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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL IS PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, BY T. LOMAX & CO. TENNENT LOMAX, pkincipal Editor. Ojfice on Randolph street. Cilenmj Department. Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. [written for the SENTINEL.] Welcome to the Summer Shower. Thou art welcome, thrice welcome, oh! life-giving j shower! Earth opens to greet thee her hundred arms— She clasps thee, with smiles,to her bosom once more, j And decks with thy treasures her sun-faded charms. ) The trees of the forest their long banners wave, And toss their green plumes in thy silvery spray ; And the zephyr, awaked from its feverish sleep, Unfurls its light wings and flies murmuring away. The roses that long have hung pale on their stems, And pined for the kiss of the slumbering gale, Now curl their soft leaves, to imprison thy gems, Ere the sunlieams their vanishing brightness exhale, j The birds bid thee welcome—oh! solt-falling shower! j They bathe in thy moisture their quivering wings ; And oh! the sweet anthems that roll through the bower— The chorus that mid the green orchestra rings. The streams bid thee welcome, oh ! beautiful shower! They ripple, they leap, at thy joyous return ; The nymphs of the fountain are weeping no more, Slut fill from thy bounty the earth’s empty urn. They hail thee with rapture, oh! crystalir.e drops ! | The birds and the streamlets, the trees and the flowers— And man, in the transport of rain-horn hopes, Reclines his warm brow on the cool-bosomed hours, i j Ye are fading—ye vanish, fair pearls of the sky ! But beauty and fragrance remain in your stead ; Bo the spirit sends up a sweet incense on high, When o’er it the dew of repentance is shed. C. L. 11. Quincy, July 22. [ WRITTEN FOE THE SENTINEL. ] Thoughts. BY MRS. JULIA C. E. DOUR. Ye airy children of the mind, Swiftly ye come and go— As shadows, when the tall trees wave Their dark boughs to and fro; As sparkles on the rivulet— As white foam on the sea— And whence ye come we know not, Or what your quest may be! But yet, mysterious visitants, We tremble at your power— The tearful “web of destiny” Ye are weaving, hour by hour! So timid are ye, that a breath Can frighten ye away— And yet the haughtiest spirit yields To your resistless sway! Chatham Four Corners, N. Y. fWKITTF.N F.XFRF.SaLY FOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL.] j BELL AND ROSE. CHAPTER I. “Oh ! what a pure and sacred thing Is beauty, curtained from the sight Os the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light! Unseen by man’s disturbing eye, The flower that blcoms beneath the sea, Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie Ilid in more chaste obscurity.”— Moore. ‘•I am so thirst}’, brother. I must have some of the water gushing from that spring. Oh • it looks so cool and inviting.” Thus exclaimed Bel! Raymond, to her brother Frank, reining in her horse as she spoke. They were both on horseback, hav ing taken a long jaunt into the country, to visit some friends; and now on their homeward way, Bell began to be a little weary, and ve ry thirsty, and very warm. She caught sight of a silver, singing spring, flashing through a little thicket of shrubbery, and nothing would serve but a draught of the sparkling water. “We have no eup,” said Frank. “You can make one of oak leaves.” “I see a nice little cottage, a few yards ahead, where we can borrow a drinking uten sil. Who knows but there is some sweet little country lassie there—a rose in the wil derness? Shall I go?” “Yes; but I will accompany you,” said Bell, springing from her horse, and gathering tip her riding dress with an impatient ges ture. “I do despise these long, sweeping skirts,” aid she, tossing the folds over her left arm; “they are so wretchedly in one’s way.” “But they are so graceful, Bell.” “W hat is the use of being graceful, with no one to admire me, but a brother ?” said she, laughing. \\ bile they were talking, they were getting j Dear the cottage, which, though a rough, un- i painted, low and time-worn building, had still j .an air of neatness and comfort, and even ttaste was not wanting—for there were vines trained to shade the low windows, and flower pots were placed against the wall. “There she is, bv ail that is charming!” ly seventeen or eighteen summers, came to the door, with a very bright blush, and very sweet smile, and a very low courtesy, and asked them to walk in. She looked bashful and embarrassed, hut not awkwardly so, and though