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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL IS PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, HV T. LOMAX & CO. TEXXEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor. Office on Randolph street. .Citcron) Deportment. Gotocctep r.v CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. [WRITTEN FOR TIIE SENTINEL.J in i: 31 aid or jidea. Homeward the weary warrior bent His footsteps,from the bannered tent; Triumph was his; the sword he wore, Victory from twenty cities bore. Yet not lbr fame, with life-blood bought, Had Gilead’s dauntless champion fought; In Heaven’s own panoply he braved Tiie battle, and his country saved. lie gazed where, reddened by the glow The oriental mountains throw, Y hen their high reaching Mows arret The rosy ti; t- that gild lb- we-t; He saw those native walls afar, Where beamed the pure and vestal star, Whose rays of filial beauty shone For him, and for her God alone. He thought how soon her maiden charms Would fill a conquering father’s amts ; And as the tide of feeling swept O’er his full heart, the victor wept. But hark ! what strain of music eallt The echoes f’oin their rocky halis? More near it floats, in triumph swelling, As if some theme of glory telling. The parting foliage backward swings, Light, as if fanned by fairy wings; And a- the trembling leaves divide, In the white robes of virgin pride, ‘Phe minstrel maiden meet? hi - glance, Weaving her country’s grace! M dance, Y bile, sweeter as she onward floats, Blie wakes the timbrel’s lofty notes. Wild blossoms, that her bright locks wreathe. O’er her pure brow their odors breathe ; Yet even their fairest tints disclose No blush, to mutch her cheek's soft rose. The deepest blue of -tarry skies Seem : deepeue 1 in her hi idling-eve;. Whose heavenward radiance now reveals All that a chieftain's daughter feel?, Who in her warlike -ire can truce The avenger of an injured race. But when h-r arm- of! ve she flings Around hi? not h, And fondly cling-* To hi mailed bo.-oin, why with wild And frenzied -tart, thru-1 back his child ? Y itli one loud e y of piercing woe, Turn from the lirilit of that sweet brow, And writhe, as if the deadly fold Os poisonous serpent round him rolled ? The memory of his fatal vow Flashes like blurting lightning now : That vow, breathed forth on battle-Held, By victory’s Moody signet sealed. As herds the lily, when the wrath Os northern wind * sweeps o’er its path ; Just as its fair, unfolding bloom, The -un’s parental beam? illume; So torn from nature's dearest stay, Pale, trembling, at his feet she lay ; Y bile 100 e. on her reclining head, Her unshorn ringlet.- o’er them spread. Jephthah beheld the only flower Left to adorn his widowed bow* r, Y hose virgin beauty grew so fair, It seemed some fostering angel's care Had to this cherished blossom given The puritv and bloom of Heaven ; D coping, as if a sudden blast O'er her young charms a Might laid cast, And the dry agony of grief Through gn. hing fountains sought relief. “Oh, thus,” the melt -d warrior cried, “Pure front the stains of earthly pride, Pure from ail sin, the offering be O il hearts devote, 0 Lord! to thee, Mv child and bending down, he prest The pallid maiden to bis breast. ‘'My blameless child, a featful doom Hang s trembling o'er thy life's young bloom ; ‘I hough thousand lives l would resign, Even lor one hour, to ransom thine ; ’I {trough me, my spotless lamb must bleed, ‘Phe altar’.- holy flame to feed Oh ! when to Israel's God I vowed, While round me rolled war’s fiery cloud, l! the Great Spirit of His might Led me victorious tTough the tight. What first my glad return would hail, To native Mizpan’s re cued vale, A votive sacrifice should raise The incense of my country's praise. I little thought that thou, the dear, ‘Phe only treasure ieit me here, In whom I’ve garnered all mv joys “ O’er-mastering nature checked his voice. And all the human heart can bear t >! deep, unutterable despair, b'poke, m tli2 darkening glance he bent, l pon the gorgeous firmament, As il its broad refulgent glow, Bhone but in mockery of his woe. And site, the gentle and the yottrg, it iron nerves were thus un.trung, Did not her reeling reason fly, Her fluttering lit!- pule faint and die? No ! while sustained in that dear fold Os weeping love, her doom was told— A light, like morning’s breaking rav, Began o’er her wan check to play— Y ith triumph kindling in her look, Backward the veiling locks rite shook, Whose waves of amber scented to throw A glory round he- - lifted brow ; And with a calm and heavenly smile. As if the altar’s .