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THE SOUTHER If BENTINEL
Is published every Thursday Morning,
IN COLUMBI A, GA.
BY WILLIAM H. CHAMBERS,
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
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SOUTHERN SENTINEL
Job Office.
HAVING received anew and extensive assortment
of Job Material, we are prepared to execute at
this office, all orders for JOB WORK,in a mariner which
can not be excelled in the State, on very liberal terms,
and at the shorted notice.
Wc feel confident of our ability to give entire satisfac
tion in every variety of Job Printing, including
Books, Business Cards,
Pamphlets, Bill Heads,
Circulars, Blanks of every description,
Hand Bills, Bills of Lading,
Posters, Jpc. dpc. J^c.
In short, all descriptions of Printing which can be ex
ecuted at any office in the. country, will be turned out
with elegance and despatch.
Dyeing and Renovating Establishment.
BERTHOLD SENGER
‘I\TOULD respectfully informuie ladies and gentlc-
V Y men of Columbus, and vicinity, that he is still at
his old stand on Broad Street, near the Market, where
he is prepare and to execute till wgrk entrusted to him, in
the various departments of
Dyeing, Semiring, Renovating, A- IMeaching
new and old clothing. Ladies’ Silks, Merinoes, and
Satins, cleansed of stains and impurities, and colored to j
any shade. Also finished to look and wear aa well as !
new.
Cotton, Silk, and Woolen goods bleached or dyed, in •
the very l>est manner, and with despatch.
Also, Moscrine Blue, Turkey Red, See. See.
Gentlemen’s garments cleansed and dyed so as not I
to soil the whitest linen.
Carpeting renovated and made as good as new.
txr All orders thankfully received and promptly ex- |
ecuted.
Columbus, March 21, ISSO. 12 ts ;
Planters, Take Notice.
Saw Mills, Grist Mills, Factories, Gin Gear,
Riec Mills, and, Sugar Mills.
IMIE firm of AMBLER &. MORRIS are now
ready to build any of the above named Mills,pro
pelled by Water, Steam or Horse. Our work shall be
done in the best possible manner, and warranted inferior
to none now in use. Both of the above firm are practi
cal men, and attend to their bu-incss in person, and will
lumish Engines for Steam Mills, Grist or Saw, and set
either in complete operation. The firm can give the best
assortment of Water Wheels and Gearing, of any in
the Southern States, and will say to our employers, if a
Mill or any of our work does not perform in the busi
ness for which it was intended, no pay will lx- exacted.
Trv us and see. AMBLER &. MORRIS.
Jan. 21, 1850. 4 ly
Important
TO MILL OWNERS AND PLANTERS,
rlah FI undersigned will contract for building Rock
JL Dams, or any kind of rock work and ditching, in
any part of this State or Georgia, in the most improved
manner. TIMO’ THY B. COLLINS.
Fort Mitckell, lhisscll, County, Ala.
Dec. 6, 1849. 49 Cm
To Physicians, Druggists
COUNTRY MERCHANTS.
DR. J. N. KEELER Sc PRO. most respectfully
solicit attention to their fresh stock of English,
French,German and American Drugs, Medicines,Chem
icals, Paints, Oils, Dye-stuffs. Glassware, Perfumery, Ac.
Having opened anew store. No. 294 Market St., with a
full supply of Fresh Drugs and Medicines, we respect
fully solicit country dealers to examine our stock before
purchasing elsewhere, promising one and all who may
r*- disposed to extend us their patronage, to sell them
genuine Drugs and Medicines, on as liberal terms as any
other house in the city, and to faithfully execute all or
ders entrusted to us protnptlv and with dispatch. One of
the proprietors being a regular physician, alTords ample
guarantee of the quality ot all articles sold at their es
tablishment. We especially invite druggists and country
merchants, who may wish to become agents for Dr.
Keeler's Celebrated Family Medicines, (standard and
popular medicines.) to forward their address. Soliciting
the patronage of dealers, we reepecttullv remain
KEELER A BRO.
Wholesale Druggists, No. 219 Market St., Phil’a.
Oct. 11, ly_
Marble Works,.
East side Broad St. near the Market House,
COLUMBUS, GA.
HAVE constantly on hand all kinds of Grate Stones,
Monuments, Tombs and Tablets, of American, j
Italian and Irish Marble. Engraving and carving
done on stone in the bont posable manner; and all kinds
of Granite Work at the shortest notice.
JOHN H. MADDEN.
P. S.—Plaister of Paris and Cement, always on hand ;
for sale. r t
Columbus, March 7, 1850. _ 10 ts
WINTER’S PALACE MILLS.
17'AMILIES, by leaving their names with me, can be
supplied regularly by mv Wagon, at their residences,
with MEAL and HOMINY, of host quality.
JO. JEFFERSON, Clerk.
Feb. 28, 1850. tf^
NORTH CAROLINA
Hutual Life Insurance Company.
LOCATED AT RALEIGH, N. C.
r T''HE Charter of this company gives important advan-
L tages to the assured, over most otner companies.
The husband can insure his own life for the sole use and
benefit of his wife and children, free from any other
claims. Persons who insure for life participate in the j
profits which are declared annually, and when the pre
mium exceeds S3O, may pay one-hall in a note.
Slaves are insured at two-thirds their value for one or
five years.
Applications for Risks may be made to
JOHN MUNN,
Agent, Columbus, Ga.
t Office at Greenwood A Co.’s Warehouse.