her dress was of plain domestic, it fitted so perfectly to her lithe and slender figure, one would hardly wish it exchanged for silk or muslin. A knot of pink ribbon, that fastened her hair behind, relieved the plainness of her attire, and matched the ro ses of her slightly sun-burned cheek. Bell, to the surprise of her brother, instead of asking for a cup, accepted the invitation to walk in, and followed the young cottager through a narrow passage, into the plainest, most primitive-looking apartment she had ev er entered. Frank, delighted with an adven ture which opened so auspiciously, followed her with a number of superfluous bows, in tended no doubt to make a favorable impres sion on the young hostess. The furniture consisted of a half-dozen plain chairs, a table of stained pine, and an old-fashioned cloek, with a moon-face, and a startlingly .loud VOL. 111. i tick. The chimney was ornamented with fresh, odorous pine-boughs, and some beauti ful wild flowers adorned the rnantlepiece.— But a still greater ornament appeared in the shape of books, arranged on a shelf, on the right of the fire-place, and which Frank’s quick eye detected the moment he entered the room. “I fear we intrude,” said Bell, seating her self at the same time, with a very-much-at home air; “but we called to beg a cup, to dip water from your beautiful spring. I have been riding so’far, and am so very thirsty— then it is so insufferably warm!” Untying the ribbons that fastened her plumed riding-cap, she threw it upon the next chair, and shook her beautiful hair back from her moist forehead. “Really, Bell, you do make yourself very much at home,” exclaimed her brother. ‘ One would think you were preparing to stay hours, instead of moments.” “I would not care how long I staid,” re plied she, looking eagerly rout.d her. “This is such a cool, shady, quiet spot —I am per fectly in love with it. But please get me some water—that is, if the young lady will be kind enough to lend us a cup.” “I will get you some, with pleasure,” cried the young girl, turning quickly to the door. ‘ By no means,” exclaimed Frank, spring ing after her. “I cannot allow you to take so much trouble. Ia t accustomed to wait on my sister, who, 1 assure you, is a very ar bitrary young lady.” “It is no trouble,” said she, quietly gliding between him and the door, and stepping across the threshold. “Well, let me go and assist you,” he cried, with persevering gallantry, and was about to follow her, when Bell called after him : “Don’t, Frank. You embarrass her. She does not wish you to go.” “Embarrass her! Why, she has as much self-possession as you have, though not half the impudence. Bless you, Bell, for being seized with a fit of thirst on this identical spot, and for discovering the spring, which entirely escaped inv heedless eye. But let us peep into those hooks, and perhaps we can find out the name of our borinie lassie. Well done! the Lady of the Lake, to begin with. There is poetry for you—and here’s her own sweet name, 1 am confident—Rose Mayfield. Rose, sweet Rose, flower of the wilderness and blossom of the vale. Was there ever any thing so appropriate?” “Brother! how foolishly you run on. But she really is a nice, prett\ 7 girl, and 1 like her. To think of finding her here alone—she must have somebody living with her, surely—and these books! How in the world came she by those books? There is Plutarch’s Lives, and Rollin’s History, and Cowper, and Mil ton, and Thomson. Bless me, what a clas sic library!” “She’s coming,” exclaimed Frank, glancing from the window, “with all the grace of a Hebe, and all the lightness of a wood-nymph. She is a perfect sac-simile of the Lad y of the Lake: “What though no rule of courtly grace Has trained her mood to measured pace, A step more light, a foot more true, Ne’er from the heath-flower dashed the dew ; E’en the light harebell lifts its head, Elastic from her airy tread.” Rose—for such was indeed her name— came in while the last line was upon his lips, with a waiter, upon which were two tumblers of the clearest and purest crystal. Bell did not believe the establishment contained such luxuries. Never did water taste so cold and so refreshing. Frank drank it very slowly, looking at the Hebe through the bottom of the glass, whose irregular surface multiplied her into myriad forms. “You are fond of reading, I see,” remark ed Bell. “You have some choice books here.” “Yes,” answered Rose, “I do love reading very much. I can hardly dream of a greater pleasure.” “When I ride this way again, I will bring you some books,” said Frank; “you have probably read all these.” “Oh ! many times,” cried she, so earnest ly that she blushed at her own warmth. “I believe 1 know the poems all by heart.