be expect ed in all cases, to pay in advance. ffo subscription received for less than one year, unless the money is paid in ad rance; and no paper will be discontinued until all arrear ages are paid, except at the option of the pub lisher. Persons requesting a discontinuance, of their Papers, are requested to bear in mins!, a settement of their accounts. '&BVERTISEMENTS will be inserted at the usual rates; when the number of insertions is not specified, they will be continued until ordered out. All Leiters to the Editor or Proprietor, on matters connected with the establishment, must be tost paid in order to secure attention Notice of the sale of Laud and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, must be published sixty days previous to the day of sale. Tito sale of personal Property, in like manner, must be published forty days previous to the day of sale. Notice to debtors and creditors ol an estate must be published forty days. Notice that Application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne groes, must be published four months. Notice that Application will be made for Letters of administration, must be published thirty days and Letters of Dismission, six months. For Advertising—Letters ot Citation. § 2 /5 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 3 25 ■ Four Months Notices, 4 00 Sales of Personal Property by Executors, Administrators, or Guardians, 3 25 Sales of Land or Negroes by do. 4 75 Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 50 Other Advertisements will be charged 75 cents for every thirteen lines of sin'll type, (or space equivalent,) first insertion, anti 50 cents for each weekly continuance. If published every other week, 621-2 cents for each continuance. If published once a month, it will be charged each time as a new advertisement. For a single insertion, 00 per square. PROSPECTUS OF A .V EW LITERARY JO VRN AL, entitled THE BACHELOR S BITTON. npHE Second Number of this Periodical is T now before the Public. The very kind fa vor with which it has been accepted prompts the Editor to make renewed exertions to place the work on a firm foundation, and to make it I worthy of the patronage it is likely to receive. No effort was made to obtain subscribers, no publicity was given to the design, until the first number was ready for distribution, —because mJmj Editor was unwilling to make promises which he might be unable to fulfil; and be was j anxious that the public, before it gave encour- , ugement or approbation, should see the work, I mid have an opportunity to judge of its merits. j A short notice of the Editor’s intentions and ; wishes accompanied the first number, and the I approbation and indulgence with which his j friends and the public generally received it, gave, i to him hopes which he had net previously in- ' tlulged. That Alabama would give a handsome sup- j port to such a publication was a matter es ex- | Treme doubt; —owing more to her commercial ! and agricultural enterprise, than to any want ; of liberality, or to the absence of a spirit for lit "eTary advancement. But the avidity with which fortune has been hunted down, has not taken away the taste of her Scholars; —and the increase cf wealth has produced the best of all results: the opening of the heart, and the gushing forth vs the best of feelings: generosity, and a desire to promote every laudable enterprise. The Bachelor’s Button is the only period ical in the State devoted entirely to Original Li teratme. It is printed in a handsome style— (not inferior in that respect to the best in the country.) The very medium of publication is calculated to inspire young ambition to vigor ous exertion, and to make the old and experien ced writer happy in the privilege of sending thoughts into the world in such a garb. Alaba ma has talent—talent of an order calculated to command the admiration of her neighbors, however old their experience ; however celebra ted their Literati. It is the proudest wish of the Editor that he may call that talent into ac tiveexercise; yet he cannot hope to be able to do that without the hearty approbation of his friends, and their earnest concurrence in promo ting a cause for whose success he is willing to devote his entile time and attention. A Liter.,ry Advertiser will be attached to the Bachelor’s Button, containing Notices which relate to Schools, Colleges, Books, Banks, Insu rance Companies, &c. at the following rates : For one insertion, per page, $lO 00 “ “ “ 1-2 page. 600 “ “ “ 1-4 page, 400 By the year, per page, 60 00 “ “ “ 12 page, 30 00 “ “ “ 1-4 page, 15 00 This arrangement will not interfere with the literary department, as the advertising sheets will be entra. Persons wishing to advertise in the third Number, will send in their notices im mediately. Mr. VV. W. McGuire is our City Agent, and is authorised to act for us. Any letter oi com munication left at his Book Store, will receive immediate attention. TERMS—“The Bachelor’s Button” will be published Monthly in the City of Mobile, in a pamphlet containing 64 large octavo pages of entirely original matter, on fine paper, and on hew and clear type, at Five Dollars a year, f ayable in advance. Editors friendly to the work will please publish this circular. SVM. R SMITH, Editor and Proprietor NOTICE. BARGAINS, BARGAINS. THE Finn of Wm. 11. Elmey, de Co. having closed business, and their whole Stock of Fincy Dry Goods having been trans, ferrod to the Subscriber, lie now oilers them for sale at ST, TOIB W. As the Subscriber is anxious to dispose of them as soon as possible, those who wish Great Bargains will do well to call-immediate ly at (be House on Collego Avenu'q fotmerly occupied by Miss Manikin, u here he will be found at all hours. Ills Stock comprises a great varitety of 2? AW©S’ ©B & &vO J ) ; among which, are a handsome assortment of Fashionable Plaid Russia lAuen drills, for Gentlemen’s Pants. R. W. CASK IN. June 21—8—ts. Southern Whig From the Ladies’ Companion for June. THE WRECKED MARINER.