Nov. 15,1849. ts
WINTERS PALACE MILLS
HAVE now a good supply of fresh ground Flour, of
three qualities; say FINE, SUPERFINE, and
FANCY brands; each kind is made from the best of
Western Wheat, and the only difference is the color.
The price by retail is, for Fine, $3 per half barrel; Su
perfine, $3 25 per half barrel; Fancy, S3 50 per half
Darrel. Discount made to those who auv to sell again.
Quarter barrels are sold proportionately cheap.
JO JEFFERSON, Clerk.
Dec 27 1849. SCif
VOL. I.
YO U AS K ME IIOW I LIVE.
Living friendly, feeling friendly,
Acting fairly to all men,
Seeking to do that to others
They may do to me again ;
Hating no man, scorning noinan,
Wronging none by word or deed;
But forbearing, soothing, serving,
Thus I live—and this my creed.
Harsh condemning, fierce contemning,
Is of little Christian use:
One soft word of kiudlv hpc,
Is worth a torrent of abuse.
Calling things bad, calling men bad,
Adds but darkness to their night;
If thou wonldst improve a brother,
Let thy goodness be his light.
I have felt and known how bitter
Human coldness makes the world,
Every bosotn round me frozen,
Not an eye with pity pearled;
Still my heart with kindness teeming,
Glad when other hearts are glad,
And my eye a tear-drop findetn
At the sight of others sad.
Ahj be kind—life hath no secret
For our happiness like this ;
Kindly hearts are seldom sad ones,
Blessing ever bringeth bliss.
Lend a helping hand to others,
Stnilc though all the world should frown ,
Man is man, we all are brothers,
Black or white, or red or brown.
Man is man through all gradations.
Little recks it where lie stands.
How divided into nations,
Scattered over many lands;
.Man is man, by form and feature,
Man by vice and virtue too,
Man in all—one common nature
Speaks and binds us brothers too.
For the Southern Sentinel.
THE LOST CHILD,
Or Woman’s Revenge.
BV A LADY OF COLUMBUS.
■‘Full many a shaft at random sent.
Finds mark the archer little meant;
Full many a word at random spoken,
May wound or heal a heart that's broken.”—Scott.
Our narrative commences during the
American revolution, and we ask the reader’s
attention to an apartment within an aristo
cratic looking mansion, which fronted Hyde
Park, London. It was a cool October morn
ing, and a bright fire was burning on the
grate, near to which sat a lady in a large
cushioned chair, while upon the opposite
side, seated upon an ottoman, was a young
girl employed at an embroidery frame. The
lady was habited in a loose robe of blaek vel
vet She wore no ornaments, but a rich veil
of Brussels lace was thrown over the back of
the head and reached almost to the luxuriant
and costly carpet, forming in its snowy tex
ture a beautiful contrast with the glossy
black velvet of the dress. The lady was ap
parently about thirty-five years of age, and
was evidently in feeble health, for her cheek
was pale as the lace which partially shaded
it, and her deop blue eye was languid in its
expression. She was not beautiful, though
her features were regular and delicate, yet
the absence of beauty was supplied by her
bland expression of countenance, which was
touched with sadness.
“Lucia,” said the lady in a sweet, low
voice, “let me see your design, my love.”
The young girl arose and handed to the lady
a sheet of Bristol board, upon which was
beautifully engraven “The Lost Child,” an
extract from the painting of an eminent ar
tist. A sigh escaped from the lady, and a
tear droped upon the picture as she said,
“where did you get this, Lucia?” “I bought
it at the stationers yesterday, because you
told me to get anew design, and I thought
this would please you, dear lady,” said Lu
cia, “for see how much like life is the scene
ry, and the dear little girl who is wandering
through the lonely wood—how beautiful she
is—and the mountains from which the hun
ter is descending to the rescue of the little in
nocent —now is it not a beautiful picture, my j
lady ?” “My dear Lucia,” said the lady, “of- j
ten does the most tiivial circumstance awa
ken in the mind, remembrances which serve
only to embitter life; the sight of this little
picture has sent an arrow to my already bro
ken heart.” “O my lady, said Lucia, “how
grieved I am, that 1 should thus have uncon
sciously caused even a momentary sorrow to
my kind benefactress,” and the fair girl kneel- i
cd at the feet of the lady. “Arise, Lucia,” j
said the lady, “and seat yourself by me, and I j
will disclose to you how you have innocently i
tom afresh my already bleeding heart, and j
awakened in my poor brain remembrances j
which I fear \\ ill torture it to madness, though j
I have for years endeavored to be resigned to j
the will of Heaven, and to place my trust in
God, who over pities the stricken in heart.”
The young girl arose and seated herself up
on an ottoman at the feet of the lady, whose
bosom was heaving w ith suppressed agitation.
At length, growing more composed, she said,
“Lucia, I was once a mother, and claimed
for my own, as fair a little being as that in
the picture which you have just shown me.