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Bell, “how I envy you. I don’t believe I could repeat six lines to save my existence. I love it. It is very sweet. But it is like music. It dies away, and you know not whither it is gone. It is so much trouble to commit to memory.” “I never tried to commit it,” said Rose. “It stays in my memory without my knowing it, and comes back to me when I am not seek ing to recall it.” “Do yon not feel very lonely here ?” asked Frank, irresistibly curious to learn something of the inmates of the household. “Oh, no!” she answered with animation. “I have not time to be lonely during the day, and father is always at home in the evening. Besides, there is an old woman in the kitch en, who takes away the feeling of loneli ness.” “Your father is a—hem—l presume—” cried Frank, allowing his curiosity to get the ad vantage of his politeness. “Your father's pro fession takes him much from home, I sup pose.” “My father is a farmer, sir,” she said sim ply, though a smile perceptibly curled her lips, “He goes abroad with the rising, and j returns with the setting sun.” “I wish I were a fanner,” said Frank era | phaticaliy. “I do believe they must be the happiest men in the world.” | “I wish I were a farmer’s daughter,” said ®je Southern Sentinel Bell, with a sigh, “and lived in such a snug little place as this. It must he so nice. But come, brother, our mother will wonder what detains us so long.” Smoothing back her hair, she drew her cap towards her by one string, with a jerk that milled the long, sweeping plumes, and swinging it round several times, gave it a toss on her head, at.d in spite of all, it set there gracefully and becomingly. Then flirting her riding dress over her arm, she rose, and leaning out of the window, bcoke off a green twig from an acacia tree, whose branches waved against the house. “What’s the use of all those bewitching airs, Bell, when there’s no one to admire but a brother?” asked Frank, laughing. Without noticing him, she turned to Rose, and thanked her with smiling grace for her kindness and hospitality, begged permission to come and see her again, and left the cot tage. “I shall not forget the books,” said Frank, whose movements were more tardy. “There are some poets wanting in your collection, which I shall be most happy to supply.” “I thank you,” she replied, with a deep blush, “but 1 do not think I ought to trouble you. I could not accept so great a favor from a stranger.” “Let me lend them to you then. Y r ou are not too proud to accept so trilling a\i obliga tion. You call me a stranger, and that re minds me that we have not introduced our selves to you—a most unpardonable omis sion. Your humble servant is ycleped Frank Raymond—my sister, Bell Raymond— names, 1 trust, you will not altogether for get.” “My name is Rose Mayfield,” she replied with simplicity, believing him entirely igno rant of the fact, and aware that politeness required of her a reciprocal frankness. “I could have sworn it was no other,” ejaculated Frank. “It is in vain to say the Rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” “Frank, Frank, yon loiterer, cotne along,” exclaimed the gay voice of Bell, who had mounted her horse and rode directly under the window. As bhe bent her head and peeped through the acacia leaves, wh'.eh min gled with her plumes and her light-brown curls, her blue eves sparkling with mischief and mirth, a chc’iumg picture, on which Rose gazed with delighted admiration. Never had so fair a vision gilded their hum ble cottage. Seldom does one so fair adorn the halls of wealth and fashion. Frank watched the countenance of Rose. No shade of envy darkened its sunshine. Its expres sion was even rapturous, and yet that rapture was inspired by the beauty and elegance of another, enhanced bj r all the advantages of dress and embellishment, denied to herself. Agaiti Beil repeated her summons, and Frank was compelled to make his parting bow, and though it was one of lowly defer ence, there was no mockery in it, as in his fashionable greeting salutation. Bell was in high spirits. Rested from her fatigue, refreshed by the pure draughts from the fountain, and delighted with her new ac quaintance, she rallied Frank without mercy on the evident impression which the young cottager had made on his imagination, if not his heart. But when, after their return home, and in the presence