* BY E. BURKE FISHER. The tempest’s power is here—the angry storms Have swept the bosom of the dark deep sea; Its yawning waves are peopled with the forms Os beings shrieking in their agony ! But what avails it now—the strong man's cry, Or Woman's gentle voice attun’d to prayer ? The mocking billows lift themselves on high, ’ And quell in death the ravings of Despair ! The heavens are darkn'd with the storm-fiend's wings, > No star shines out to glad them with its raj"; Night o’er tho waste his sullen shadow flings, I Save where the lightening’s flush illumes the way; The moan of Ocean heaving in its bod— [ The lashing surges 'gainst the rock-grit shore — Toll to the struggling victims Hope has flod, No friendly hand nor voice shall greet them more ! The warning was too brief—lor with the dawn That wreck skirain'd o’er the waters like a bird ; The grassy ocean like a verdant lawn Slept., or was only by the land-breeze stirr'd : A hundred forms gaz’d on the distant land. And crowding thoughts came o’er them as they gazed; They little deem'd —that death-devoted band— That o’er their heads Destruction’s hand was raised. , They only dream’d of home —for some were there | Who, from those homes long parted, felt the thrill Which outspeeds Time, and lays the Future bare i Before Affection’s all-potential will. | They longed to hear again the lovc-tun'd voice, Though unheard long, yet never once forgot ; To bid the sorrowed heart with smiles rejoice, And from the social page their absence blot. And there are others grouped upon the deck, Who have left all—their friends and joys behind ; To them the Past is but a shattered wreck— The Future baseless as the passing wind : And yet their gaze is bent to where the hiiis Upon their vision thought the distance rise, They think of Home, and Sorrow's chalice fills, As on the vessel to its haven flies. I i The sea-boy, too, old Ocean's hardy son, 55'ho from his lofty perch descries the land, / Feels ere long, his weary service done, | The rover in his native cot will stand; Receive a mother's warm and fond embrace, ' ( To gain a father’s blessing bow his head. Observe how Time has dealt with each loved face, i 1 And dry the tears a sister may have shed. A few short hours—the ocean heaves >:s breast, ■ The proud ship reels before the tempest’s breath ; And wanderer, exile, sea-boy, all now rest, Round in the dreamless thrall of iron death. The} - struggled wildly, but no hope was nigh— Their cries were stifled by the yawning waves ; The angry waters chase them as they fly, And bear them down to Ocean's deepest caves. Morn broke upon the waters. On the waste I The spares, sad emblems of the storm, arc spread ; ; Upon the strand the sea its spoils has cast, And moans a hollow requiem to the dead. One living thing remains—in mockery spared, To tell how Death had triumphed on the wave; I And where the beacon of Destruction glared, Nor Childhood’s tears, nor Woman’s prayers couldsavc. | I All night upon the billows, he had seen ; I I His floating home by the wild tempest rest; \ 1 | And now tho morning’s blush dispels Night's screen, J ' i Her yawning hull seems like Hope’s monument. | His comrades loved anti true are floating round, j i But Death upon their brows his fetters binds ; He shout,sl ut Echo catches up the scund, I And casts it wildly to the laughing winds. 1 But he has gained the shore, and Vv'Oman's tears I His wandering senses to their track restore ; j Behind, the trophies of tire storm appear— I A friendly shelter welcomes him before. j Then rest thee, mariner! Tempt not again ; The wrathful spirit of the mighty deep ; j Thy freight of pleasure it has sold for pain, / j Thy comrades all beneath the billows sleep. I *ln the summer of 1829, the ship Mary and Frances j j of Cork was wrecked elf the coast of Labrador. .She I ■ I was an emigrant vessel, and had on board upward cf j three hundred passengers, but one of whom escaped; ! and for years afterwards the fate of the Mary and Fran- ; ces was a mysterv. At length some tur-traders visited ; the tribe with which the rescued mariner had dwelt since I the period of the calamity, and learned from him—the ■ i only living memorial of the destiny of the ill-fated vessel 1 —the sad storm of its late. Front the Last N umber of the Library of Fiction. j TlfE GUERILLA —by snrniDAN knowles, Author ol the 11 Hunchback," &c. I On came the crowd shouting, “The Gueril ■' hi! Thu Guerilla!” ferocious exultation in i ■ the sound of their voices and in their looks.— ' . On they came right to the place of exec ttion, ’ ! gather'.'g new accessions at every yard.— ! Arrived at the fatal spot, they stopped ; and, I drawing back on every side, formed a little I ring, densely bounded ; in the centre of which ! stood a Guerilla, with a boy about fifteen or / sixteen years old, apparently his son; and i ’ i along with them a Spmiard of superior rank, ; ’ j one or two functionaries of a subordinate class, ' ’ | and the executioner. i Several murders had been recently commit- j j j ted in the mountains ; among the restone upon j - the son of the Spaniard who was extremely ‘ popular in Burgos; and against the Guerillas j the retaliation of summary justice was pro-j " claimed by the edict of the people; of which j p act of popular despotism the m in and the boy, ! 