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TIIE SOUTHERN SENTINEL IS PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY T. LO3l AX & CO. TEXXEXT LOMAX, principal editor. Olfice on Randolph street. CitmuM) Derailment C • ducted by CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ LAMORAH: * OR tiie western wild. A TRAGEDY OR NATIONAL DRAMA, IN FIVE ACTS. BY CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ. ACT IV.—SCENE FIRST. [The wilderness—Wcaiherlon and Jenny sitting on the. ground in a weary awl discon solate attitude .] Wcath. Well, Jennv, 1 must leave you. ■Somewhere hereabouts, I’ve discovered the trail of the Indians, Cor I saw the print of their footsteps in the sand down by the wa ter. I know of a kind of cave hard by, where you can lie as snug as a mouse in a nut shell. Jenny. No, Job, Ell keep with you. When y'o'u are by me 1 feel safe, let what will be tide. We’ve weathered many a hard storm together, honey, and if the wrist conies to j the worst, we must only try the harder. I Vcath. ((trapping his rife.) iiush! Keep] behind me, Jenny; 1 hear a moving in tiie j woods By thunder, they’re coming like j a herd of buffaloes. If it is not the Gen- j oral, by [tinier Gen. Winfield with a band of soldiers.] j Gen. (Seizing Wealherlon by the arm with violence.) Yes, scoundrel, it is I! Give i me my child! What hast thou done with her, thou lying 1 villain ? Thou fair-mouthed, canting, skulking, cheat- 1 ing knave! “Wcath. Tough as I am, your honor, I don’t ! like such rough handling. As for the vile : names you are sputtering out so fast, they : may fasten where they fit. ‘Hie conscience j of Old Job VVeatherton is as dear as j noonday. I’m glad of it ; I’m glad you abuse me. It makes me twice as strong; ! ami I did feel sort of ticklish about seeing ; your honor after Miss \ irginia was carried j off. Gen. Where is she, then! where is my j precious lamb ? Hast thou not sold her to the savage tribes, ! The wolves with whom thou hord’st for law- ■ less gain ? Speak, woman, if thou hast a woman’s heart, And tell me of my child. Jenny. 1 know nothing, your honor, but ; that she’s gone, and that our hearts are al- | most broken about it; and Job is as innocent, i this blessed moment, as the babe unborn. Wrath. ’Tis for this we sailed down the j river when it thundered and lightened cannon ; balls and pitch forks. For this we are roam- j ing the woods m the dark, lone hour. Miss ! A irginy left the cabin spite of Jenny’s warn- I ings, who thought her all the time snug in j her room; and when I came back and found I the bird flown, if I’d been struck down dead by the lightning 1 couldn’t have felt half so ; bad. Id rather have been scalped an hun- I dred times over; and 1 swore I wouldn’t eat. i nor sleep, nor wink till 1 found her, and I’il keep my oath if I die for it. Gen. It may be that l wronged thee; | Heaven forgive me. Mv poor Virginia ! Hast thou found a grave In the cold waters: or thy young, fair life Now doomed to torture at the burning stake? ’Tis just. All-righteous Power, 1 feel ’tis just. Wcath. Don’t give up, General. The boat isn’t sunk yet. I think we’re on the right scent now, for I saw the track of an Indian in the sand \ouder. Gabriel. (Coming forward and speaking in Went her ton's ear) Do yon think the cop per skins are in the woods? Did you say Weath. I said nothing to you; I havu’t a word to fling to the man that cringes before the face of the enemy. Gab. When have you seen me cringe, old pepper tongue ? Didn’t I show the army the way to your cabin, and when the General blazed so furiously when he found the hut empty and not a dog of ye to tell what was the matter, didn’t I stand up for you in the face of the whole rigiment ? If 1 did not 1 w ish I may be scalped. Weath. Well, well, you may have your .wish like enough, Gabriel; if you let me take the lead with jolly Bess, here, on my arm, I’ll whiz/.le oil’ the head of the first brown dog we meet as slick as a pint cup from the head of a comrade ind if we don’t find Miss Virgjny again, yot nay hang me up on one of these oaks as a s.jare crow for the next generation. Gen. On! then, my brave companions! Every hand Be armed with four-fold strength, and send the steel Unerring ihrough each cojd, vindictive heart. The public weal