of their high-bred and aristocratic mother, she continued her rail- j leries, lie did not bear them with so good a ! grace. Mrs. Raymond never moved beyond the charmed circle of wealth and fashion, and the idea of her children being interested in anything out of their own peculiar sphere, was preposterous and degrading. Frank, knowing so well her views of society, had warned Bell, pieviousto their arrival, not to shock her prejudices and opinions, but the wilful girl disregarded his injunctions and amused herself by alarming her mother’s pride— “ You have no idea how much Frank ad mired her, mother,” continued Bell. “He lingered on the threshold long after I was mounted for flight, making the prettiest speeches imaginable ” “Frank Raymond making fine speeches to a coarse, vulgar, country girl must have been a novel spectacle,” exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, in a tone of derision. “Very coarse and vulgar, indeed, mother,” repeated Frank, quietly. “Why, Frank, it is no such thing,” inter rupted Bell; “on the contrary, she is quite refined and lady-like, and knows more poet ry by heart than I have ever read. Her hands are as small as mine and almost as white.” Bell held out a pair of the fairest hands in the world, all sparkling with rings. “She had probably been rubbing them with flour,” said Frank, gravely. “Were they not as hard as boards ?” “Oh, no—quite soft and v’ielding. You know she said there was an old woman in the kitchen who does all the work for the family—l suppose, while she reads poetry and cultivates flowers. I wish I could change places with her a little while. She looked so nice and happy.” “Isabel—Bell,” cried Mrs. Raymond, re proachfully, “how ungrateful in you to breathe such a wish, when you never knew a desire that was not gratified ; when you have been the most indulged, caressed and petted of human beings!” “That is the very reason, my own dear, indulgent mother, that I am dissatisfied. If j you would only deny me something that I COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 23, 1852. want, throw some obstacles in the way of mv wishes, excite me by opposition, it seems to me I should be a great deal happier. Eve rything is so smooth and monotonous, it is impossible to keep off the demon of ennui.” “Well, Bell, I will try to gratify you in one respect —by forbidding you ever to visit that cottage again, or to renew your familiar ity with one so much beneath you.” “But I told her I would call again,” said Bell, with animation; “and Frank promised to lend her some books.” “Frank will do no such thing,” cried his mother, haughtily. “If he forgets himself so far as to think of cultivating an intimacy so degrading, I shall exercise my maternal au thority, and treat him as a boy in years, as he seems to be in action.” “But I am not a boy, mother,” cried Frank, gayly, but decidedly, “and I think it hard if a young man of three and-twenty cannot be civil to a discreet, well-spoken damsel, with out being scolded, and threatened with the rod of correction.” “You need not always be telling your age, Frank,” said the still young-looking and handsome Mrs. Raymond. “Please don’t call me a boy then, mother.” Bell was roused to full energy by her mother’s unexpected prohibition. “You treat me like a child five years old,” said she, pettishly. “I suppose if lam riding and literally dying of thirst, I must not stop to quench it, and I must repay hospitality with rudeness, and politeness with ill-breed ing” “Y r ou know my meaning, Bell; why do you pervert it so ?” “1 do not like to be treated like a baby-” “Did not you ask me to deny you some thing ?” “Y’es,” answered Bell, laughing at her own waywardness; “but I did not expect to meet with compliance.” Bell retired to her chamber, to prepare for an evening party, which she had engaged to attend. She said she did not wish to go; that she would not go; yet she bid her wait ing maid open her wardrobe and takeout one by one, her beautiful fancy dresses, for in spection. “Not that pink gauze. I have been riding in the sun and look too red for that.” “Oh! you have such a lovely complexion to-night,” said Anna, the young waiting maid. “Let me see the blue, trimmed with silver.” “This makes you look so fair,” cried the girl, holding up the glittering tissue in the glancing light. “Put it away ; it is too gaudy; only fit for an actress. I wish 1 had but one plain, do mestic dress, and I would know what to wear. I do think this dressing is the most tedious, annoying business in the world. Bring me that white