3 I who had been taken at a few leagues distance | -, j from the city, were now about to become the ! victims. b Nothing could be more striking than the con- ' trast between the two. The man, of swarthy. ' complexion and sialworth form, with lank black I hair, and just sufficient of intelligence ju, His countenance to give to a bold and i reckless nature; defianed^^® desperation, in ■ his eye—the boy, with bright and _■ j transparent olive; a framd^HLder,tbough not .spare; dark—jnt-dark almost to j i! the waist in clusters of curls; and a cuititc-■ . nance shining with sensibility and intellect i his eye, with an expression of intense terror, | cast here and there Upon the crowd ; " ith one j hand clasped in that of his robust companion, I and with the other grasping his arm, to which f! he shrinkingly clung. There was something j so irresistibly subduing in the group —now that . their tormentors had halted, and had leisure to r look on-—that clamor subsided into perfect si } lence, which lasted for several minutes. At length the Gu;;i i.la, with a smile, stretched forlb his haul— , ‘Fellow Christians!’ lie cxelaitred —but bis voice was instantly drowned with cries ot exe- 1 crahon. ‘ Pinion him! strangle him!' was vocifera ted from a thousand mouth?. 1 iudit.g it im] ossiblc to obtain a hearing, he now had recourse to gesture, and his extended j hands were gradually lowered in the direction “WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF-THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.’’—Jej/srSOn. of the boy ; then moving his eyes from right to left, backwards and forwards, as far as he could turn his head—occasionally glancing at the boy while the smile never once quitted his face, he plainly told what he would say. Ihe promiscuous mass was touched again, and cla mor once more was superseded by silence. ‘ Pinion me !’ exclaimed the Guerilla. ‘Pin ion me, and execute me ifyou please. lam a ; fair object for your vengeance, and you shall j see that I will prove myself worthy of it; but , why wreak it upon a child ?—a boy who h is done nothing to you ? He is n r -t a Guerilla, I nor the son of a Guerilla. He is one of your- i selves- Burgos was (be place of his birth.’ Hesitation, doubt, pity, dissatisfaction, re- } venge, were variously painted in the faces of • the crowd. At length one—who seemed to be a sort of leader—by a single word recalled the passion which had originally predominated. ‘ Antonio !’ was all he said, but in a voit i in which there was doom, without refuge or miti gation. He wis echoed by a thousand throats. , The air resounded with ‘ Antonio.’—lt was the I name of the Scnor’s son—the ycung man that | had been murdered. Cries of‘Pinion them!’ ■ ‘Strangle them !’ succeeded. The execution-; er looked towards the Senor. —The Senor nod- i ded; and the former instantly proceeded to* pinion the boy. The boy, submitting without.', a struggle, looked up in the Guerilla’s face. I The Guerilla looked down on the boy—and j .still with a smile ! The process was nearly completed, when the ; Guerilla in a voice of thunder and command j cried, ‘Stop!’ The executioner, mechanically; desisting, gaped at the Guerilla, ns did also the j Senor andtlie crowd—all seemed electrified by ; the tone in which the Guerilla uttered tiiat sin gle word. ‘ls there a man in Burgos— ’ in the srme ! tone proceeded the Guerilla, ‘ls there a man i in Burgos who lost about sixteen years ago a daughter two years old V The Senor started, and now bent upon the Guerilla a look of the most intense interest and eager inquiry. ‘ What mean you V said the Senor. ‘What I say!’ replied the Guerilla, and re peated the question. ‘Yes: lam that man!’ said the Senor; ‘I lost a daughter sixte .n years ago at the ago of two years old ! Knowest thou aught oflhat girl?’’ ‘ You see I do •’ ‘ And what?’ ‘Unbind the boy !’ said the Guerilla, calmly folding his arms. j • Does she live ?’ impetuously inquired the; Senor. ■ i ‘ Unbind the boy !’ j ‘ Knowest thou where she is ? asked the Sen- ; or with increasing impatience. ‘ Unbind the boy !’ ‘ Wretch! furiously vociferated the Senor, j ‘you shall be put to the torture!’ A loud hoarse laugh was the reply of the ! Guerilla, and ‘Unbind the boy!’ was again I calmly repeated. The indignation—the impa- ■ lienee, of the Senor all at once subsided. The j expression of his eye changed to something I like respect and deference as he kept it still ■ fixed upon the Guerilla, upon whom the crowd j now gazed with a feeling rather of admiration ; than hostility. The boy never moved his eyes : from iiis companion, whose smile seemed as j permanent as the hue of his check while he : stood like a figure hewn out of a rock. There I was a dead silence of several minutes. ‘ Unbind tho boy !’ at length sard the Senor. i He was obeyed. ‘Now ?’ said he, addressing I the Guerilla. ‘Remove us hence!’ calmly r< joined (he > 'latter. ’ j • Do you sport with me?’ with renewed im- ' patience, inquired the Senor. ‘No!’—coolly replied the Guerilla. ‘You | know I don’t. You know that a child—a girl of two years old—was stolen from Burgos six teen years ago, and that you are the father of I that girl, You may well believe, Senor, that what I know n part of, and so well, I can re veal wholly—thoroughly!! will do so, but not here. Take me to your own house. Th; re, but there alone, will 1 disclose to you what it > will be a happiness to you to know, and a sa-1 tisfaction also to my friends the good people ol j ' Burgos, by whom I perceive you are held in I no small estimation.’ The Senor cast around him an inquiring I look, as if to learn the pleasure of rhe crowd— •' ' they understood him. I ‘ Give him liis life. Take him away 1’ was I i Vociferated on all sides. I The Senor, accompanied by the Guerilla ( i and the buy, and followed by a portion of the ■ populace, W'alked hurriedly hour:. The three 1 i were presently seated in the library ot the j | Senor. i ‘ Now ?’ said the Senor. ‘ Not yet!’ was the Gdeii'lu’s reply. I ‘Do you mean to deceive mu 1’ sternly de- . j manded the Senor. ! ‘No’’ said the Guerilla ; ‘but I must think ' j—l must reflect——and that takes time. I j I must stipulate too ; and that requires delibera- i ; lion—caution. Thus far, however, thou shall ; ;be informed. Thy daughter lives. The place ! lof her residence is known to mt, She is in ’ j safety there. I can restore her to you, and I j will I but you m ist abide my pleasure as to the j I when and where —with, this assurance, I shall j j disclose all in the course of the next seven i days. But mark you, Senor, and pay due heed 'to "what I s:ry. 'l'lie girl is a hostage t’>r mv ' life and that ot th'’ boy ; so look careludy to , our safetv. And give us handsome entertain. ■ tnent too. Lodge us as your guests and board ;us as such. You must not turn us over io your ' household. 5Ve will eat at no table, but lent where von preside. Its the least courtesy you can show towards those who have ven tured their lives in coming to Burgos, to re store to you ycur only living child 1’ The. Senor sat silent with astonishment.— 1 He eved the Guerilla and the boy alternately ■ from lic’-.d to foot. The Guerilla, following ! ins eyes, said nothing for a time ; but at lengib i bttrsti inton hearty laugh — ‘Your go-sts, I perceive,’ he exclaimed, ! •have (heir habiliments to thank for the qm>s ’ lionab'e welcome you give them. ’Tis all ! very rigl’.t. ’Tis the tvay oi the world, and I ’tis natural to c<> with the threvg ’ Men’s na i lures ought to lie in the stuns that cover their | bodies, and not in their bodies themselves ; I though I have seen in .my a velvet arm make ' sori v work with a rapier opposed to one wield ;edbv an arm in bull ! No matter; heed not ' our liahits, Senor I The Guerilla and (he boy I will be lit for your table to-morrow. To day • they arc content to dine alone. Give orders. I however, that they bn treated as becomes your I guests. They bring good news to 15urges, and : at the risk of their necks.” The Senor neither spake nor moved; but ■ sat staring at the Guerilla, whose peculiar j smile 10-pt its place upon his cheek. The lat ter suddenly started up. The Senor did the ATSIIL’VS, <x£OK«IA, SATURDAY, JIXY 1, 1537. | same—*as if instinctively. ; ‘Senor’’ ejaculated the Guerilla, firmly, and j with a command that indicated the most tho rough confidence in himself, “ Senor. are you, or are yeu not, the father of the girl that was stolen from Burgos sixteen years ago ? I f you are, and ifyou wish the child to be restored to ! you. I have told you the way. Take it or not ■as it pleases you. Give me the time I demand, j and the treatment I look for during that time; i if not —forth to the place e'’execution again I ' but remember, yeur daughter’s life depends I upon the safety of mine and es that boy’s.’ ‘ One question !’ interposed the .Senor. i •! will answer none till my time I’ } ‘ Only tins—has the girl any mark upon her • person ?’ The Guerilla whispered the Senor. The Senor threw himself into his chair, and leaned back for a time, pressing both his hands upon his forehead. The Guerilla remained standing—his eyes scriitinizingly fixed Upon him as if lie would penetrate the determination I that was forming. j ‘ Alphonse I’ exclaimed the Guerilla. The ■ boy started up. ; 1 Every thing shall be as you require !’ has- I lily exclaimed the Sa.uor. 4 Your name?’ • ‘Nunez!’ i ‘ And the boy’s T I ‘ You heaid it just no’.v —Alphonso!’ [ ‘ ’Tis well I You shall bt looked to in all I that you desire !’ •! The Guerilla and the boy were treated in ! every respect like the choice friends ot the ) Senor. The day following, their mountain 1 i dresses were exchanged for that of the Span- j ; ish gentleman, and the youth of gentle blood. | Their couches were the best tinder the Senor’s i ; roof; they dined at the same board, and had j ! all the honor paid to them which the Senor ! himself was accustomed to receive. ‘ Senor,’said the Guerilla, the second day, as they sat at table after the domestics had re tired. ‘Senor,l have told you bit half the er rand that brought me to Burgos. What I have further to inform you of refers to a subject of pain, not pleasure. Will you hear it 7 ’ The Senor bowed. The Guerilla went on— ‘lliad always set my face against acts of i ferocity; I have repeatedly punished those who have committed them. I was in sight when your son was attacked ; I called to the I ruffians to desist—l flew with all the speed I 1 could in hopes to rescue him ; but I arrived too I late. He was mortally wounded. I had trim , conveyed, still alive, to my own habitation, j where he survived six hours ; a portion of i which time he occupied in penning, with great i difficulty, the contents of this paper,’ The Guerilla here drew a small packet from ! his breast and handed it to the Senor, who j glancing at the superscription, hurriedly quitted j the room. He returned in about a quarter of ■ an hour went directly up to the Guerilla, and, ' without trusting himself to speak, wrung him i warmly by the hand. i ‘ A youth—a son ofniine,’ said theGuerilla— j ‘You have another son?’ interrupted the j ’ Senor. The Guerilla went on without noticing the question. ‘A vouth, a son ot mine, was wound ed in endeavoring to save the young cavalier. He momentarily expects my summons to re pair to Burgos; will you insure him security 1 of life and person if he comes V ‘ Certainly !’ said the Senor. I ‘ I shall send for Irim at once !’ said the Gue ; rilla. ‘Do so; and tell him to come hither. This i is his home.’ ; Tho Guerilla and the boy were now indeed j the friends of the Senor. It seemed as if he j could never make enough of them. On the ' fourib day of their sojourn at his house, he i made a feast for them, to w hich he invited the I most esteemed anil worthy among his relations and friends. B. sides the Guerilla anil the boy, there was but one stranger present—a young Italian about twenty-five, who was on a visit with one of the guests He was a youth whose gen. er.il appearance was rather prepossessing, with the exception of his eye, which was peculiar jly dark, small and sparkling. During dinner i lio sat directly opposite to the boy, whose coun j tetiance, remarkable for nothing but its sweet. I ness and blandness, he kept co istantly scruti i nizing, to the no small annoyance of the other, I who attempted to repel the freedom by glances : of coldness, and, occasionally, even of displea- I sure—in such it manner, however, as to avoid i ! remark on the part ofthe rest of the comp my. j j After dinner the guests amused themselves >as their several tastes directed. Some repair ' ed to the billiard-room ; some played at cards. I Music was the recreation ofothers,and, among i the rest, the boy and the young Italian, who 1 with persevering ob’rtisivcncss had fullow’ed I him to a window where lie was standing, and ■ contrived to keep him in discourse in spite of i half-replies and pointed inattention. '1 he Gue rilla and the Senor were deeply engaged in ' conversation in a corner or the room. j A charming passage of Mozart’s was exe- I cuting bv a finger of truth and soul. All were | enchained. Even the young Italian discon i tinned his persecution of the boy, when the ? latter, uttering a shriek, suddenly darted out of ; the room. Every one ran to the windows to j see what had excited such emotion. Some j town officers w ere conducting a Guerilla youth ; towards the house, w hich floated the street up i which they were coming. Before they came half a dozen steps nearer, the Guerilla youth ; was in the arms of the boy. ' ‘The poor brothers!’ erclaitlied the Se:;'or, 1 the tears Binning into his eyes, Every one 'i ran down into tlie hall. There they .were met I by tin youth and the boy, still clinging to each ■ other: 'he latter, overpowered by his feelings, almost carried bv the former! Both looking , i into one another’s eyes, strut ungly, as it their I : souls were iss li g !r in them, anil blending, i like their bodies, in embraces. Never was happincssat re-union more touchingly depicted; especially on the part of the younger, who kiss ed alternatvly the forehead, the t ye«, the J checks, the neck.th;? hair ofthe young Gacril , (la; and wept and laughed, and miirtnured un intelligible words of welcome—md.it last was •. with difficulty taken by gentle iol'ce atvay. I Variously were the spectators affected By tins interview. The Senor wept like a child. The young Italian looked, aS if lie had never ; been acquainted withatear. His coiintenance ■ ' lowered with that cloud which throws the ■ I deepest shade; and which gathers in the mind, j I ! The tenderness v. hich the boy displayed seem- i ed to net upon him with the effect of an ob ’ i ject i.f some natural, strong and uncontrollable . I antipathy. His eyes flashed loathing! and, • t w ith clenched hands, be pressed his folded arms I ' convulsively upon his breast. The rest ot the 1 company sympathiz' d with the youth and the t b.y ; while the Guerilla, his figure drawn up i-*‘o'the full extent of his figure, gravely, and ■ ( musingly, looked on 1 ■ I The vouth held forth a paper. The Gue- ; rilla took it; and, withdrawing to a corner of'he I saloon, whither the company had now return ed, perused it with deep attention. The youth and the boy sat together, hand in hand. Os absorbing interest was the sub ect of their dis course. Their breaths mingled as they spoke. Their faces were never for a moment turned away; until roused by a sigh, deep drawn, and, almost amounting to a groan, the elder started up. and confronted the Italian, who was standing close opposite to him, evidently trying to catch the purport of their conversation.— The flash of the youth’s full manly eye, on fire with indignation, was to'o much for the Italian. With assumed carelessness, he turned Iris head, and presently slunk out of the apartment. •Carlos!’ exclaimed the Guerilla. The youth stood beside him in a moment. They whispered fora time. The Gaerilla then ap proached the Senor. ‘Senor,’ said he, ‘I must leave Burgos. I shall be absent ten days —thus doubling the time for which I stipulated : but I leave the young people as my hostages. For your daugh ter’s sake, you will look to their security, and handsome entortainment. At the expiration of ten days, she shall be retored to you. Do not expostulate ! Necessity is a peremptory master, whose exactions we feel least, when we make up our minds to comply with them. I request the youth may occupy my room ; the next to that in which your hospitality has lodged the boy.’ The Senor gazed vacantly upon the Gue rilla. For a minnute or two he was silent | with disappointment and perplexity. I ‘lt shall be as you desire,’at length said he. i ‘ When do you depart ?’ I ‘ This moment.’ j ‘ May I ask whither ?’ ‘ To Madrid.’ ‘ Madrid!’ echoed the Senor with surprise. ‘ Madrid !’ calmly rejoined the Guerilla. ‘May 1 ask”—continued the Senor. ‘ Senor,’interrupted the Guerilla: ‘I depart the moment a conveyance is ready. My jour ney is a long one ; and the time I have to take it in is short.’ ‘ You shall be conveyed the first two stages by my own horses and people,’ said the Senor, and left the room. The Guerilla exchanging a few words with the youth and the boy, pre sently followed btm. ‘I should like to adopt one of those boys!’ said the Senor, as he sat by himself, musing, after his visiters had retired, and his young guests had withdrawn to their respective apart ments. ‘ There is about them a freshness of nature which acts upon my feelings in a man ner in which they were never affected before ; and, there is a vacuum in my heart—but that, to be sure, the recovery of my long lost daugh- I ter will supply—yet, not wholly; I gloried in j the manhood of my Antonio : I shall yet feel i the want of my son ! I would the elder boy were not the son of a Guerilla 1 Yet, is he a Guerilla? The bovs arc brothets: and, he ‘ said the younger was not a Guerilla’s son, but I was born in Burgos. And he is evidently the I father of both, for they are brothers.—Death is an instructor,” continued the Senor. “ When I looked upon my poor Antonio, my vain heart j swelled with the pride of blood. I gloried in ! the ancestry which he could trace. Now I j perceive another, a new, and, I suspect, a high- I er source of exultation—the endowments, with j which nature enriches. That young Italian is ! of noble birth ; yet, how he cowered before j the rebuking eye of the youth. Ho could not ! bear its gaze. He withdrew from the apart- j tnent; nvr ventured to enter it again. I mark ! ed it with astonishment. How the boy looks ' up to the youth ! How he hangs upon him ! , —seems to exist in him! Children have pen- j etration. He must have a nature of high ex- I cellence to command such love and such de- | pcndencc. He is the making of a cavalier! ' I should like to adopt him—but, the brand of the Guerilla is upon him ; it matters not wheth er by nature or by chance.’ Here the Senor was alarmed by a shriek. He started, and listened. It was repeated ; i and instantly followed by a scuffle in the cham- ' her overhead. It Was that in which the bov ; slept. The Senor snatched a candle, and rushed upstairs. The door of the chamber was open. He entered. The Italian lay ' stretched upon the floor, and the youth, with one foot upon his breast, was standing over hi.n. ‘ The matter?’ impatiently inquired the Senor The youth made no reply, but convulsively, J clasped his bands. ■ ‘The matter?’ repeated tho Senor, with in creased eagerness. No breath—uo sound—uttered the youth in j reply; but stood with his hands still clasped. ) ‘The matter, young man ?’ a third time au thoritatively demanded the Senor—■advancing close up to the youth—but with no better suc cess. The faculty of speech seemed to have sud- j denly and utterly vanished, as Well as that of motion. One feeling alone hud taken entire possession of him, that of intense wonder That he had been recently agitated by emo tious of a harsher kind, was certain from the attitude in w hich he stood, and from the trate figure beneath him ; but not a trace of I those emotions now remained. His soul and . frame had evidently room and use for only the one feeling; and that feeling spoke out of his eves, the direction of which the Senor follow ing, soon stood himself the image of wonder ; too ; tor on the side ofthe bed lay its occupant in a swoon ; the night-dress half torn from the shoulders, as if by violence ; but instead ofthe j neck of a bov, presenting the rich bosom of a i ripe and lovely girl’. The Senor was the first that recovered his ; self-possession. He turned to the youth, and j endeavoured bv shaking him to recal him to I ! himself, but in vain. At this moment some of I the attend.)i.ts, who hud retired to rest, but, like | their master, had been alarmed, presented them selves at the door ofthe apartment. The Sen or. previously drawing the curtains of tho bed, | to conceal the unconscious form that reclined j upon it, ordered them to enter and remove the I Italian ; who seemed to have been stunned by j the fall which he doubtless had received from j ! the youth. lie "as obeyed. He now turned ■ ! again to the youth. An entire ch inge seem- ' ed to have taken place in him. The passion j which had possessed him a moment before— ' which had strained bis every faculty to the ut-! most capability of tension—was gone ; and I another, and a no less powerful one, appeared j Ito have risen in its place. The very spirit cf; tenderness shone meltiogly in his eyes, which ; looked as if every moment they would gush; lan ouid and deep was his respiration; and a univer sal tremor was perceptible to the Senor,when he . took him by the. hand, and led him, unresisting, from the apartment. • Attend to the young person in that room,’l i said the Senor to a female domestic who was I I passing. Then calling to the attendants be-1 | ow —those who hud removed the young I tai- i ian—he inquired if tire latter had recovered;' and, being answered in the affirmative, gave orders for his immediate dismissal from the house. The Senor and the youth were now in the apartment ofthe latter: they sat opposite to each other—the Senor meditating, his com panion abstracted. {To be Continued.) From the New-Yorker. TEIE DTFiG POET TO HIS ABSENT AND ORPHAN SISTER. How sadly beautiful the evening light Falls through the curtains of my silent room I How like that twilight gloom Which steals upon the sinking heart at night, When fond eyes weep'around and watch its doom ! Upon my couch I rest—Disease my cheek Has flushed in fevered mockery of health ; Sister, the pearly wealth Os Love within glows beauteous as the weak Delirium of Death draws on by stealth. M.v memory sleeps in thy heart's heaven afar' As sleeps a cloud 'mid Evening’s holiest flame ; Fused in that heaven, my name Stole beauty richer than the evening star. As