Indeed, there is something in the face and j
figure of the lost child, something in the wa- j
vy and silken hair, which strangely reminds |
me of my lost darling.” “Did your child
die, then ?” said Lucia. “No, no,” replied
the lady; “would to God it had been so, for
dear as it was to me, I could have given it up
in its innocence to Heaven.” “What be
came of it then, my lady ?” asked Lucia with
tearful eyes. “God only know?,’’“exclaimed
the lady passionately, and with clasped
hands, “and may he give me strength to
bow w ith submission to this, I must not say,
harsh decree. One night, when my darling
was about fifteen months old, I yielded to the
persuasion of Sir Guy Carlton, my husband,
and consented to accompany him to the ope
ra. I left my little Ida asleep in the nursery,
whither I went before going to the opera, to
imprint a kiss upon her sweet little lips. I
never shall forget how she looked. A smile
rested upon those dear, little, ruby lips, which
were slightly apart, and the white arms were
thrown back upon each side of the head, and
were shaded by her silken hair w hich lay in
curls upon the pillow. I imprinted a linger
ing kiss upon the lips of my darling, and
charging the nurse to be caret ul of m\ heart’s
treasure, I stepped into the carriage w ith Sir
Guy, and wc drove quickly to the opera; but
oh God! who can describe my agony when
w e returned and found our child gone ? My
husband was in the deepest distress, for he
dearly loved the child. The nurse had fall
en asleep, and during the time my child had
disappeared. Large rewards were offered by
Sir Guy, and every enquiry was set on foot,
but without effect. lam convinced that my
child was stolen, but who committed the
I theft, and lor what purpose, Heaven only
Slje Soutl)cvn Sentinel.
: knows.” “It is indeed a mystery,” said Lu
| cia, “but was there no stranger seen loiter
ing about the mansion previous to the abduc
tion of the child ?” “Soon after we left for
the opera,” replied the lady, “the porter iu
iormed us that he saw a person standing in
the courtyard, enveloped in a black cloak,
and that upon his approach, the person pass
ed into the street, but whether that person
had any connection with the disappearance of
my child, I know not. A few days after the
disappearance of my child, I was seized with
a brain fever which nearly proved fatal. A
change of scene was recommended, and Sir
Guy carried me to Scotland and made a tour
through Italy and France. In Scotland,
playing before the door of a neat little cot
tage, 1 first saw you, Lucia. Attracted by
your sweet bine eyes and flaxen hair, which
reminded me of my lost child, I made enqui
ries concerning you, and learned that you
were an orphan of poor, but good parentage,
and depended upon distant relations for sub
sistence. I offered to take charge of you and
carry you home with me upon my return to
England. To this your friends readily con
sented, and for fifteen years you have been
my only solace in distress.” The door bell
now rang and a footman entering the room,
presented a letter to the lady Carlton. “It
was brought to the door, my lady, by a cap
tain wearing his majesty's uniform.” “He
comes from America, no doubt,” said the la
dy, looking at the superscription of the letter.
Hastily glancing over its contents, she said,
“the letter is from Sir Guy, Lucia, but he
writes us bad news, for he says in three suc
cessive battles our army has been defeated
with a heavy loss, and that he has been slight
ly wounded. The God of battles will fight
for oppressed America,” said the lady, “for
surely England has no light to lay heavy tax
es upon that country, and endeavor to en
force them at the point of the bayonet.”
“But, my lady,” said Lucia, “what would Sir
Guy say, if he were to hear you express such
sentiments, for is he not engaged in this same
unjust war? He of course thinks it just.”
“He does not,” replied lady Carlton. “A
thirst for fame, and a desire to escape the so
ciety of one he never loved, have induced
him to take part in it. He never loved me,
Lucia. He may have pitied my sorrows, but
pity cannot fill the void in a heart that is
thirsting for love and sympathy, from one who
is beloved. You know but little of my
eventful life, Lucia, but you are now old
enough to sympathise with me, and I would
now disclose all to you. Know, then, that
my plain person and unassuming manners hai
no charms for the eye of Sir Guy Carlton ;
but I was an heiress, the daughtar of a rich
banker, and was thought to be a suitable
match for one of Sir Guy’s noble berth, as
he was a younger son, and had but little to
boast of, except his lineage and handsome
person. Our ill omened marriage was sol
emnized early in the morning, and a grand
fete was given at the mansion of his elder
brother, Lord T. I had married him for love,
for every quality that could charm the eye of
woman, then graced the person of Sir Guy.
I was young and did not once think
whether he possessed those beauties of the
soul which give to the actions of men through
life, an undying lustre, I mean puiitv and
truth. Upon the evening mentioned, I was
at the mansion of Lord I’., arrayed in my
splendid bridal robes and blazing with jewels,
but I was not happy, Lucia. A vague ap
prehension of something, I know not what,
haunted my imagination and made pale my
cheek. It was twelve o’clock and the revel
ers were dancing in the grand saloon. Tired
and disgusted with the merriment, for my
heart was not in unison with the scene, I
wandered to the music room, and seating
myself in a recess, was soon joined by
my husband. I had been seated but a
few minutes, when I involuntarily cast
my eyes towards one of the large folding
doors, by which you would enter the music
room from the gallery, \\ hen I saw a person
enter, wrapped in a gray cloak, drawn close
ly around the face so as to entirely conceal it.
