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THE SOUTHER If BENTINEL Is published every Thursday Morning, IN COLUMBI A, GA. BY WILLIAM H. CHAMBERS, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. To whom all communication*’ mu.<*t be directed, post paid Office on Ra/ulolph Street. Terms of .Subscription. One copy twelve months, in advance, - - $2 50 “ Not in advance, -3 on ■’ Six “ “ “ - 150 £.X>V’ Where the subscription u not paid durinc the year, 15 cents will be charged for every month's delay. No subscription will be received tor less than six months,.and none discontinued until all arrearages are paid, except at the option of the proprietor. To Clubs. Five copies twelve months, - - - $lO 00 Ten * “ 16 00 t$T The money from Clubs must in all cases ac company the names, or the price of a single subscription will be charged. Rates of Advertising. One Square, first insertion, - - - $1 00 “ “ Each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction on these terms will be made in favor of those who advertise by the year. Advertisements not specified as to time, will be pub lished till forbid, and charged accordingly. Monthly Advertisements will be charged a9 new Ad vertisements at each insertion. Lc"al Advertisements. N. B.—Sales of Lands, by Administrators, Ex ecutors, or Guardians,are required by law to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of 10 in the forenoon, and 3 in the afternoon, at the Court Mouse in the county in which the land is situated. No- j tices of these sales must be given in a public gazette j mxtv days previous to the day of sale. Sales of Negroes must be made at a public auction on the firr-t Tuesday of the month, between the usual hours of sale, at the place of public sales in the county where the letters Testamentary, of Administration or Guardianship,may have been granted, first giving sixty Days notice thereof in one of the public gazettes of this State, and at the door of the Court House, where such tales are to be held. Notice for the sale of Personal property must be given in like manner tort y days previous to the day of sale. Notice to the Debtors and Creditors of an estate must I'Cpublished FORTY DAYS. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land, must be published for FOUR MONTHS. Notice for leave to sell Negroes must be published for four months, before any order absolute shall be made thereon by the. Court. Citations for letters of Administration, must he pub lished thirty days—for dismission from administration, monthly six months —for dismission ftom Guardianship, FORTY DAYS. Hvi.es for the foreclosure of a Mortgage must be pub lished monthly for roi'R months —for establishing lost papers, for the full stack of three months —for com pelling titles from Executors or Administrators, where a Bond has been given by the deceased, the full stack of THREE MONTHS. Publications will always be continued according to th.vc legal requirements, unless otherwise ordered. 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.