sunlight glc wa of feelings went and came. s’et, sister, how unworthy of your love ! Love holier than angels’ hearts have known, When music swells aboon, When s} - mat!lies serene awake to rove Love's all-pervading soul, with joy o’erflown. The pledge of your affection rests near by A brest dark in the absency of bliss; Hope, in calm hours like this, Had told its coming—caught as from the sky, And gifted hourly with a feverish kiss. Sister, a saddening rush of anguish cold Will chill the gentle glow of thy pure heart, Hearing how lone thou art; Sweeter will be thy cup of wo when told His bosom from thy pledge could never part; But sank as hushing down'to breathless sleep; Hope hung her rainbow o’er his dying thought, And joys he had not sought Were his—he smiled thy tender pledge to keep, So fondly clasped, as though ’twere heaven thus caught. Oh, may such be the tale that thou wilt hear, My sister, that my life’s last throb may rise ’Gainst where thy letter lies; And Death be troublous only with the fear 1 might not bear it with me to the skies! TTumiltori Ccllcge, Jan. 1837. The Dade Massacre. The Boston Post publishes the following in teresting account of the massacre of Major Dade’s detachment in Florida, in December, 1835, taken from the lips of Ransom Clarke, the sole survivor of that dreadful action, who is now in Boston : “Our detachment consisting of 117 men under command of Major Dade, started from Forte Brooke, Tampa Bay, on the 23d of De- I ceniber, and arrived at the scene of action I about eight o’clock on the morning of the 28th. 'lt was on ihe edge of a pond, three miles from . the spot where he had bivouacked on the night j previous. The pond was surrounded by tall I grass, brush, and small trees. A moment be- ■ fore wo were surprised, Major Dade said to i ng—. We have got through all danger; keep | up good heart, when we get to Fort King, I’ll ■ give you three days for Christmas. ’ 1 “At this time we were in a path, or trail on I the iorder of tho pond; and the first notice ! that we received of the presence of the ene ; my, was the discharge of a rifle by their chief jas a signal to commence the attack. The I oond was on our right, and the Indians were scattered round, in a semicircle, on our left, in the rear and in advance—reaching at the two latter-points to the edge of the pond ; but leaving an opening for our entrance on the path i and a similar opening on the other extremity 1 j for the egress of our advanced guard, which was permitted to pass through without being I fired on, and of course unconscious of the | , ambuscade through which they had marched. At the time of the attack this guard was about a quarter of a mile in advance, the main body following in column, two deep. The chief’s ' rifle was followed by a general discharge from I Iris men. and Major Dade, Capt. Frazier, and i Lieut. Mudge, together with several non-com j missioned officers and privates, were brought I down by the first volley. Our rear-guard had ; a six-poundei, which as soon as possible, was hauled up and brought to bear upon the ground occupied by the unseen enemy secreted among the grass, brush and trees. The discharge of the cannon checked iitid made them fall back, for an half hour. About twelve of us advan ced, and brought in our wounded and the arms —leaving the dead. , Among the wounded was Lieut. Mudge, who was speechless. We set him up ngnioet a trecj and be was found there two months after when Gen. Gaines sent a detachment to bury the bodies of our soldiers. Ail bauds then commenced throw ing up a small triangular breastwork of logs; 1 but just as w-e had raised it about two feet, the Indians returned,and renewed the engagement. A part of our troops fought w ithin the breast work, and a part outside. I remained outside till I ’■tceived a ball in my right arm, and ano ther near mv right temple which came out at the top of my head. 1 received a shot in my ) thi-rii, which brought me down on my side, j and I then got in the breast-work. We gave i them forty-nine discharges from the camion ; ; I and while loading for the fitieth, the last shot Iwe had, our match went out. The Indians j chiefly levelled at the men who worked the cannon. In tllc >"can time, the main body of our troops kept up a genera! fire with musket- “The loss of the enemy must have been verv <»i ; eafi because we never fired until we I fixed'on our men ; but the cannon was fired at | random, as only two or three Indians appear 'ed together. When the firing commenced. | the advance guard wheeled, and, in returning to the main body were entirely cut up. Ihe battle lasted till about four in the afternoon, i and I was about the last one who handled a I cnin. while lying on my side. At the close I 1 received a shof in my right shoulder, which ! passed into my lungs; the blood gushed out of my mouth in a stream, and, dropping my ! musket. 1 rolled over on my face. The In diaus entered the breast-work, but found not one man standing to defend it- They secured ed the arms, ammunition, and the cannon, and despatched such of our fallen soldiers as they j supposed still to be alive. Their negroes then came tn to strip the dead. I had by this time I somewhat recovered, & a negro seeing that I 1 was not dead,took up amusket, and shot me m ' the top ofthe shoulder, andjthe ball came out at ; my back. After firing, he said ‘ There, d— n. I V©S. V—No. 9. t you. take that!’ lie then stripped me of eve* ; ry thing but my shirt. “ The enemy then disappeared t 5 the left of i the pond, and. through weakness and appre i hension, I remained still, till about nine o’clock at night. I then commenced crawling cm h)V knees and left hand. As I was crawling over the deifd, I put rny hand on one man; whe felt different from the rest—he was Warm and lim ber. I roused him up, and foUnii it was De Courcy, an Englishman, and the son of a 8.