The figure approached to the side of my hus
band, when a white hand was stretched forth,
in which a dagger gleamed, and was descen
ding upon the bosom of Sir Guy, when, with
superhuman strength, I caught the arm of the
intruder and wrested the dagger from the
hand. A scream from me brought a crow and
around us, but not before the incognita had
fallen, apparently lifeless, at our feet. The
cloak had fallen off and displayed to the won
deting gaze of those present, the insensible
form of the beautiful Clara Dumont, an ac
tress, who was justly celebrated for her
beauty and talents, and who was at that time
the rage of the London world. But why she
should thus enter disguised, and attempt the
life of my husband, was a mystery to me at
the moment. I looked at Sir Guy; he was
pale and trembled. The insensible form of
the beautiful French girl was removed from
the saloon by Lord T. and others to a pri
vate apartment, and the family physician call
ed in. Deeply excited, I arose to quit the
room, when I saw - something glittering upon
the carpet; I took it up, and discovered
that it was a miniature likeness of Sir Guy
set in gold, surrounded by brilliants, and at
tached to a small gold chain. It had been
detached from the person of Clara. 1 touch
ed a spring, when I discovered within, the
likeness of the beautiful actress. The truth
flashed upon me at once, and a faintness
came over me. That my husband had loved
the beautiful Clara*, I was convinced, and per
haps he yet loved her. He had, no doubt,
promised her marriage, and under that pro
mise had wrecked her peace forever, for how
deep must have been that love that could
thus turn to madness and revenge.” “’What
became of her,” enquired Lucia. “She escap
ed from the mansion of Lord T. that night,
by leaping from a window, and since then
she has not been heard of.” “What a cruel
heart she had,” said Lucia, “to attempt the
murder of Sir Guy.” “No, she was said to
be kind and gentle,” replied lad}’ Carlton,
“and delighted in deeds of charity. Ah 1
little do we know, Lucia, of what our hearts
can suffer or achieve. Sir Guy could not dis
grace his proud and ancient house by marry
ing an actress, \et he was heartless enough
to ruin her peace, and then desert her, leav
ing her with a heart made desolate by his
treachery. I would have sought her that
night and proffered her pecuniary recom
pense, but it was said that she had amassed
| a handsome fortune upon the stage, aDd I
further knew that gold could not cure a bro
| ken heart.”
We will now change the scene and turn
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, MAY 9, 1850.
the reader’s attention to a neat little cottage
in the United States, not fifty miles from
Richmond, Virginia. The cottage was hum
ble in its exterior, and was situated in a quiet
and secluded spot, surrounded by tall trees.
The eglantine grew tastefully entwined about
the laticed windows, and the moss rose, to
gether with various others grew amongst a
number of flowering shrubs in front of the
cottage. The cottage was tastefully furnish
ed within. In one room was a bed with
costly hangings and a lofty mirror, such as
you find in the houses of the rich. There
was also several pretty little tables of rose
wood, upon which were alabaster vases filled
with flowers. In another room was a pic
ture of the Madona, also a painting repre
senting the passion of onr Redeemer. It
was a bright morning in June, and a weep
ing willow with its thick foliage shaded the
back of the cottage, under the shade of
which, upon a bench, sat a female who ap
peared to be absorbed in contemplation. She
looked thin and pale and her large dark eyes
were sunken and hollow. Traces of beauty
still lingered upon her countenance, though
disease was preying upon her frame.
“Would that the disclosure was made,”
she murmured, “for I feel that my days are
numbered, and it must be made; the lost
child must be restored to the mother who
bore it. Oh! what pain lat this moment suf
fer,” she said, as she pressed her hand to her
heart and drew her breath with dificulty.
“Oh! what dark thoughts of revenge my
bosom harbored once, but those thoughts
have long since passed away, and how dear
ly I love the child who calls me mother and
remembers no other. But hark!” she ex
claimed, as the sound of distant artillery
came upon her ear, “it is the brave Washing
ton, and they are driving the English before
them—God bless the Americans!” devoutly
kissing the cross which was suspended from
her neck by a black ribbon. A young girl
came bounding from the cottage, exclaiming,
“Oh! my dear mama, do you not hear the
pealing of the cannon ? Our people are fight
ing with the English, and oh, what will be
come of Ernest, for he is in the battle, I
know ?” “Heaven shield thy betrothed,”
exclaimed the lady,” pressing the cross to her
heart, “for he fights under the banner of
Washington.” “Amen!” said the young girl,
falling on her knees and kissing the glitter
ing cross that was suspended from her white
neck. The young girl thus introduced was
possessed of angelic loveliness. Her com
plexion was fair as that of the lilly, with eyes
of heaven’s own hue. Her hair of golden
hue was soft and silken, and being parted
upon her, white forehead, hung in long ring
lets upon her neck and shoulders, which the
fashion of that day left bare. She wore no
jewels except a cross set with diamonds,
which was suspended from her neck by a
small gold chain. She was evidently the
cherished being of someone who owned a
goodly share of this world’s wealth, though
she was the inmate of the humble cottage.
“Mama,” said the young girl, “you look pal
er than usual. Do you feel worse ?” “No,
my love, it is only one of those paroxysms to
which I am subject; it will soon pass off, I
hope. My French physician speaks truly,
when he says I have a disease of the heart,
for my heart is broken, Ida, and I shall soon
descend to the grave.” “And leave me with
none to care for me but Ernest ? Oh, mama,
don’t say that, for it would kill me to see you
die.” “Say not so, my child,” replied the la
dy, “for there are others who will care for
you. Others who are rich and grand, and
who live in a palace.” “Listen!” said Ida,
starting with affright, as volleys of fire arms
were discharged within a few miles of the
cottage, and the din of battle was distinctly
heard. “Mercy upon us,” she exclaimed,
clinging to the garments of the elder, “we
are surely lost if the English come this way.”