demands it. We have sworn To drive them from the forests of the West, And open in these regions,yet unshorn Os their green glories, freedom’s bannered path. On! the gallant Forester their lawless hands In most ignoble bondage have enthralled. My daughter, too —the innocent—the sweet, I dare not think oi her. Come! on my friends : Not to the lofty strains, the clarion’s voice, The thrilling music of the battle-field, But lihfiit at the grave, still as the wind VOL 111. That travels on invisible, yet bow-s The majesty of nature w ith its breath, My gallant boys, commend your souls to Heaven. [Exit—Soldiers following .] Wcath. Well, Jenny, yonder in that hol low rock Jenny. No; I’m resolved to follow. Gab. (Who has lingered behind.) Job, I’L sacrifice my thirst for glory and stay and pro tect youi; wife from the enemy. Compassion is the noblest effort of courage. Jenny. I want no protection but Job’s shadow. I’ll not be left behind. Wcath. Quick! then ; the General’s spread his sails, and I must steer ahead and see where the waves are breaking. (Exeunt.) SCENE SECOND. [The Indian encampment—Enter Forester and Lamorah .] Forest. Thy sire will not relent, oh! heart of stone! The very tiger bends his flaming eyes, Subdued when the Creator’s image beams On . iigin iunocency’s spotless brow. Does the Great Spirit whom thy race adores Bevel in guiltless blood ? Lamorah. My father heard The M anitou in visioned lightning speak; lie bade him offer up the snowy fawn As burning incense tor his children’s wrongs. Can mortal question the Great Spirit’s will ? ile bids the whirlwind iisc*! tiie lily falls, •Its stainless bosom shivers in the blast-. Forest. Damorah ! friend, preserver of mv life! Thou once hast said thou lovest the stranger youth; Save hut this captive maid, I’ll be thy slave, And pass my life in worship at thy feet. L tmorah. Oh, little dost thou know La morab’s heart. Yi arrior, she loves thee; but the Indian maid Would scorn a worship bought at price so dear. Think’st thou my spirit could rejoice with thee While thy far soul was wandering by her side ? I’ve seen thy love; she’s fairer than the moon J hat bends in beauty o’er the sleeping world j it seemed that l grew lovely in her eyes, As the dark woods beneath yon silver rays. W hat can Lamorah do ! her arm is weak. Forest. Ah ! but her heart is strong. I’ve seen the brave Melt at her voice and leave their bow un strong. M v life is in their hands—l die with her, Or live to bless Lamorah. Lamorah. I have prayed For strength to guide me in the thorny hour: 1 have not prayed in vain. The watery bow Shines o’er the valley of the shades of death. I know an herb, whose tender leaves, when pressed. Weep, and the secret dews of slumber yield. Deep in the drowsy fluid I will steep Th e senses of the guards, then loose her bonds And guide her footsteps to yon distant hill. Lamorah then shall turn her pilgrim steps Where burns the mount of sacrifice, to bear An offering to the master of her life. Forest. (Kneeling.) Noblest Lamorah! Angel of the wild! Prostrate in gratitude, adoring, lost In w ordless ecstacy, in vain mv lips Would breathe the blessings warm and trem bling here. Lamorah. Oh! rise, voung warrior: burns > - o my cheek with shame: j My bosom isoppressed: my tears burst forth. Youth of the dark brown locks, in other climes When thou slialt wander ’neath your glorious star, She at thy side, the lovely and beloved, Think that Lamorah, from a fairer land, Shali then look down and joy that thou ait blessed. I [En ter St. Francis .] St. F. Forester, dost thou with the burn ing stars Hold mystic conference? Forest. She will be saved; Lamorah’s word is pledged! Virginia lives! St. F. Young man, 1 know it well. The Indian maid Has told me all her soul. I would to Heaven : Thou couldst have taken this young forest flower And worn it next thy heart. No blighting thorn Lurks ’neath its fresh and unpolluted bloom. I pray thou mav’st not, in a darker hour, Turn loathing from a cold and treacherous world, i And sigh for the devoted Indian maid. Forest. Were 1 the peijured wretch who could betray The love that leans undoubting on mv faith, The tenderness, the innocence, I’ve sworn To cherish as the holiest gift of Heaven, Lamorah would disdain my proffered vows— I l ntrue to one, I