-L tish officer resident in Canada. I told him that it was beat foljus to attempt to travel,as the danger appealed to be over, and We might fall in with some assistance. As he was only wounded in the side and Arm, he could Walk a little. We got along as well ns We Could that night, continued on till noon, when on a rising ground, we observed an Indian ahead, on horseback, loading his rifle. We agreed that he should go on one side of the road; and lon the other. The I ndian took alter De < ourcy. and I heard the discharge of his rifle. This gave me tiriie to crawl into a hammock, and hideaway. The Indian soon returned, With his arms and legs covered with blood, ha ving, no doubt, according to custom, cut De Courcy to pieces, after bringing him down with his rifle. The Indian caffie riding through the brush in pursuit of me, and approached within ten feet, but gave up the search. I then resu med my route back to Fort Brooke, crawled and limped through the nights and forenoons, and slept in brush during the middle of the day, with no other nourishment than cold water. I got to Fort Brooke on the evening of the 6th day ; and in five months afterwards was dis charged as a pensioner, at eight dollars per mouth. '1 he doctor attributes my not dying ol my wounds I'd the circumstance, that I bled a good deal, and did not partake of any solid food during the five first days; “ Two other soldiers by thfe names of Thom as and Sprague, also came in afterwards. Al though badly wounded, they ascended a tree and thus escaped the enethy« on the evening ofthe battle; They joined another expedition two months after, but before their wounds were healed, and they soon died of them.” From tho Annual. NIGHT. BY BARRY BORNWALL. Tis night—'tis night—the hour of hours; When Love lies down with folded wings By Psyche in her starless bowers, And down his Fatal arrows flings— Those bowers whence not a sound is heard, Save only from the bridal bird, Who ’midst that utter darkness sings Sweet music like the running springs; This her burthen, soft and clear— ‘Love is here! Love is here 1’ ’Tis night! the moon is on the stream, Bright spells are on the soothed sea, And Hope, the child, is gone to dream Oi pleasures which may never be ! And now is haggard Care asleep. And now doth the widow’s sorrow smile; And slaves are hushed in slumber deep, Forgetting grief and toil awhile. 55 hat sight can fiery morning show To shame the stars or pale moonlight ? With beauty can the day bestow Like that which falls with gentle night ? Sweet lady, sing I. not aright ? Oh, turn and tell me, for the day Is faint and fading fast away; And now comes back the hour of hours, 55 , 'hen love his lovelier seeks, Sighing like wind ’mongst evening flowers; Until the maiden in Silence speaks! Fair girl, methinks,—nay, hither turn Those eyes which ’midst their blushes burn—• Methinks at such a time one’s heart Can better bear both sweet and smart; Lov’s look—the first—which never diCth | Or death—which comes when beauty flieth— I When strength is slain, when, youth is past, And all save truth is lost at last! Danger of Moderate Drinking.— Do not say, that I exaggerate your exposure to intemper* ance. Let no man say, when he thinks ofthe drunkard, broken in health and spoiled ofintel lect, ‘I can never so fall.’ He thought as little of falling in his Carheryears. The prom ise of his youth was as bright as yours ; and even after he began his downward course, he was as unsuspicious as the firmest around him, and would have repelled as indignantly the admonition to beware of intemperance. The danger of this vice lies in its almost impercep tible apptoach. Few who perish by it know its first accesses. Youth does not see or sus pect drunkenness in the sparkling beverage, which quickens ail its susceptibilities of joy. The invalid docs not sec It in the cordial, which his physican prescribes, and which gives new tone to Iris debilitated organs. The man of thought and genius detects no palsying poison in the draught, which seems a spring of Inspiration to intellect and imagination. Tho lover of social pleasure little dreams that the glass which animates conversation will ever be drunk in solitude, sink him too low for the intercourse in which he now delights. Intem perance comes with noiseless step and binds its I first cords with a touch tdo light to be felt. This truth of mournful experience should ba treasured up by usall,»nd should influence the habits and arrangements of domestic and social life in every class ofthe community. Dr. Channing. From the New-Yorker. STANZAS. ‘I bear—l strive —I bow not to the duet- 1 sVake from thy world of dreams, high heart! And call thou back each winged, thought) Let not one word to utterance start. With Fancy's burning ardor fraught, Each mark of feeling deep suppress, Be cold, and still, and passionless! Thy genius wild and soaring wing, Fold, fold it in thy silent heart; Nolongerhced Fame’s whispering, For thou and tliy high deems must part; Yet on thy feelings set a seal. So none thy secret soul reveal! Ay. though thy hopes lie mouldering, Though every prospect bright bath died; O’er all Mirth’s veiling mantle fling, And call thou smiles each pang to hide ; Though evils thick around thee prese, sVear thou the mien of happiness ! Let cheek and lip and eye bok bright; Put on thy brow a dulcet air i Though al! be death, an J gloom, and blighq Hide in thy heart, what passes there ; So pride and scorn shall reach thee not. And thine shall be an envied lot. SrtstLX.