-acre-.! pile Already tor the victim blazed, Her unpolluted hands she raised : •“Where sk ejis my father’s manly pride ?” The death-devoted maiden cried. ‘'Oil! lot not tears so weak and v ain ‘Phe warrior’s noble cheek distain; Think, what a glorious fate, to be A covenant ’twist my God and thee; Deemed worthy in His holy eye. An offering, on His shrine to lie, Yriiile virgin innocence and truth Adorn the blossoms of my youth ! The whitest lamb of Gilead’s flock Is driven from the mountain rock ; The lairost flower of Gilead deck The fleecy victim’s snow-white neck, When grateful hearts to Heaven would bear ‘I he incense of devotion’s prayer. Then weep not, father ; to thy vow A willing sacrifice I bow ; 1 come, with joy’s bright garlands crowned, To minstrelsy’s exulting sound. As Israel's daughters wont to grace The triumphs of their eiiosen race : Away, this worthless wreath I tear, The martyr’s deathless palm to wear; Hushed be the timbrel’s echoing swell, I go,in music’s courts to dwell.” Breathless, she paused—a softer mood Her eyes’ unearthly fire subdued— And towards her native mountains turning, Y here the last flumes of day were burning, The chords of earthly feeling woke Their last vibration as she spoke : “Yet oh!” she added, “ere my sire ‘"'hall lead me to the kindling pyre, Let ine on those green hil Is onee more 1 !*e scenes of early joy explore; * here, with the virgin train, who lead YOL. 111. Their flocks on tendore-t herbs to feed ; While near the strides arid gu-hiug springs They tune their wild harp’s sounding strings, My soul, with penitence and prayer, Shali lor tiie solemn rife prepare. And when another spring renews Its flowery sweets and genial dews, The daughters of my tribe -hall come With wreaths symbolic of my bloom. And mourn me. as a tender iiart, Pierced by the forest hunter's da; t. Oh! think not earth’s fond memories cling, To chain my spirit's mounting wing; But when in Zion’s fairer land, I join the seraphs’ white-robed band, ’T sweet to think, where onee I smiled, They’ll -till rcinemlier Jephthah’s child ; And as yon twilight’s golden ray Reflects the vani-hed beams of day, My memory will a light impart, To cheer a father’s lonely heart.” Thus meek and pure, the lamb was led to slaughter, Thus perished, in her bloom, Judea’s daughter. C. L. 11. Quincy, July 20, 1352. [WRITTEN’ FOR THE SENTINEL.J It! 1)1 YU IV \ ST AUK. Creeping through the valley— Crawling o’er the full— Splashing through the “branches,” Rumbling by the mill— Putting nervous “getninea” In a tow'ring rage ; What is so provoking As—riding in a stage ? Feet are interlacing— Heads severely humped— Friend and foe together, Get their no.-es thumped ; Satins act as foot-mato— Listen to the sage— “ Life is but a journey Taken in a stage I” Spiust -rs “fiir(?) and forty”- Maid- in youthful charm Sadd -lily are east in To tli -ir neighbor’s arm?. Children fly like squirrels Darting through a cage— Isn't it delightful Riding in a stage ? Ms i tried men look smiling— They arc* out of (right, Thankful that a broom-tick Is no where in sight! Young men wish old Harry W ould, with fiendish rage, Take them, if again they Ever take a stage. Bonne’s crash around us— Hats look “worse for wear” — Teeth, at each concussion, Fly to take the air ; ShriVclled maiden ladies, Past a “certain age,” Groan forlornly—“dreadful! Riding in a stage!” Jolted—thumped—distracted— Racked, and q -rite forlorn ; “Olt!” writhes one, “what duties Now are laid on corn!” Mad—annoyed, and angry— In a swearing rage— ’ Tis the very D—l Riding in a stage ! John Smith. Savannah, May 27th, 1^52. [written for tiie sentinel.] GL E AXING S; FROM THE FIELDS OF FACT AND FICTION. 1 BY F.TANX HYLAND. I The Orphan Maiden’s Trial, j A .Story ol Mobile, Ala. “Do not urge me, dear mother. I cannot i disobey you if you command me to it; and yet l feel that it would be sinful, in the sight of God, f. r me to follow your wishes. The vows l would be compelled to breathe j with inv lips would receive no sanction from my heart, and, what would be equally wrong, | they would meet with but an outward fullil- I meat in my life. So do not insist on my doing i what is so repugnant to every instinct of my nature.” “My child, what are we to do? What will become of us? My own health is gone. You are too feeble to work. Here is this bill of Dr. Winston’s, sent this morning for collec | tion. Our account at the drug store has been : in the house for a week, and I am now snf ! feting for want of the medicine prescribed by : the Doctor but which I dare not send for until our druggist bill is paid. To crown all, he called as 1 told you, while you were at mar ket last evening, and said, that since you had rejected his—his—love; do not smile, Carrie, for that was