should be false to both. St. F. Truth has not left the earth. There lingers yet j borne trace by the celestial wanderer made. Go, then, high-hearted, generous, trusting youth, Go, in the sunny brightness of thy hopes, Thy ardent chivalry and fiery zeal, Back to a w r orld thou yet wilt know too well, but ere thou goest, know something of the man Who stands before thee: the unloved, un known : ■ The lonely prophet of the Western wild, j Forest. Fulfil thy promise; tell me what ! has wrought The ruin I deplore. tit. F. 1 \v iii be brief. I was the child of affluence and pride— Proud of my lineage, prouder of the gifts Bestowed bv nature with a spendthrift’s band, 1 thought that I was born to be caressed— And in each star that beamed, each gale that breathed, 1 saw, I felt the presage of a fall, More high, more glorious than the sons of men. 1 had a friend—ha! ha! 1 called him friend— Aye, and 1 loved him, gave him up my soul, In all the boundless confidence of youth. He left me; went to transatlantic shores, My parting tears yet wet upon his cheek. Let me be brief. I married—and I found The callous maiden wedded ine for gold. | A little while, death broke the heartless bond, Leaving me father of an orphan boy. Forest. And does he live ? St. F. In Heaven. Oh! blessed child. Listen ; I saw, I loved another maid— | The sweetest, fairest workmanship of God— ] The diamond’s ray, the rose’s tints, are poor, Faint emblems of her lustre and her bloom. : Fool! fool! I dote. I said that she was fair, And oil! how passing fond, how dove-like, meek— | All that in woman man most wants to find, i said I would be calm. Mv friend returned; “it The manly counterpart of her 1 loved. Our bridal day was fixed. Oh! friendship! love! Was ever mortal so divinely blessed! ft dawned at length, that unforgotten day— My bridal day—blue, smiling, cloudless, bright. Well, he, that friend, so tender, so beloved— And she, that tender, true, angelic maid— What tliink’st thou ? Why, they fled togeth er—fled: My kisses trembling on her guilty lips : Mis hand still warm from my confiding grasp: And left me scorned, abandoned and betrayed. Forest. Detested wretches! has not right eous Heaven Avenged thy wrongs, and covered them with shame ? tit. F. He lives, encircled with the wreath of honor— The leader of a brave and gallant band ; She sl*“F*= in (In.-irii—l cannot curse her mem ory. Oh! if there is one sin more black than all In sin’s foul, damning catalogue, ’tis this ; J ’Tis worse than murder—’tis a living death— j It clothes all nature with a winding sheet Covers the Heavens with sackcloth —makes the earth A universal hell—by demons thronged! Yes! look on me! a creature once like thee— Glorious and fresh from my Creator’s hands, Bearing his impress on my breathing clay— What am I now! Forest. A man of many wrongs ! Didst thou at once become a wanderer here ? tit. F. There was a blank—then frenzy fired my brain— But in the wreck and chaos of my being, One dark, gigantic form forever towered ; And day and night howled forth—revenge! revenge ! I rose and followed where the spectre led. But far away to transatlantic shores The guilty pair from retribution fled. Then tidings came of my neglected child; My poor, forsaken boy had gone to Heaven. The only link that bound me to my kind Was severed now. I knelt—and in the depth And loneliness of my heart, I breathed avow ! To live an alien from all social ties, And share the empire of the forest king. Go, then; but know the man thou honorest most— Thy gallant Winfield—is that perjured friend; And she so false, yet fair, my plighted bride, Was mother to thy own betrothed love! Farewell! 1 have no blessing, or’twere thine. [ExiL] Forest. He shall not leave me thus; ! St. Francis, stay ! SCENE THIRD. 1 [ Virginia discovered as before, bound to the stake, surrounded by the Indian guards.] [Enter Lamorah. Lamorah. Brothers, thy task is weary. Heavy dews Are falling o’er your lips, oppressed by sleep. Drink of the juice Lamorah’s hand has pressed From fragrant herbs to make your spirits glad. Oft when my warlike sire has bent his head Like stately tree when the fierce storm is hushed, I’ve brought this beverage to his thirsty lips; And from his eagle eyes the warrior’s soul looked forth In all its native majesty and strength. Drink, weary brothers, of the balmy draught. (The Indians gather round her and eager ly drain the gourd she offers to their lips—She watches their motions with intense anxiety while she comes forward and sings.) SONG OF LAMORAII. I. Rest, banter, rest! the wounded fawn Is in the green-wood bower: With quiver hung and bow undrawn, Wait morning’s beaming hour. i COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 7. 