gossamer over satin—l will wear nothing but white to-night—no jewels. Cos into the green-house and gather some white rose buds and geranium leaves. I will wear no other ornaments.” Bell had a sudden fit of simplicity, and tried to look like a simple cottage maid, in her white robes and natural flowers; and she did look surpassingly lovely ; she was told so at least a hundred times in the course of the evening; but praises of her beauty were so common, she heeded them not. Her interest was excited by the appearance of a stranger, who, unlike most strangers, did not seek an immediate introduction to herself, the reign ing belle of the season. He stood aloof from the crowd which surrounded her, a man of noble person and dark and striking coun tenance. When she first saw him, he was standing by a table looking at some engravings, which he appeared to be explaining to a lady, who listened with delighted attention. He did not look very young, yet no one would think of calling him old. He was certainly the most elegant-looking gentleman in the room, and as time glided on, and he did not ap proach her to pay her the customary tribute of homage and admiration, she felt mortified and disappointed—she was sure he was a distinguished personage. He had such an air of dignity and high breeding, and every one paid him so much deference and seemed so much flattered by his notice. She would not ask his name, for she did not like to have it supposed she was ignorant of it, hut when her brother came near, she eluded her admi rers for a few moments, and begged of him to satisfy her curiosity. “Why, that is Mr. Urvin, just returned from a five years’ sojourn in Europe, Asia, and Africa, for what 1 know. They call him the distinguished traveller, and he really is a fine looking man, with very elegant and dignified manners.” “I do not see why he should assume such airs, if he has travelled,” said Bell, in a tone of pique. “Ah! I see how it is,” said Frank laughing; “he has not paid tribute to her royal Majes ty, the queen of the evening. Do not be an gry, but I overheard our hostess offer to in troduce him to you. ‘Thank you, madam,’ said he, with a sarcastic smile, ‘but I always shun a belle.’ ” “Arrogant!’’ exclaimed Bell, her cheek flushing brightly as she spoke. “I am sure I do not ask or wish his notice. He shall rue the day he ever made that speech,’’ she added to herself. “Our little Rose would suit him,” whisper ed Frank. “She certainly is prettier than any of the damsels here, making the usual exceptions—and then she has so much heart and soul in her lace.” Bell scarcely heard what he said of Rose ; her mind was dwelling on the remark of the elegant traveller, w hose avoidance had made the attentions of all others irksome and dis tasteful. Taking the arm of her brother, she w’alked to the opposite side of the room, too much excited to remain in one position. “There he comes,” said Frank, in a low voice; “but, pray, don’t look so scornful. Let him see how sweet and amiable a belle can appear.” But it was too late. The scornful lip had not time to smooth itself into a smile before they passed him, and Bell could not help giving her ringlets a toss that discomposed her white rose-buds and brought them down, in a fra grant #hower, at his feet. Stooping down, he gathered them up and presented them to her with a respectful bow. He did not retain so much as a geranium leaf, but handed them to her with as little sentiment as if it w r ere a bonnet she had dropped, instead of flowers. As Bell look them from his hand, she looked up and met his eyes. Never had she seen anything so dark, so piercing, so brilliant, yet so awe-inspiring, as that single glance. With a deeper blush than had ever before dyed her cheek, she slightly bowed and passed on. She had prepared a look of great indiffer ence, bordering on contempt —but she forgot to put it on, and it was well that she did, for it certainly would not have increased Mr. Urvin’s admiration of belles. [ TO BF. CONTINUED. ] [WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.] TWO SCENES FROM A COMEDY OF THE BLOOMERS. BY JONNY SANDS. DRAMATIS PERSONzE. Maks Lumkin, Mrs. Lumkin, Augustus Jenkins, Mrs. Jenkins, Helen Lumrin, A Servant. ACT THE FIRST. [ Mark Lumkin is scaled beside the fire, darning a pair of boy's pant-si] Lumkin. “Now is the winter of my discontent” made more intolerable by this cruel despotism, this reign of women over the once mighty lords of creation ! Now, the victorious wreath that once bound the brow of the male warrior, is, I suppose, to he a