the word tie used; he said that since you had rejected his love, and persisted | in defering an answer to his proposal, he must have the rent for the last two quarters | paid; and that unless settled against the end j of the week, or a favorable reply be given to bis proposition of marriage, we must seek another home.” “And so lie threatened us! the unfeeling, wretch! lie may do his worst; but sooner | than marry him, mother, I will go into the ! streets and beg our bread from door to door, i Mother, 1 disliked him before; now, I abhor | him. He talks ol love! He is incapable of i loving. His course, as you know, has evinc ed nothing but the basest passion. Finding that all liis criminal overtures were unsuccess ful, he made oiler o( marriage, and after vain- ; ■ ly seeking to win my regards, by his hollow ! and loathed attentions, he crowns his despi : cable character, by threatening to make us homeless unless I become his wife. Oh, my | mother, can you advise me to it ? Aou whom I remember as the model of all that was no | ble in integrity and stern in principle? Can | you ?” There was a pause, and from two full ! hearts welled up deep and broken sobs. The ; mother was the first to speak. “You have recalled my former self, mv darling child. Forgive me, that I should have suffered affliction, and poverty, and obscuri ty, to drive me so far into wrong. I only thought of my helplessness, Carrie, and of you, pale, sick, and it may soon be, dying, “■ | and of the wealth and position that tills mar riage would secure. It was a dream—a dark one—and i. gone. God has not forsaken us vet, and if we trust in him, he wiiJ never leave us alone.” “Bless you, mother, for your encouraging words. God will not abandon us. Has he not, within the past fortnight, sent us, strange ly enough, two gentlemen, as lodgers, and ; thereby given ns the means of sharing in com -1 . ° forts, so necessary to you in your an mate health ?” “W e will distrust him no more, my child, for he is good.” e*, dear mother, ‘lie 2i> good, and his mercy enduretb forever.’ ” Mrs. Anderson was a widow, and Caro line, her only child, was fatherless. Mr. An derson had been a village merchant of quite handsome property in Tennessee. When the estate was settled up, after his death, it was found that owing to carelessness in the management of his affairs, and subsequent ad vantage having been taken of that negli gence by his partner, there was but little left for his surviving wife and child. With this little, .Mrs. Anderson proceeded to an up-coun try neighborhood in Alabama, where a sister was residing, determining to spend the resi due of her days near that sister. .Shu arrived only to find her sister dead; and at the sug gestion of others, she went. to Mobile, with the intention of gaining a subsistence for her self and daughter by their needles. Mrs. Anderson was a proud a woman ; too proud to return to a community, where she had been a leader in the fashionable world, ami there submit to the drudgery of needle work, as a means, and the only one too, of support. It was a false pride, truly; never theless, she was a victim to it. Apart from this weakness, Mrs. Anderson was a woman of sterling worth; and vet, because of this, she was doomed to broken health and much mental disquietude. The summer after their arrival in the city— tiie summer of -16—the yellow fever laid both mother and daughter upon beds, which had well nigh proven beds of death. They were spared; however; the mother to he bed rid den and the daughter frail, and with every appearance of being doomed to an early rest among the pale-faced sleepers. In company with an invalid friend, Charles Brandon, l had gone to Mobile in tiie winter of ‘4O, to spend a few weeks in the recovery ol’-my strength, which had been heavily tax ed by mental labor during the preceding spring and summer. We were anxious to obtain a boarding place, in a quiet family, p-ivateand near the bay. The little cottage of .Mrs. An derson, with its quarto of rooms, and sweet)v embosomed in evergreen, which, in our ram ble the first evening after our anival, we had seen, seemed to us just the place. The next day we were duly installed in our new abode, with its intelligent landlady and her most in teresting daughter. The only relic the family retained of tlieir former luxury, was Carrie’s guitar. In their affliction, during the long summer months, all else had been sacrificed. This Carrie could not part with. It had been her com panion in happier days. The ears of him, whose death made her an orphan, had .many times drank in the music that tremb! and from its strings, and his heart been made light er, amid heavy cares, by its sounds. .She could