1852. The moonshine sleeps upon the hill, The bark upon tiie stream: A secret gloont the forest fills— Sweet, hunter, be thy dreams. in. Fly, snowy’dove! the warrior sleeps, liis sounding bow unstrung : No eagle o'er the valley sweeps, No snares are round thee flung. IV. Unfurl thy wings ! poor, trembling dove, And seek thine own blue sky : Love waits ihee in the sheltered grove— Fly, snowy wanderer, fly. j (After singing the last stanzas, she ap j proaches the guards, who have fallen listless ly on the ground, and bends over them to as- ! certain if their sleep is deep—She then un binds Virginia, who embraces her in silent ecstacy — Lamorah, by impressive gestures, implores silence, and leads her from the stage.) [Enter St. Francis and Forester .] St. F. Linger a moment—see that all is i ° still— j They sleep; the gale is slumbering ’mid the leaves; I The fugitives will thread the silvered shades | Light as the moonbeam’s track. And thou, young man, if thou perchance shouldst roam, : In after years, the wilderness from whence ; The redman and his children have been swept, j May tread upon my’ solitary grave, | Unconscious of the dust that inolders there. Forest. St. Francis, come with us; with filial care 1 I’ll cherish thee and make thy latter years i Calm as autumnal sunset. St. F. Never more ! Shall I forsake the shelter of these wilds; ! All that remains of human tenderness Thou hast waked in tills woe-worn breast; And when thou leav’st me, boy, the last green ! ,. ~ . ‘1 hat breath’d its freshness on the hoary rock ! Shall fall and leave it crumbling, bleak and bare. ( While St. Francis speaks, Ozcmba enters, unperceived, and lies down by the sleeping guards.) Forest. I may not linger here, yet in this hour Os gratitude and joy, mv spirit clings With sad, mysterious tenderness to thee. Remember Forester; farewell! farewell! [ Embraces Aim.] i ( Ozcmba, springing up, seizes him with a i giant's grasp.) Oz. Remember me: Qzemba’s grasp is st.ro n <>• Forest. Unhand me, savage! I, too, have an arm Which shall defend me from thy treacherous mere. Oz. Treacherous! Look yonder, pale man. ’Tis thy work. Forest. Just Heavens! we are betrayed. [Enter savages, with Lamorah and Virginia.] St. F. Lamorah, too ! Oz. Lamorah stoops to guile. Her eye is changed By the young serpent coiling in the brake. The daughter of a chief forsakes her tribe And leagues herself with that accursed race, Who pour our blood like waters on the land And revel o’er the ashes of our sires, i tear thee from my heart. Thou shalt be come The scorn, the outcast of the eagle tribe. Lamorah. I asked the maiden’s life. My ~ “ prayer was spurn and. I knelt to the Great Spirit, and lie gave A gracious answer to my secret soul, i The daughter of Ozemba knows not fear; ’ She glories in her crime ; Lamorah’s heart Is bare to the Great Spirit’s blazing eye. Forest. Mine is the crime ; on me, vindic- ; live chief, Thy treble vengeance pour. She gave me j * life— I Then let my death atone for her offence. I Give me to torture, aye, to the burning stake, j ; But spare the captive maid, forgive thy child ■ ; For acting like the daughter of a chief, f Oz. I’m weary of this talk. My spirit thirsts— -1 The moon shall sink upon a feast of blood. Virginia. lam content to die. Then strike i at once— ! But free me from the agony, the strife l Of hope and death. Kind maiden, let me die. i Oh! Forester, I could not live for thee | And claim a father’s blessings; but in death, In death, my love, Virginia will be thine. Forest. Behold our Initial hour. Now, sa ble priest, Unite us with indissoluble bonds. (Rushing between the savages who guard : Virginia, and throwing his arm around her, Ozcmba restrains his daughter with one hand I while he extends the bow with the other—At this moment, Weather!on is seen on a rock behind with his rifle extended—Fie shoots, and