fe male trophy, without any dispute as to their tight or title. And now, instead of “mounting barbed steeds,” with the bright sword glittering by our sides, we must content ourselves with an humble seat beside the fire, and the exer cise of a small stiletto, called, ah, me ! a darn ing needle! But all this I could have borne meekly, quietly, if she had only Left me rny breeches; for she who “steals my parse, steals trash,” but she who steals m3 7 breeches robs tne of the last vestige of manhood. But hark! she comes —my sovereign queen ! she whom I have sworn to love, honor, and obey. (Tad with the work still in his hands, runs to the cradle, and rocking it with his foot, sings:) By O’baby bunking, Mama’s gone a hunting, .. V To get a little rabbit skin ‘■■W To wrap* tha baby up in. [ Enter Mrs. Lumkin. Mrs. L. Well, Mark, have you completed your task ? I suppose you know that Willy has no pants to wear to school to-morrow, unless you have them ready ? I knew that it would be late before the Convention adjourn ed to-night, as we had business of importance to transact, so it would have been impossible for me to have darned them after my return. If you are not done, sit down and finish, while I make a cigar. ( She takes a seat with a ci gar in her mouth.) Mark, did you carry those pants to the tailor to-day ? Lumkin. Y’es, my dear; but I was too much hurried to have them cut out. Mrs. Lumkin. Oh, very well, then, for I have concluded to have them made up for myself, so } 7 ou need not trouble any more about them. Perhaps I may find you anoth er pair some day. Lumkin. But, my dear, you know Mrs. Lumkin. Oh! don’t say any thing more about it. I am determined to have them, and you must wait until I can get you another pair. However, Mark, you are not needing them at present ; for a little skillful darning, and a few small patches, would real ly make your old black ones look quite genteel, and by wearing a long-tail coat, and keeping very quiet, you might do very well, even for a party. xYnd I must insist, Mark, on a retrenchment of your expenses this year ; there is no necessity for your spending so much, and you know I must furnish Helen with an elegant “trousseau” when she mar ries Augustus Jenkins. I know that you ap prove of the plan, and will adopt it, for unless a husband should agree with his wife, there can be none of that peace and quiet in do mestic life, which I admire so much. Lumkin. I am well convinced of that, my dear. Mrs. Lumkin. Well, if you have finish ed, go and see if rny room is prepared, and be sure to put the pants where Willy can find them to-morrow. [Exit Lumkin. Mrs. Lumkin, (alone.) Oh! this is a glo rious era in the life of woman ! thanks to our patron Saint, the great, the incomparable Mrs. Bloomer! as the immortal Washington delivered his country from the yoke of British tyranny and servitude, so that noble and courageous woman has thrown off’ the cruel yoke that bound us as household drudges, to the will and caprice of a lord and master. But now, the cares and trials of our domestic life are in “the deep bosom of the ocean bu ried,’’ and the once despised and degraded women will now shine as bright and perpet ual stars in the galaxy of fame. (She sings:) The lords of creation, men they call, And they think they rule the whole; But they’re much mistaken, after all, For they're under women’s control — As ever since the world began, It has always been the way; f’or did not Adam, the very first man, The very first woman obey, obey, obey, Tho vory first woman obey ? Now, ladies, since I've made it plain That the thing is really so, We’ll never let them hold the rein, Or show us the way to go— ’ Just keep it up as we’ve began, And their power shall vanish away; And we’ll manage it so that the very last man Shall the very last woman obey, &c. [Curtain falls. ACT SECOND. [An apartment in A[rs. Jenkins’ house. Au gustus is reclining oil a sofa u-ith a book in his hand. After reading some time, looks at his watch.'] Augustus. A few minutes more, and Hel en Lumkin will he here. “O! cease, my heart—thy throbbing hide,” that I may be prepared to reply calmly to the important propositions 1 know she will make. How long and devotedly have I loved that strong minded woman ! Asa hollyhock, or sun flower, she towers above her sex, and causes them to hang their blushing heads with mor tified vanity, at their own insignificance. As the vine clings to the oak, so will I cling with conscious weakness, to the stout heart of my noble Helen, and then defy the rage of every tempest that may