“For myself, I fear them not,” replied the la
dy, “but your beauty will tempt the ravenous
crew. “The sound of the battle’s strife has
almost died away,” said the lady, going to the
front door of the cottage to listen ; “but
hark! I hear the sound of horses’ feet, and
horsemen are approaching the cottage, so
haste and let me hide you, my child.” “But
won’t they harm you, mama ?” said the young
girl, wringing her hands with affright. “Fear
not for me, my love,” said the lady, as she
hastily took down the picture of the crucifix,
and placing it against the avail, said, “con
ceal yourself behind there and you arc safe,
my Ida, for they dare not, with sacrilegious
hand, profane this holy picture.” The lady
went to the door of the cottage. Two horse
men were rapidly approaching the house. The
one in advance wore the i ich uniform of an Eng
lish officer of distinction, and was evidently
flying from the pursuit of the other, who was
dressed in the plain bine uniform of Wash
ington’s cavalry. The Britton wheeled and
fired a pistol shot at his pursuer, but the ball
sped harmlessly past him. The American fired
in return, and the ball passed into the gal
lant charger of the Britton, and with a bound
he fell dead. The Englishman having extri
cated himself from his fallen horse, boldly
confronted his pursuer, who sprang from his
own steed and approached him, exclaiming
in a voice of thunder, “yield, sir, or your
blood be upon your own head.” “Never!”
exclaimed the Britton, unsheathing his sword.
“I yield not to a rebel.” “Lay on then,”
shouted the American, as his own bright
blade gleamed in the sunlight. The Eng
lishman found that he had met with his match,
though he was called one of the best swords
men in the whole British army, for his thrusts
and blows were parried with a dexterity that
surprised him. The woods now rang with
the clash of steel, when the Britton aimed a
blow with all his might at the head of his an
tagonist, which, iti warding off, the sword of
the American was snapped in twain, leaving
him wholly at the mercy of his foe, who was
preparing to plunge his weapon in his breast,
when the hilt was firmly clutched by an un
seen hand, and at the same moment the fairy
form of the young girl was clinging to the
bosom of Ernest Melville. As the Britton
turned to see who the intruder was, a voice
exclaimed, “Sir Guy Carlton! oh, my God!”
and the fainting form of the once beautiful
Clara Dumont was stretched at his feet. The
sword of the Englishman fell to the earth,
and he stooped to raise the fallen Clara, say
ing, as he did so, “I surely have seen this face
before, and have heard that voice—it comes
to me like a well remembered dream, and re
minds me of happier days. Ah, now I be.
think me, it must be the face of Clara Du
mont! Poor Clara! but how changed are
thoEe lineaments since I last gazed upon
them,” and the warrior trembled with agita
tion as her head unconsciously rested upon
his bosom. “Clara,” he said, in a gentle
voice, “Clara!” but no sound from those
mute lips came to his ear. Ida sprang from
the bosom of Ernest Melville, and kneeled
sobbing by the side of the unfortunate Clara.
“My mama, my dear mama,” said Ida, “do
speak to me.” “Your mama?” said Sir Guv
Carlton, “are you the child of Clara Du
mont?” “No, no,” replied Clara, who was
now returning to consciousness, “but take me
to the cottage, for I would speak with Sir
Guy Carlton.” “You had better remain
where you are a few moments longer,” said
Sir Guv, “for you are still faint. “No,” said
Clara, “remove me hence—my head must not
rest upon the hosom that belongs to another!
no, not even in death.”
Ernest Melville assisted by Sir Guv, con
veyed the feeble form of the heart-broken
Clara to the cottage and laid her down upon
a couch. She had long been suffering from
a disease of the heart; so her physicians
said; and the excitement of the present
scene appeared as if it would bring on a spee
dy dissolution. Sir Guy seated himself near
the couch, and with much emotion gazed
upon the palid countenance of the sufferer.
A cordial was administered by the hand of
Ida, and the poor sufferer somewhat revived,
looked at Sir Guy Carlton and said “My life
is waning fast; sit nearer to me, for I would
speak with you. “It will be but a few short
hours,” she continued, “ere this broken heart
which was once so buoyant with hope and
happiness, will be still forever. I wish not
now to upbraid you; but Oh, how dark were
the purposes of my soul once ! Do you re
member when we first met ?” continued she,
addressing Sir Guy. “Ah! I remember it
well; it was in the house of a poor w idow in
the suburbs of Paris, where we both went
upon an errand of charity ; when you quick
ly recognized me as Clara Durmont whom
you had seen upon the stage, and whom you
had so often in vain essayed to see in private.
The heart that so many had sued for in vain,
was yielded to you at first sight You swore
you loved me; I was weak and trusting.—
You sw ore your designs were honorable, and
that I should be your wife upon your return
from London. I listened to the tempter and
became a creature degraded in my own es
timation. How weak I was to trust to one
who could so deceive me! Yet Oh God!
how madly I loved you! I would have fol
lowed you to prison and to death. The deep
est and most loathed dungeon would have
had no horrors to me were it but shared with
you. I trusted in your promises until your
marriage was announced to me, when all my
love and devotion turned to the most deadly
hate. How my soul thirsted for revenge!