Ozemba falls —The Indians yell — Gen. Win field and his band rush in — .4 party of Indians \ with tomahawks, on the other side—lndians j are driven off the stage—Gabriel is seen -rush j ing to and fro without his wig—Gen. Win field embraces his daughter in speechless emo tion—Lamorah, who has knelt over her dying father, utters a wild exclamation and falls by his side.) [end of act fourth.J O” Reynolds, the dramatist, observing to i Martin the thinness of his house at one of his plays, added, he supposed it was owing jto the war. “No,” replied Martin, “I should judge it is owing to the piece.” [written sos. the sentinel.] A TRIP TO TIIE BAY. Steamer Wynxton, ) April 10, 1352. \ The bell is rung; the plunging, heavy sound of the engine is heard in the water; the boat begins to thrill and shiver like the hearts of parting friends, then gliding out into the river, dashes the spray from its paddle wheels; white handkerchiefs are seen waving from the shore; the sunbeams are reflected from faces, ’ turning with farewell glances toward the re ! ceding boat; then the sunbeams fade, the | shadow steals over them, and the white gleam of the waving handkerchiefs disappears, like the wing of a bird, cutting the sky. Fare well to Columbus, Queen of the rushing Chat tahoochee; home of warm, generous hearts, of tiue, and noble spirits. Strange paradox ! we are leaving thee behind us, and yet bear ing thee away with us, an ever present and beloved companion. Thou mavst be in visible to others, but thy image will ever rise before our mental vision. With immortality of memory fraught, Space cannot fetter the unshackled will— over forest, river, valley still— Shall soar the tree, untiling wings of thought. Beautiful are the batiks ot the Chattahoo chee, clothed in their vernal garniture. The high, grey bluffs, crowned with emerald dia dems, with mantles of vine-work sweeping in the breeze. The luxuriant clusters of'ivy, giving here and there a bright, delicate glow to the dark green shrubbery. The scarlet ; woodbine, twining its blossoms of fire round ; the grev old trunk of some blasted tree, —all flashed on the eye, as we hurried along, ma king us wish we had arms of India-rubber, that they might he stretched to the shore and gather the wild flowers that greeted us so lovingly with their fragrant breath. The Magnolia, fair Queen of blossom trees, peep ed through the dense foliage, with its waxen ! white petals, and loaded the river breeze with j its rich, oppressive odors. At night, when the boat stopped for a freight age of cotton, we sat on the boiler deck, and watched the massy bales as they Came tumbling down the steep bank, like so many huge elephants without their trunks. ‘Hie scene was wild and picturesque. A lantern of lightwood, fastened by a rod to the side of the boat, but appearing as if suspended from the overhanging pine boughs, threw a red, diffusive glare on the black faces and scarlet-red jackets of the negroes, who were escorting the cotton elephants down the banks, over the planks, and into the vessel, with a roll and a bound, that rnrulo i* pul ou.,. ijuaive to its heart s core. It was astonishing to see with what mathematical precision all this was done, in the midst of the greatest apparent recklessness of motion, and disregard of distance and directness. Every bale leaped over the planks and sprang into its appointed place, as if anxious to make way for its successor, which was already tearing through the low boughs and raking over the ground, with another and another just above it. It was not tili we missed the lurid reflection of the torch-light on the wa ter, that we joined the party on the storm deck, where sweet female voices, accompa nied by the soft thrill of the guitar, floated over the dark river, and echoed from the bluffs, now scarcely discoverable through the moon less night. An occasional star flashed through the black smoke-wreath coiling over head, as if listening to the music warbling below. Nothing can be more beautiful than the little cascades which gush out from the rocky bluffs so suddenly and so mirthfully, like joyous children rushing to see a pageant sweeping by. There is one called the Roar ing Spring, that, like a church choir, sings behind a curtain. The curtain is made of green leaves, all