threaten me. It’s strange that I cannot still this wild throb bing of my heart! I hope I won’t faint when the dear girl proposes. Yet I fear I shall be completely overcome, at a certainty of the happiness I have so long sighed for. A few drops of camphire perhaps may quiet my I nerves, and “screw my courage to the stiek- I ing place.” I will try it, (liepours it into a glass and drinks.) Ah ! I feel better now. (He returns to the sofa and reads.) I[A servant announces “Miss Lumkin.” Miss Lumkin enters.] Miss Lumkin. Good morning, Mr. Jen kins. Augustus. Good morning, Miss Helen; take a seat. I am delighted to have your company to-day. Aliss Lumkin. You flatter me, Mr. Jen kins; but I am happy to be with you. I hope you sutler no inconvenience from hav j ing attended the opera, last evening? Augustus. Only a great shock of the | nerves, caused by my being compelled to lis ! ten to Signor Furiesso’s terrible voice; like the harsh filing of a rasp, it occasionally gra ted over my too sensitive nerves, and caused me to feel as if I could have turned three back summersets out of the door, and dashed my brains out against the pavement. Miss Lumkin. My dear Augustus, then I must really insist on your remaining away, for should such a terrible disaster occur, what could I possibly do to fill the vacuum your loss would create in this devoted heart of mine ? No, dear Augustus, you will not he guilty of such rashness. On my bended | knee, (she falls on her knee,) let me implore | you not to break the heart of your poor Hel en, and grant me permission from ment, to be your guardian and protector through life; let that delightful duty be mine to guard your sensitive nature from the jars and discords of this rough and unfeeling world. Say !oh ! say, dearest! wilt thou be mine ? (She takes his hand.) , • , Augustus. You must really ask mama. (He replies feebly, as if quite overcome, and falls back upon the sofa in a swoon.) Miss Lumkin. Bless you, my dearest, hut don’t, oh! don’t faint! Oh! what shall I do! (She runs to the table, takes up a bottle, and saturating her handkerchief with the liquid, bathes his face. She suddenly stops and ga zes in his face, which is perfectly black.) Gracious! what can it be? What have I done? Bathed his face in ink, mistaking it for cologne! Well, really, lam more incli ned to laugh, than to call in assistance; hut the poor fellow must have his face washed, for if he sees it in this plight, he will be more inclined to commit suicide than when listen ing to Signor Furiesso last night. [Exit. [Enter Airs. Jenkins and Servant.] Airs. Jenkins. Helen Lumkin frightened me out of my wits by saying my son had fainted; but what possessed the saucy girl to call that great black scamp my son ? My son, indeed ! I’ll teach this fine Othello how to take his siestas on my sofa. Come, get up here! get up, I say! (jerking him. by the hand.) Don’t you know better than to come into my parlor, you drunken vagabond? Take him out! (The servant takes his other hand—they pull him up.) Go out, I say! (She beats him in the back.) Augustus. (Opens his eyes and looks wild ly around.) Helen! my dear Helen! (They carry him out.) [Enter Helen, convulsed with laughter.] Aliss Lumkin. Oh, it served him right for fainting. I hope it will cure him of this foolish habit; but I must go after them and explain the matter, for she has beaten him quite enough for the present. [Exit. Curtain falls. TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,...§2 00 “ “ “ **’ “ in six months, 250 “ “ “ “ “ at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, - - - - - $1 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of these wh* advertise largely. NO. 39. fWRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.] PAPER —ITS ORIGIN, ETC. Col. Lomax : This most useful substance, which has pro cured for us an incalculable advantage over the ancients, in the of diffusing an 4 perpetuating knowledge, was first used by the ancient Egyptians—or at least they are the first people of whom we have any ac count of using any material to write upon— and that substance was papyrus, and hence the modern word, paper. The papyrus wa a plant from which the fibrous membranes were stripped, and formed rude sheets. The Chinese are said to have understood the art of making paper from rags, about the com mencement of tho Christian era, and was thence brought to Mecca, along with the ar ticle itself, about the beginning of the Bth century. From thence the Arabs carried it in their rapid career of conquest and coloni zation, to the