You know the rest: and how I escaped from
the mansion of Lord G. I still thirsted for
revenge, but. I had no wish now to take your
life; 1 wished you to live and suffer with a
inind racked to agony; I wished to bring
disgrace upon your house and to humble
your family pride, and for that purpose I
hired obscure lodgings in a remote part of
London. Deeply disguised, I loitered about
your mansion. When 1 learned that the La
dy Carlton had become the mother of a
daughter, my heart leaped with joy at the in
telligence—the joy of revenge; for I thought
aw ay was now opened to execute my long
cherished purposes. My plan was to steal
the child, and leaving the place, accustom
it from its early infancy to the vilest associ
ations. This I knew would corrupt her heart
and make her a vile and degraded woman.”
“O! God of Heaven,” exclaimed Sir Guy,
and did you—” “Stop,” said the injured Cla
ra, “speak not until you have heard all. I
stole the child,” continued she. A groan now
escaped from Sir Guy as he threw himself
back in his chair and covered his face with
his hands; “aud taking a large sum of mo
ney which belonged to myself, I hastened on
board a ship that was about to sail for Amer
ica. I had purposed, as soon as the child
grew up and was sufficiently degraded, to re
turn with her to London and placing her in
one of the worst houses in the the city, in
form you where to find her, proving her iden
tity by the bracelets which she wore, and to
which a miniature likeness of yourself and
lady Carlton was attached. But an overrul
ing Providence thought fit to change all my
evil intentions. For when the piteous wails
of the little Ida smote upon my ear, my heart
was softened and I wept for the innocent be
ing that I had doomed to suffer for a parent’s
sins. I would now have returned her to the
agonized mother, who never had wilfully in
injured me ; but the ship was sailing swiftly
upon the ocean, and to return now was im
possible. 1 landed safely with the little Ida
in New York : coming to Virginia I purcha
sed this little cottage, where with the dear
little Ida and two faithful domestics, I could
have lived in peace, could I have stilled the
voice of conscience and have forgotten the
past; for often would the pale face of the
distracted lady Carlton pass before my ex
cited imagination, upbraiding me for my cru
elty and injustice. The child became as
dear to me as a being of my own blood. Oh!
how I loved her when she would hang
about my neck and Call me mother. I had
gold, and it was lavished upon her. I
paid heavy sums to induce teachers to re
side at the cottage; for knowing the treach
ery of the world, I would not send my idol
ized Ida from my sight; and now, Sir Guy
Carlton, receive from my hand your child,
pure in soul as the infant just ushered into
life, for in the form of the young girl now
kneeling by the side of the couch, you
behold your long lost child.’!
Sir Guy sprang from his chair and caught
the trembling Ida to his heart, exclaiming
“My child, my child, Great God! I thank
thee,” while the tears of repentance and pa
rental love fell fast upon his bosom. Ern
est Melville with unspeakable astonishment
gazed upon the scene. But there were
thoughts that agonized his heart; would his
beloved Ida as the daughter of Sir Guy Carl
ton forget the playmate of her childhood, the
lover of her riper years ? Could she forget
her betrothed, or would Sir Guy give his con
sent lor his daughter to wed a rebel ? Could
he resign her? The thought was madness;
for to resign her would be like tearing the
cords of life asunder. “I am more than re
paid for all all that I have suffered,” exclaim
ed Sir Guy, “for bittely have I grieved for
the lost child. But Clara, my poor Clara,
what can I do to atone for all that I have
made you suffer ? Have you no request to
make of me?” “You robbed me of my peace
on earth, and made desolate my heart,” said
Clara, “but I will forgive you on one condi
tion only, and with my dying breath I will
pray to God for your forgiveness.” “Name
it,” said Sir Guy. “Do you sec the noble
youth who sits at the foot of the couch, who
was yesterday thy foe? His heart is the
abode of honor; he is the betrothed of thy
child,” said Clara, “cross not their love, un
less you wish the vengeanee of Heaven to be
further visited upon you.” “Ida,” said Sir
Guy, “do you love the young man ? Do you
prefer living in the wilds of America with
iiim in obscurity, to returning to England to
the arms of your mother, the lady Carlton,
where you will dwell in palaces ? for yon are
now the heiress of millions, and you will
have dukes and lords, and perhaps Crowned
heads bowed at your feet; for such beauty
as yours must receive the homage of the
great.” “Sir Guy,” said Clara, “talk not
thus, for palaces contain many aching hearts,
unsoothed by love or sympathy, and the lux
uriant and gilded couch surmounted by the
glittering coronet,, has pillowed many an
aching head.” “I only wished to lay before
my child,” said Sir Guy, “the worldly ad
vantages that would accrue to her upon her
return to England, and then if she prefers a
life of obscurity w ith the object of her girlish
affection, I w ill not cross her inclination.—
Speak, my daughter,” said Sir Guy, “is it
now your wish to become the wife of tire
young man ?” Ida raised her head from the
shoulder of her parent ond looked at Ernest,
who was pale and agitated. He who was
the foremost in the fight, and who had un
flinchingly faced the cannon’s mouth, now
trembled, as his fate hung upon the lips of
her his soul adored. “It is ;” replied Ida,
“in weal or woe, my fate I link with his; for
what are the gaudy trappings, the tinsel
show of parade, or the mocking grandeur of
a name compared with the peace of him I
love; for were you, my father, to tear me
from the arms of Ernest Melville, you would
indeed make wretched my existence,” —
“Enough,” said Sir Guy, “take her Ernest
Melville, she is yours and Ida was clasped
to the bosom of her betrothed. “Life’s strug
gle with me will soon be over,” said the dic
ing Clara, “and I would see these two uni
ted in marriage before I die. Can you not
send for a clergyman. Sir Guy, said she, and
let my dying eyes behold this marriage ? for
I have long set my heart upon it, ane I can
net rest in my grave until it takes place.”