not give up that instrument. She would eat less—dress plain- “ —stitch later at night, if she could only hold on to her “light guitar.” It was a beautiful devotion to art, and went not without its reward. She sang sweetly and played w ith ail expression of ; rare power. The quivering strings became instinct with life under the touch of her wan lingers, and cadences, sometimes wild as the voice of the sea-mew’s, then plaintive as the last sob of a breaking heart, floated on the air at her bidding. !t is no marvel that we were drawn towards that cottage, that twi light hour, as we were sauntering along in sight of the broad bay, with its hushed wa ters and shadowy shipping; and none the less marvel is it, that my friend, who had the j soul of an artist, but whose heavy planting interests in the interior of the State had pre vented his cultivating and developing that soul to the extent of which it was suscepti ble, had made the broken balcony, loading out from the parlor, a musical trystiug place, lor the fortnight we had been there, at the same evening hour in which we had first heard the co'.tage maiden sing. We were both convalescing. A profound ; respect for our landlady had been won from us, while, for Carrie, we entertained a feel ing of not love—(that is, 1 did not for rav thoughts were elsewhere) —hut a feeling “akin to love.” On the morning of the interview between the mother and daughter, already recorded, they supposed Charles and myself absent.— We were not, however. Every word had been heard by us, and as may be supposed, deepened our interest in the persons con cerned. . We said nothing; for each was bu sy, perhaps, with his own thoughts and plans. An hour after, Charles and i were driving down to the Pavilion, and were deeply into the subject of assisting our landlady, and thereby defeating the scheme of their oppres sor. The point of difficulty was, rendering aid, with becoming delicacy, and keeping our names concealed. “I have it, Frank,” said Charles, with an energy that was in proof of the deep inteiest he took in tho matter. “I have it, to a frac- CGLOBUS. GEORGIA. FRIDAY MORNING, AUGUST 6, 1852. tion. The Rev. .Mr. G , whose ac quaintance we made coming down from Montgomery, is .Mrs. Anderson’s pastor. Let us seek him—enjoin secrecy, and entrust the affair to his management.” To this 1 consented. The next day, we called at"tho study of the reverend gentleman, and made known our enterprise. He entered at once into a hearty co-operation w ith us— giving us, meantime, a sketch of Mrs. An derson’s former history, and expressing his great satisfaction, at the interest we were ta king in one, so necessitous, and so worthy. The hill—one sufficiently large to pay all her debts, and to secure the cottage for the remainder of the year—was inclosed to Mrs* Anderson, and placed in the hands of her ex cellent pastor for her, with tho injunction of entire secrecy, as to who was the donor.— What seemed a little singular to me, was the obstinacy with which Brandon persisted in claiming the privilege of being the sole con tiibutor of the amount sent her. “1 have means equal to yours, Frank,” he would say, “and no mother, or sister, to share with me, as you have. Do not deny me, then, the happiness of serving Mrs. An derson arid her daughter, as though they were my mother and sister.” Charles was wealthy. 1 was comparative ly poor, and was not without dependencies on me, of a nature not to he set aside, with out outraging the feelings of common human ity ; yet 1 did desire, out of my limited re sources, to draw something for the bettering of the lots of those with whom 1 was so journing. Charles would not listen to it. He had the exact change: they had been more troubled by him than by me: there was no kindred to divide his fortune with; and so I must not cheat him out of so much .satisfac tion. as the giving of that money would as suredly bring him. These and the like entreaties, secured my neutrality in the matter, so that my fiend’s iiand it was, that was stretched out willingly to the widow’ and the orphan. The week wore on. Saturday had come. The day was declining. We s;nv Carrie ift market, and had added very muteiiallj’ to the deposits in her market basket; so much so, in deed, that diaries declared it too burden some for Miss Anderson, and would dispatch it home, by a porter, lie had a good heart— that Charles Brandon. So thought Mrs. Greene, from whose stall Charles had made most liberal purchases; and so thought many a poor needle girl, who had come to pre pare edibles for the Sabbath—only a bit par tial, was the very natural suggestion made to themselves, as they saw that his. good heartedness expended itself wholly on Carrie Anderson. After a while we were at home. The tea table was set aside, and Carrie was invited to the broken balcony to play.