coasts of Barbary, and into Spain, about the end of the oth and begin ning of the 10th century. Whether the Eu ropean mode of making paper was derived from that quarter, is not clearly known. The art was introduced into Europe amid the ob scurities of the middle ages, and most likely through the ingenuity of the Arabians. It was not till the beginning of the 14th century, that paper was made from linen, in Europe, by the establishment of a paper mill in 1390, at Nurernburg, in Germany. The first paper mill in England was erected at Dartford, by a German jeweller, in the ser vice of Queen Elizabeth, about the year 1588, hut the business did not prove success ful ; consequently, for a long period of years —indeed, till within the last 100 years—Eng land was supplied with its fine writing paper from Holland and France. Little progress was made in the manufac ture of paper in this country, till within tho last 70 years. The first paper mill in New England—if not the first in the country—was erected in 1729. An act to encourage the manufacture of paper in New England was passed by the General Court of Massachu setts on the 13th September, 1728, and a pa tent was granted to a company of individu als, for the sole manufacture of paper for ten years, on the following conditions: In the first fifteen months, to make 110 reams of brown or wrapping paper, and sixty reams of printing paper. The second year to make fifty reams writing paper, in addition to tho above, the third year; and afterwards yearly, to make 25 reams of a superior quality of writing paper in addition to the former men tioned, and that the total amount produced of the various qualities, not to he less than 500 reams, (about as much as we can make at Hock Island mill in one week.) In compli ance with the above act, the aboveupaentioned company erected a small mill at Milton, a few miles from Boston. At that time, it was # very difficult to procure workmen enough to keep the mill in operation, and in fact it was stopped for several years for the want of workmen, and it was not till 1760, that it was again put in operation, and then only by the procuring of a paper maker from a British regiment then stationed in Boston, who obtain ed a furlough long enough to set the mill to woik; hut on the regiment to which he be longed being ordered to Quebec, the Com mander-in-chief would not permit him to re main behind ; consequently the mill was again stopped for a short time, hut was put in op eration again by an Englishman and his son, who were said to be good workmen, and car ried on the business successfully. Such is tho origin of the first paper mill in New England, if not the first in America, and such was the commencement of that now incalculable and extensive branch of produc tive industry, on which so many thousands depend for support. There are bat few things which place in a more striking light, the vast improvements which have been made in the mechanic arts in this country, than the construction of paper mills now, compared with what they were then. And now, dear sir, having given you a short history of the origin of paper making, and its introduction into this country, (for which facts I am indebted to various Encyclope dia!,) I will close this communication, with the promise of giving you in my next (should you wish to hear from me again) some ac count of the progress of the business in this country, and the amount of paper manufac tured at the present time, &c. &c. Till then I remain, respectfully, youre, G. B. CURTIS. Rock Island Factory, 1852. C 27™ Wit is Capital. —“ There’s our Ger shom,” said Mr. Shelton, “he must go off to the city, to get his living by his \drts.” “Well, how did he make out ?” asked a friend. “Ah!” said the old man with a sigh, tapping his forehead significantly, “he failed for want of capital.” (Hr Miss Gilmore was courted by a man named Haddock. “I only want, love,” said he, “one gill more to make me a perfect fish.” OO” A Remedy. —A young gentleman of Detroit, who has of late been much afflicted by palpitation of the heart, says he found con siderable relief bv pressing another palpita ting heart to his bosom. Queer, isn’t it ? 03“ The latest Life of the Democratic Candidate for President declares that his manners are very Frank ar.d his eyes quite Pierce- ing. O” A negro was brought before a magis trate and convicted of pilfering. The latter begins to remonstrate—“Do you know how to read ?” “Yes, massa, little.” “Well, don’t you never make use of the bible ?” “Yea, massa, I strap my razor on it sometimes,”