lace-work, and the water fall glances its silver bright eyes at the travel ler as it sings away, and the words of its song have a chorus that sounds like “Cheerily O, Cheerily O!” Certainly the party o:i board was not com ; posed of ice or stone, incapable of perceiv ing or appreciating the beauties of nature. At every cascade that bounded forward to look at us ; every cluster of wild flowers that sent out its perfume on the gale; every wild duck that skimmed over the water, or dived spor tively beneath it, —ejaculations of admiration | would pass from lip to lip, and glances of rap ture flash from eye to eye. ThegallantCaptain, too, who knows by heart every inch of Chat tahoochee’s banks, would not suffer any ob ject of interest to pass without directing to it the attention of the admiring traveller. We wish we could remember the Indian names ‘ he told us, for they were so sweet and musical. We passed one place, nearOeheesee, which looked like storied ground. It seemed to be I an Indian mound, on which were the ruins of ian old hut, and a grave. But it was the grave ; of a white man, once the solitary dweller of that ruined hut. There was a wild rose bush clambering round the old frame work, casting a gleam of bloom and beauty on its I desolation. That grave! how sad and lone it looked by the way-side! how mournfully the water gargled against the burial mound ! i and how imagination wrote the history of the hermit dead! Perhaps all romance would die away in the presence of reality, as it too often does. The last bluff that beautifies the banks be fore you reach the Bay, i3 called the Old Wo man's Blaff, —why, it is difficult to imagine, for it is very beautiful and majestic. No! we are mistaken,—the beautiful and majestic , bluff is named Alum Bluff, and the one bear ing the venerable feminine appellation fs a low, insignificant kind of ledge, that goes shuffling into the level shore. As the shore flattens, the river widens, till it gradually swells into the beautiful glassy bay on which Apalachicola stands. There is nothing in the appearance of the town to gratify the eye of the stranger. It never could have possessed much beauty, and the terrible gale of last August has given it a worn and somewhat dilapidated appear ance. But as you walk into the town and see some of the neat and tasteful habitations, and continue your course on the neat walk made of planks, raised above the white spark ling sand along the beach, catching glimps es all the time of the blue serene water, the charm of repose is on you, and you for get the dry, business look which first greeted you. The hospitality and refinement of the Apalachicolians are proverbial, and short as was our stay, we had abundant opportunity of proving the justice of the reputation. One might have imagined the little cabin of our boat a fashionable drawing-room from the elegant guests that assembled there; The next day several young ladies and gentlemen from the Bay, accompanied our party to East Pass, distant about thirty miles, where the British vessels lie at anchor, ready to discharge their freight. It was a bright blue, cloudless morning, and a wave less calm slept upon the face of the waters. We, who had anticipated being tossed on the so a filing billows, as we approached the great Gulf, were sadly disappointed at the deep tranquility of the scene. We wanted to feel the majesty of the sea-green element. We wanted to feel the union of great strength with sublime beauty. But the sea-winds lay with their banners furled, and the Bay smiled in one broad dazzling pomp of sunlight. A gay, happy party filled a barge and departed for a sandy Island, that looked in the distance like glistening silver, the Island of St. John, washed by the mingling waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the Bay of Apalachicola. But alas! for those who were foolish enough to be made sick by gazing on the unrippling surface cp the deep—they were forced to follow with wistful eyes the gracefully receding boat, through the green jealousies of their state room, consoling themselves with the thought, that some kind voice might whisper to the lis tening ear, “I wish they were here.’’ Away, away, like a tiling of life, the little boat flew over the smooth, glassy water, and the blue veils began to flutter, and a soft, yet exhilarating breeze curled the azure face of „ was pleasant to near the party, after their return, tell of their walk on the silver sands of the beach, of the state ly black pelicans that looked so grand and Byronian, and the Charming conversations that waked the echoes of the lotiely Isle. In our next letter, we will endeavor to de scribe the crew of the good ship Portland, and how they charmed us with their jovial songs, while heaving their cargo into our rocking boat. C. L. 11. (Dm- (Contributors. [WRITTEN tor the sentinel.] APOSTROPHE TO DEATH. Stem Death ! I own thy sovereign power, But mourn thy sway; nor youth nor ago Thou sparest; nor beauty’s sheen can turn Thy fatal dart; nor love’s young dream ; Nor manhood’s groans; nor woman’s tears. Fain would I stay thy ruthless hand 1 O monster, spare my child ! nip not, With blighting frost, the only flower That blooms in beauty round my cot! Let her remain to cheer my age, And smooth my passage to the tomb: Or rather vent thy rage on me, And sheath thy weapon in my heart. DS PROFUNDIS. [written tor the sentinel.] MARRIAGE. There is to me no more melancholy sight than the marriage of a young girl, except her death. There she stands, the blushing maiden, adorned for the sacrifice with brace lets of gold, and lace, and silk, satin, and diamonds, in the centre of a great crowd, who coldly look upon the heavings of her throbbing bosom. Before her is the solemn priest, with robe and book, rikl set formula of words, awful in their significance to her, but how meaningless to him! By her side is her lover—hard, cold, selfish, passionate; he presses her little delicate hand in his, till the hones ache, and the blood almost oozes out at her finger ends; but she rejoices in the pressure; it is to her the grip of love ; but alas ! it is too often the impatience of desire. In a corner sits and sobs her poor dear moth er, almost forgotten in the delirium of her joy, and is only brought to mind when she folds her in her arms after her marriage and baptizes her now drooping head in tears. Poor child ! your head will recline on the bosom of another, but no pillow will you ever find so soft as that upon which vour infant cheeks reposed. Poor mother! You have lost one of the household gods. “Mary, my child!’’ I hear the sound yet in the old halls, but Mary is not there; a hollow echo repeats the gentlo name, but Mary’s rosv face and gentle smile are gone. Her chair is empty —her little chair in which her infancy was rocked. Sweet Mary’s voice is no lon ger heard in the hymn of praise which her dear old parents sing to the most high, before the family altar, when the sun is just rising and all nature in the mellow light of morn ing is praising Him; nor at night do her rosy lips press theirs, and whisper, “good TERMS OE PUBLICATION. One Copy per annum, if paid in advance,.. $2 03 ” “ “ “ “ “ in mx mouths, 250 “ “ “ •* “ “ at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, ----- §1 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in Tavor of those who advertise largely. NO. 19. night, my father,” “good night, my mother,” as of yore. There is no music now in the lone dwelling at “dewy e’en ;” the night creeps on apace in stillness and blackness, and closes around the deserted roof-tree—emblem of tho gloom which reigns there since “Mary” left. And where is Mary now? Look through that window—she sits in the clear moonlight, looking out upon the night—looking! aye, longing for the sound of footsteps—“why don’t he come?” What! all alone, my poor child ? ’Twas not so in your deserted home, almost forgotten, till now. But tho young thing starts up. the doors fly open, and poor Mary, weeping and laughing, hangs around the neck of her husband, and throws back her head, and pouts out her lips for one more kiss. He stoops and gives it; but it is cold and quick, and not as it was when for the first time he touched those threads of scarlet on the evening of their marriage, when Mary came down in the bloom of her bridal beau ty, and he met her at the head of the stairs, and kissed her until her heart quaked with joy almost to bursting. No, no! not as it was then ; and never will be, Mary, until he hangs a lone lost man over your clay, Mary, and presses the inanimate dust