— There had been a cloud on her brow during tea. She had done her utmost to dispel it; yet stay it would. That evening was evident ly a crisis with her, and she was struggling to conceal her agony. She supposed us ig norant of all ; yet we knew all—her despair and the quickomiug hope; for her minister was to cal! precisely at nine o’clock, at w hich time we were to make it convenient to bo absent. “Come, Miss Anderson, we are waiting ba you. One song before we go out. Will vou not ?” “I hardly know how to say no, Mr. Bran don, you have been so kind to us in our—our —situation: but I feel as though it. would break my heart to sing to-night. You will excuse me, won’t }’ou ? Another time— any other time, than to-night. Do say you will let me off, and that you will not think me foolish !” “\ou are never foolish in my estimation, Carrie,’’ replied Charles, in a voice low as the tones of the night wind, and as tremu lous. Then, as if thinking he had expressed too much familiarity, he continued : “I will certainly excuse you, Miss Ander son. You are unhappy. I see that. Go, then, and commune with your own pure thoughts, and if any thing will bring you peace, thev will. Your mother calls you ! ’ Carrie was gone. Charles gazed on the open door, through which she had just gli ded, as though his last hope had vanished. “Come, Brandon, we will be late!” He started, as if frightened. We walked on i:i silence. 1 saw that there was a spell on my fiend. lie loved Carrie. It was ten o’clock when we returned. We entered the little parlor without noise. Mrs. Anderson was reclining on a faded lounge. Carrie was kneeling before her, and between sobs of joy and laughter, was pouring out to God a prayer of thanksgiving, it was a beautiful scene, that thankful mother and child, blend ing their praise to Him, who had proven himself good, and who had not forsaken them, in their time of trouble! The minis ter had brought them relief, as we afterward learned, just in time to meet their principa debtor, who had come to claim his “monies,” or the daughter’s hand in marriage, lie had foiled him, and left the inmates of that hum ble home happy, and now they were thank ing God for His remembrance of them. We could not resist the influence of the scene We wept. They were tears of joyful sym pathy—the sweetest, I venture, that Charles had ever shed. During our evening visit, he had poured out his soul to me. His love for Carrie—high, honorable, and exalting— was confessed; and with it, his determina tion to declare it, and to wed her, if she would consent, had been made known to rne. We waited until the prayer of the maiden was ended. We then entered, and for once in our lives, at least, fulfilled the scriptures, by “weeping with those that wept;” yet they were the dewy gladness of happy souls. “Rejoice wills us, Mr. Rviand, and yon too, Mr. Brandon, for God h <s been good to us,’ begun Mrs. Anderson, as soon as she saw us; and from that, she related, what we al ready well knew, and not as much either, as we did know. “'And now,” said she, “there is but one tiling wanting, to complete the pleasure of this mo ment; and that is a knowledge of our bene factor's name. He little knows all that he has saved us from ; for so unbelieving was my poor heart, that had no relief been sent us, I should have gone on my knees to that dear child, in supplication to her, to marry one, who, 1 know would have embittered her life, and broken her heart.” 1 could not see her fading like an untimely flower before my eyes, and all because of her unwearied toil for bread ; I would have plead with her, to have done that, which l would not now see her do, for worlds; and such is her devotion, I believe she would have yielded. “I love you, mother, more than life, but not more than honor ; and my honor, in the sight of heaven, would have been stained by the false vows that marriage would have forced from me.” “And Mr. Gillespie could tell you nothing of the source of your timely aid?” I en quired. “Yes, lie could,” answered Carrie ; “but he would not at present, he said.” “Have you no guess?” I ventured to ask, with as much indifference as 1 could as sume. “None in tho world,” said Mrs. Anderson. Carrie was silent. “And you, .Miss Anderson, have you none?” She hesitated, colored, changed position; but at last replied, in a Sinn voice, “1 have, Mr. Hyland.” “Will my unaffected interest in vonr hap piness, and that of your mother, be a suffi cient apology for my asking upon whom your suspicions have fallen ?” Site colored still more deeply—attempted to excuse