Sir Guy consented, and a servant was dis
patched to the American army, which was
still near the cottage, with a letter to the
commanding officer, requesting him to send
the clergyman who travelled with the army,
stating that he wished him to perform a mar
riage ceremony at the cottage. The clergy
man soon arrived, accompanied by several
officers.
The American officers were surprised to
see the British General at the cottage, and
Sir Guy felt ill at case, but his embarrass
ment passed away, when Ernest Melville
said “Sir Guy Carlton is our guest to-day,
and may still be for several days to come.”
The marriage ceremony now began. Sir
Guy placed the hand of the beautiful Ida in
that of Ernest Melville, while a tear dropped
from his eye. The father’s heart was full;
he had just found his long lost child, and ho
was now giving her away to a stranger; to
one, too, whom he might meet in the com
ing fight as a foe. The ceremony closed,
they all departed, together with the good old
clergyman, who refused the profered gold of
Sir Guy and Ernest Melville. “Raise me,
and place pillows under my head,” said the
dicing Clara, “and you, Ernest Melville, bring
me the picture whieh represents the passion
of my dear Redeemer; the blessed assurance
of hope, of love, and of forgiveness of sins.
Place the picture at the foot of the couch that
my dieing eyes may rest upon the symbol
of the holy faith I die in. The picture
was brought and placed as she desired. Her
eyes resting upon it, she exclaimed “Lord
Jesus, pity and forgive a dieing worm.”—
These were her last words. The arm that
encircled the waist of Ida relaxed; the head
fell back upon the pillow, while a smile rest
ed upon the once beautiful lips, and Clara
Dumont was dead.
The day after the burial of poor Clara,
Ernest Melville who had obtained leave of ab
sence from his commanding officer, was seat
ed in the little parlor of the cottage, with Sir
Guy Carlton, when the latter said, “I shall
return to England in a few days, and have a
wish to take Ida with me. How the w'oe
worn heart of Lady Carlton will be healed,
w'hen she receives to her bosom her long lost
child,” continued he. “I can never visit Eng
land,” said Ernest Melville, “while my coun
try is under the yoke of that government.”—
“Ida,” said Sir Guy, “do you not wish to go
with me to England; have you no wish to
see your mother, whose heart is really broken
with sorrow’ on your account.” The beauti
ful eyes of Ida were filled with tears; looking
at her husband, at length she said, “tell my
dear mother, whom I do not remember ever
to have seen, that I w ould gladly fly to her
arms, but duty yet keeps me by my husband’s
side; tell her that I hope soon to see her.”—
Sir Guy, in a few days sailed for England
after bestowing a large sum of ready money
upon his daughter. He carried with hirn a
letter from Ida to her mother inclosing a lock
of her beautiful hair ; she sent her a minature
likeness of herself, and one of the bracelets
which were upon her person when she w'as
taken away. Every thing which Clara pos
sessed, she had several months before her
death bequeathed to Ida, and upon opening
an escritoir, gold and gems were found to a
large amount. In a casket which was open
ed by Ida a few’ days after the death of Clara,
was a lock of dark hair and several letters
addressed to her by Sir Guy, in her palmy
days. “Clara my poor mama,” Bighed Ida,
as she read those letters and returned them
to their place “how cruelly my father deceiv
ed you.”
Sir Guy soon reached London and hasten
ed to his mansion, where he found lady Carl
ton alone with Lucia. Entering her beautiful
burdoir he exclaimed, “I have joyful news for
you lady Carlton ; news that will make yonr
long suffering heart leap with joy.” The la
dy started from her recumbent posture and
exclaimed “newt*, joyful news for me ? O!
w'hat can you mean ? Have you indeed found
sank back upon her seat “Yon must bear
up under the joy of the moment,” said Sir
Guy, “for I have found our long lost child.”
“G! she exclaimed “my child; where is
she; let me go to her”? “you will see her
soon” said Sir Guy. “But be calm my love,”
said he, in a voice of tenderness, and I w3l
tell you all. “In pity” said lady Carlton tell
me of my child and of where you left her ?
O! why can I not see her”? Sir Guy then in
formed her of his meeting with Ida who had
been taken away by Clara Dcrmont, had
cherished her as her own. He dwelt upon
the death and sufferings of poor Clara, and
of the marriage of Ida. ‘rhe lady wept At
length growing composed she said “and my
child is already a wife; but what sort of a
husband has she Sir Guy.” “He is a handsome
young rebel,” said Sir Guy, “and is as bold
as a lion, for he knows how to bear himself
bravely in the fight”
The war was now brought to a close be
tween England and America. All was bus
tle in the mansion of Sis Guy Carlton for a
letter had been recived from Ernest Melville
and they were now expected to arrive in
London. The day upon which they were
expected arrived, and Sir Guy had gone iu hist
coach to meet them some miles from London.
It was late in the afternoon and lady Carlton
paced the hall of the mansion which fronted
the street. Her cheek was flushed with re
purning health and her eye sparkled with ex
tectation. Lucia sat by a window which
looked into the street and intently watched
every coach which passed. At length a
coach drew up to the door. T“hey are here,”
exclaimed lady Carlton. She flew to the
door and the lost child was clasped to the bo
som of the long bereaved mother who ex
claimed, “0! merciful heaven, 1 have ever
trusted in thee and thou didst not forsake me.