which hears not his cries, heeds not his groans, and alas! cannot feel the burning glow of those kisses which would have raised her to life, even at her last hour, if they had been given. y FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE. We left Milan on Saturday, January 31st, by Velluri.no. (1 have told you what that is— the word itself means, properly, driver of Yet ♦ turn or carriage.) You are aware that the ap pointments of travel are not so complete in Italy, and hence it lias been the custom to hire these private carriages even to traverse the whole of Italy. It is a very pleasant way of travel, for you can Command your own time, start when you please, stop in the mid dle of the day to dine comfortably, and choose a respectable place to sleep in, if ono lies in your route. Wo were a week (as I am going-to tell you) in making our journey to this place, and 1 enjoyed it exceedingly be cause not subject to diligence and railway laws. The carriages can be hired at forty francs a day at most, which, divided among a party of four, would make less than two dollars apiece. Tho owners and drivers aro hard fellows at a bargain though, and get all they can—cheating without scruple—so that it is customary for parties engaging a Veltu rino, to draw up a contract and make him sign it i. 0 , up to it he forfeits his money. ’Twas a somewhat misty though not unpleasant morn ing as we started, taking the great road, which runs down through the peninsula as far as Bologna, and a good part of it is an old Roman road built 180 years B. C. We dined at Lodi, a fortified town and uninteresting— ran about the city while tho horses were feed ing, and visited among other tilings, the Bridge of Lodi, which is famous for a terrible passage made by Napoleon over it in the very face of cannon, which were so planted as to sweep it. Toward sunset, some blue distant mountains loomed into view—’twas our first view of the Apennines, and soon after, we arrived at a ra pid, turbid stream, presenting no claim to beau ty, but it was the classic Po. Crossing this by a rickety bridge of boats, we entered tho gates of Piacenza, (or Placentia, as I be lieve it is called on our maps,) and I ought to say that before we got fairly within the gates, our passports were taken from us and inspect ed no less than four times. Such is the rigor now with which travellers arc watched. Aus tria, you are aware, holds all this part of Ita ly, and holds it by the closest vigilance only. To have done with passports at once, suffico it to say, they were taken from us at the gate of a city, kept while we were within the walls, and then again inspected in the morn ing when we passed out; this was done even if we stopped in a town merely to dine. We spent the Sabbath in Piacenza. As you may imagine, I find no church in these regions. I divide my time between my room and a soli tary walk. ’ i’was a very sunny day, of I should have passed a very forlorn Sabbath. Let one get out into the sun, and in full view of glorious mountains, as aj Verona, I can be contented. Piacenza is a dull, dirty town, and positively I do not see on what the inhab itants subsist; it gave tne the horrors, that town. Monday morning (a beautiful morning) we started again—ride very pleasant—through a fruitful country, and the Apennines con stantly on our right. Parma is a very pleas ant town—well built and cheerful—streats airy, fine walks upon the fortification over looking the town. From Parma to Modena is a short stage —we did it easily the next day— ■ stopping at Reggio, also an antiquated town and fortified, to dine. Parma is a capital, you know, of an infinitesimal Duchy—so is Modena. We had fine moonlight eve nings, and as we were to leave early tho next morning, I inspected Modena by tho light of the moon. I walked till nearly 12 o’clock at night, so delightful was the scene without. The duke gave a grand ball this evening, and as he did not invite me, I stole under the window of his fine palace and lis tened to the music, and this without the sweating tatigue ot dancing. I scarcely ever enjoyed a walk more—the enchanting eve ning, the quiet city T—l walked on the walls indulging myself in a thousand reveries. Mo deua is a very solid city, more German than Italian, and reminded me much of Berne, in