herself—faltered in voice—looked confusedly toward Charles Brandon, and at last burst into tears, exclaiming, “I know he did it.” “What, Mr. Brandon?” ejaculated Mrs. Anderson. “Yes, Carrie, it was Charles,’’ I replied, “and there can be no better moment, for him to make vou farther confession, and to lay all iiis guilt before you, than the present. Come, Brandon, you must forgive my want of se cresy this one time, and endorse what I have said, as to your being Mrs. Anderson’s and Ca rrie’s bene fa c tor.” “I benefactor, Frank ? you ought not to—to have “To have told the truth, eh ? Come, Charles, this is a solemn moment—an eventful one, in your life. Yon love Carrie. If lam not mis taken, she has no particular dislike for you. Collect yourself—tel! her all, and be happy.” fie did tell her all, and they were happy. **:£*# * * More than three years have elapsed since Carrie and Charles were wedded in that humble cottage; and although it has been exchanged for a home of splendor, the stream of their wedded love, has only been chan neled the deeper, as time has flown on. [written expressly tor tiie southern sentinel.] BOOK NOTICES. The Religion of Geology and its Connected Sciences —by'Ed ward Hitchcock, 1).])., LL. D. Boston: Phillips & Sampson. Dr. Pye Smith, in liis “Scripture and Geol ogy,” was among the first Theologians speak ing our tongue, to take this “hull—of natu ral science—by the horns.” And notwith standing the abuse vented upon his temerity, and what were esteemed his unwarrantable concessions, by the pettifoggers of the day, all sound thinking divines now acknowledge his course to have been a proper one, and his work—while if admitted the ascertained data of geology—to have been an able vindication of the Word of God, from ihe aspersions cast upon it by mere babblers. Since that time, there have not been wanting other “de fenders of the Faith,” who, fortunately, have little in common with “bluff Harry,’’ except the energy with which they pursue their ob ject. The not undeserved reproach, that the advocates of Christianity have entrenched themselves behind bulwarks of mere asser tion and popular ignorance, using as weapons, the missiles of denunciation and anathema, is being fast wiped away, as one after another, valiant and stalwart knights, armed cap a pie, appear upon the field to do battle in the cause of “pure religion and undefiled.” To this little band our own country has contributed its quota. They mistake who imagine that Christian apology stands upon the basis it did at the beginning of this century. The ground of attack has changed entirely. Metaphy sics was once the scene of struggle. Now, most of our adversaries have changed their operations to the side of natural science. There must our theologians meet them in fair fight, with arms taken from botany, zoology, anatomy, physiology and geology, as well as from hermeneutics, ecclesiastical history and dogmatics. To these branches Gf-enquiry lot the Christian minister betake himself with all diligence, and find something worth know ing in the canons of nature as well as in the rubrics of the fathers. Another valuable aid in this direction is given in the work before us. A thoroughly scientific man, Dr. Hitchcock is not the less a Christian. Gathering up the richest ac quisitions of geology, he shows how the har mony between them and the religion of Je sus may be maintained. Ample and lucid in statement, frankly admitting the latest results of scientific research, his logically wrought argument makes these the friends, not foes, of spiritual life. No one can rise from a careful perusal of this volume without being a wiser and a better man ; while its candor in refusing to avoid what ought to be ex amined, his catholic courage, in believing that Christianity stands upon a wider and deeper foundation than ignorant sectarian bigotry would put it, his wide learning and unaffected humility, united with manly firm ness, are worthy all praise. This volume should find its way to the li brary of every clergyman, and all others who are interested in the discussion of one of the most vitall y important questions of the day. Life and Works of Robert Burns —Edited by Robert Chambers—volume second. New York: Harpers. We had occasion, a few weeks since, to call the attention of our readers to this work, destined to become the hand-book of the lov ers of the Scotch Bard. This volume gives an account of his six teen months’ residence at Edinburgh—his laureation there—the tapering off to the little end of an appointment in the excise; his re moval to Ellisland; marriage and entrance upon farm and excise life. The romantic episode of Sylvander and Clarinda, is fully and