Ida, my beloved child, do I once more gaze
upon thy sweet face wliich has not visited me
for years save in dreams ?”
The attention of lady Carlton was now
called to Ernest Melville by Sir Guy, for eo
totally was she absorbed in the contempla
tion of her beautiful daughter, that she ap
peared to have forgotten every one else.
How handsome he is, she inwardly ex
claimed, as she looked upon the j'oung Amer
ican, and what a noble mein for one so
young—l cannot blame my ehild for loving
him. “Sir Guy,” she said, “if America con
tains many such men as Ernest Melville, 1
am not surprised that England found that
country invincible.” Ernest bowed in ac
knowledgement of the compliment, and a
smile rested upon the lips of Ida.
A few weeks after their arrival in London, an
accident happened which marred the peace of
the now happy family of Sir Guy Carlton,
Hunting in the forest one day, Sir Guy was
thrown from his horse and was so severely
injured that he died in a few days. In a few
months after his death Ernest Melville and
lady Carlton disposed of their large landed
property in England, and upon the return of
Ernest and Ida to the United States they
were accompanied by that lady and Lucia.
A splendid building was erected near the spot
w’here stood the cottage of Clara Dumont, in
which dwelt Ernest Melville and his loving
wife, together with lady Carlton and Lucia
Mclvor. Lady Carlton, as soon as she arriv
ed in a republican land, dropped her title and
would not be addressed in any other way
than as plain Mrs. Carlton. A plain white
marble monument, placed there by the hand
of Ernest Melville, marked the spot where the
unfortunate Clara slept the sleep of death.
Lucia Mclvor married a younger brother of
Ernest Melville, who had bravely fought in
the struggle for independence. A family still
resides in the*mansion by the name of Mel
ville, a grand-son of Ernest Melville.
Female Patriotism. —The Queen of Ga
more after having defended five fortresses
against the foe, retreated to her last stronghold
on the Nerbudder, and had scarcely left the
bark, when the assailant arrived in pursuit.
The disheartened defenders were few in num
ber, and the fortress was soon in possession
of the foe. The beauty of the Queen was an
allurement only secondary to his desire for
her country, and he invited her to reign over
it and him. Denial would have been useless,
and would have subjected her to instant co
ercion, for the Khan awaited her reply in the
hail below; she therefore sent a message of
assent, and demanded two hours for unmo
lested preparation, that she might appear in
appropriate attire.
Ceremonials, on a scale of magnificence
equal to the shortness of the time, were going
on; the song of joy had already stifled the
discordant voice of war, and at length the
Khan was summoned to the terrace.
Robed in the marriage garb, presented to
him by the Queen, he hastened to obey tho
mandate, and found that fate had done justice
to her charms. He was desired to be seated,
and in conversation, full of rapture in his side
hours were as minutes while he gazed on the
beauty of the Queen. But presently his coun
tenance fell—be complained of heart. Pun
kas and water were brought, but they availed
him not, and he began to tear his bridal gar
ment from his frame, when the Queen thus
addressed him : —“Know, Khan, that your
last hour is come; our wedding and our death
shall be together. The vestments which cov
er you are poisoned; you had left me no oth
er expedient to escape pollution.” While ail
were horror struck hy this declaration, she
sprang from il*e battlements into the flood
beneath.
Wealth of the English Nobility. —The
statements now so current in the American
newspapers of the prodigious wealth of mem
bers of the British aristocracy are exceedingly
deceptive. The Duke of Roxburg, according to
“Mr. Colman, a recent tourist, has a revenue
of one million and a half of dollars a year,
and he mentions other noblemen who have
from half a million to a million of dollars.
The probability, is, that if these statements
have any foundation at all, the amount of in
come mentioned is merely nominal. When,
about ten years since, the unlucky Duke of
Buckingham succeeded to his ancestral title
and estates, his revenue was estimated to
be ninety thousand pounds, nearly four hun
dred and fifty thousand dollars; but this was
the gross income of all his estates, and it w'as
charged with the interest of debts amounting to
four and a half millions ofdollors. Five years
after, these debts amounted to five and a
half millions of dollars, and three years after
that to seven and a half millions, and the in
terest swallowed up the whole of the income
but four thousand five hundred dollars. And
now all that is left of this magnificent gran
dee hardly serves to point a moral in the
times. Duke of Bucoleugh was said to
be the recipient, some fifteen years ago, of a
million of dollars a year, yet about that time he
w 36 compelled to abandon his castles and
take refuge in Paris, in order to retrench his
expenditure.
An English Baronet of forty thousand a year
was advised to lower the rents of his tenants
one half, as they could no longer pay the ex
travagant rate which their leases required. His
answer was, then I must surrender the estates,
for the debt now consume two-thirds of the irf
come. Most British noblemen, who have great
nominal revenues, are trustees for others hold
ing incumbrances on their estates.
“As I was going,” said an Irishman, “over
Westminister Bridge, the other day, I met
Pat Ilewins; says I, “How are you?” “Pret
ty well, I thank you, Donley,” say* he: “says
I, “that's not my name.’’ “Faith no more is
my name Heivins,” says he. So we looked
at each other, and faith it turned out to be
neither of us!”
NO. 19.