authentically brought out in this volume. As they say in the west, Burns was ‘’death on courting.” One cannot but be glad, how ever, that the injured Jean became hissnonsc, instead of .Mrs. M’Lehose, (Clarinda.) As before stated, this edition weaves the productions of the poet into the life of the man, so that he appears before us “as he really was This plan deepens our interest in his life and heightens the effect of his poems. Moreover, Mr. Chambers, sympathizing with his nation’s greatest poet, as every Scotsman should, is unawed bv a perverse public opinion, which has so long insisted upon doing injustice to the man. ll is is, there fore, the fairest life, whilst the amplitude of his materials has enabled him to make it the fullest, extant. It will, undoubtedly, take the place of all the other issues of the “Life and Works of Burns.” On a sultry morning, we sat down to look through the wanderer’s adventures; thinking, the while, it was more than any book could do to engross one into forgetfulness of his disagreeable circumstances; but ere we were aware, “the shades of night were falling fast,” and we had been dreaming the day long, with the llowadji, in the desert, beneath the soft eyes oi Khadra, the gazelle orbed Armenian girl, and upon the plains of Palestine, with Artoosh, the Bedoweon, upon his white mare, before us. The scenes are as warmly trans ferred to our memory as though we had re cently returned from Holy Land. For our author has the eye, and heart, and hand of a poet; and as he chaants his roundelay of the early sacred days of these old scenes, the coming of the crusaders, and the doings of Mohammad Alee and his wild son, Ibra him, Judea is before-you, with its associations, as in its naked, soul sickening grandeur. ‘ibis book lias delighted us more than any book of travels we have read for years. Combining the investiture of the bard with tiie accuracy of a close observer—conveying impressions, rather than dry details—he throws over all he beholds, the rich, soft coloring of a soul in sympathy with the East. We did not read Mr. Curtis’s first book, the “Nile Notes,” because we thought it was the same old story. But now we shall get it forthwith, and sail up die sacred River, looking through the How adji’s eyes. Cosmos; .4 Sketch of a Physical Description of the Universe —by Alexander Von Hum boldt —volume djli- New York: Harpers. To praise the crowning work of Hum boldt’s life were superfluous. Only this let us say—it is difficult which most to admire, the comprehensive view, united with a min utely exact statement, or the artistic work ing up of these almost unwieldy materials. This omnium gatherum of physical science will be as invaluable to the general reader as to the student of natural philosophy. This fourth volume is occupied by a con tinuation of the Uranological portion of the work, and commences, under the head of As trognosv, with the nebulous spots; then proceeding to the Solar Region, including the sun, planets, comets, zodiacal lights and shooting stars, with which, after a conclu sion, the volume closes. Appended to it, is a well digested index. Those of our readers who are interested in this most beautiful and profitable branch of study, would do well to obtain this great work as early as possible. Varied Phases of Life —by Airs. Caroline 11. Butler. Boston : Phillips <sc Sampson. This volume consists of a series of sketch es. published originally, we suppose, in the annuals and magazines. They are pleasant, and leaving a better impression than tales of this description usually do. We cannot say much for their naturalness and inventive genius. as just said, we think TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,...s2 OO “ “ “ “ “ in six months, 2 50 “ “ “ “ “ at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, - - - - - SI 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of those wh® advertise largely. NO. 32. them decidedly superior to the average of magazine matter. Papers from the Quarterly Review. New York: Apptetons. The avidity with which the “Papers from the London Times” were snatched up, has encouraged the Appleton's to publish selec tions from the Quarterly. Although we are not partial to its religion and politics, we ac cept, and recommend with heaitiness, its con tributions to literature, arts and philosophy, its versatility is not surpassed by any other, in the Printer’s Devil, Gastronomy and Gas tronomers, the Honey Bee, Music, and the Art of Dress, the reader will find a rich feast. In the hot summer days, when the mind, like the body, is little inclined to active and con tinued employment. Review reading is tho most profitable and attractive. It comes to us in beautiful type and durable binding. We think t-1 it* interest of purchasers would he much enhanced ii the name ot the author wercr attached. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. This beautiful ami popular song or ballad is said to have had its origin under the follow - ing circumstances, which give it additional interest: •Some years ago, when Woodworth, the I printer, ami several other “Old New York ers,” were brother typos in a printing otiieo which was situated at the corner ot Chat | ham street and Chambers, there o ere very few i places in the city of New Y ork where one. j could enjoy the luxury of a really “good | drink.” Among the few places most, worthy | of patronage,'was an establishment kept by Mallory, on Franklin street, on or about the soot where St. John’s Hull recently stood. Wood worth, in company with several partic ular friends, had “dropped in” at this place one alternoon for the purpose ot taking some “brandy and water,” which Mallory was fa mous for keeping. The liquor was super-excellent, and Wood worth seemed inspired by it; for, after taking a draught, lie laid his glass upon the table, (remember, reader, if you please, that in those “rare old times,” a mao rarely met a friend without inviting him to imbibe,) and smacking his lips, declared that Mallory’s scau dc vie. was superior to any he ever tas ted. “No,” said M., “you are quite mistaken ; there was one thing, which in both of our es timations, far surpasses this, in the way of dunking.” “What was that ?” asked Wood worth, dubiously. “'The draught of pure fresh spring water that we used to drink from the old oaken bucket that hung in the well, after our return from the labors of the field on a sultry day in summer.” The tear-drop glistened for a moment in Woodworth's eye. “True! trim!” he replied, and soon after quitted the place. He re turned to the office, grasped the pen, and in half an hour, “The Old Oaken Bucket,” one of the most delightful compositions in our language, was ready, in manuscript, to be embalmed in the memories of succeeding generations. Tire Old Oaken Racket. flow dear to this heart aio the scenes of ray child hood, When fond recollection presents them to view l The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- , wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; Tiie wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood a by it, The bridge and tiie rock where the cataract fell; The cot <.f my father and the dairy-house nigh it, And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well! The old oaken bucket, tiie iron-bound bucket, Tiie moss-covered bucket, that hung in the well. The nios covered vessel I hail ns a treasure; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an c-xquisite pleasure, . The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow ing, And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! P’-xi Not a full gushing goblet couid tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved Tiie tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation, And sighs for the bucket which bangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well. “dem’s ’em.” A pious old negro, while saying grace at the table, not only us’d to ask a blessing on till he had upon his board, but would also pe tition to have some deficient dish supplied.— One day it was known that Cato was out of potatoes, and suspecting that he would pray for the same at dinner, a wag provided him self with a small measure of the vegetables andstole under the window near which stood the table of our colored Christian. Soon Ca todrew up a chair and commenced: “Oh, rnassa Lord ! wiltdow in dy provident kindness condescend to bress ebery ting be fore us; and be pleased to ’stow upon its just a few’taters, and all de praise—” (Here the potatoes were dashed upon the table, up setting the mustard pot.) “Denis ‘em, rnassa Lord !” said Cato, looking up with surprise. “Only just luff’em down leellc easier next time /” - |j The Infallible Cube.— Wise — “Oh, Doctor, if you could cure my poor dear Au gustus, l should be so thankful! Two or three times a week he was attacked with ; these horrible vertigoes, accompanied by j weakness, and a slight wandering of the 1 mind, indicated bv his calling his poor dear papa—(who is a deacon, you know)— a jolly j old brick.” Patient —“ Don’t suppose, old Ipecac, that I’m drunk; a little bricky,that’s all.” Doctor —‘‘These peculiar cases of vertigo are very prevalent, ma’am, and very obstinate, and a change of climate is the only remedy. I often recommend, therefore, a removal to the State of Maine, where the salubrity of the atmosphere will at once eradicate the disease.”