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the southern sentinel 18 PUBLISHRI> EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, BY T. LOMAX & CO. TEXXKNT LOMAX, Principal Editor. O Hre on Randolph street. Citcvanj Department. Conducted BY CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ. [From the Southern Literary Messenger.! Mobile, (Ala.) May 26, 1849. My Dear Sir —Herewith I send you a poem, from ihe pen of a friend, which he has consented to have published at my instance. Were lat liberty to com municate his name, you would find it one highly distin guished at the South, in many departments, both of Thought and Action. Like the young German, Kor ner, the. author has twined the brightest laurels of the Muses around the crimson splendors of the sword— with the superadded di-tinction of the statesman. — These verses will speak their own praise. They are a touching tribute of paternal affection, and seem al most the very tears ol love crystalized into poetry by the spell ol genius. Since the monody of Mason, on the death <>t his wife, 1 know nothing of the kind more beautiful or pathetic. Thus much you can say from me. Very truly your friend, A B. MEEK. J. K. Thompson, Esq., Editor So. Lit. Messenger. I, INKS To the Rev. Edward Fontaine, Pontotoc , Miss IS REPLY TO Some RECEIVED FROM HIM. A welcome to thy minstrel skill, Dear friend of happier days ; Thy notes are sweet, but sweeter still, The love that prompts thy lays. From sorrows deep and cherish’d long, Thou fain woiildst free my heart, — Thou wouidst, by thy enchanting song, Thy own mild peace impart. But vain it is iliy harp to strike ; My woes thou eanst not drown, Unless thy notes, Cecilia’s like, Can draw an Angel down.. Until I meet my daughter fair, Lost Pl- iad of my soul, The burning tears of my despair Must ever, ever roll. Nor would I. if I could, revive From my distraction wild : 1 love the grief that keeps alive, The memory of my child ; And if again by hope betray’d, My soul should court repose, How poorly would the guilt be paid By all that earth bestows ! The morning star that fades from sight, Still beams upon the mind ; So doth her beauty leave the light Os memory belt nd ; Tho’ lost to earth —t o early gone— By others seen no more, She is to me still shining on And brig ler than before. The smile she wore when last we met, The tear she shed at parting, The kiss upon my eyelids set. To keep my own from starting, Like bright remember’d dtcainß of bliss, Are lingering with me yet ; That smile and tear and parting kiss, O, how can I forget ! And you, my friend, who knew her worth, And loved that worth to praise, And bow amidst the ills of earth, She walked in beauty’s ways, M ill not condemn the grateful tears, The ever flowing stream. That keeps a loveiim ss like hers, In memory fresh and green. No! let me still in silence keep My vigils o'er her tomb. And with my tears forever steep The flnw’rs that o’er it bloom, Tho’ all the world should pass it by, A place remember’d not, *Tis meet that I should linger nigh, And bless that hallowed spot. The sacred love—the holy woes, Awaken’d by the dead, Are like the fragrance of the rose, When all its hues are fled ; And. as beside the grave we stand, The mournful thoughts that rise, Are whispers from the spirit land, Sweet voices from the skies. Then leave. O ! leave me to my grief, Tim) wedded now to part ; ’Twill duly work its own relief, By eating out the heart ; But till my daughter pure and bright, To me shall re-appear. My life must be a sleepless night, Without a star to cheer. You Ml me that my grief is vain, My child will not return, No earthly tears can wake again, The ashes of the urn ; You tell me too that she is gone To regions blest and fair, And wrong it is her loss to mourn, Since she's an angel there. I know it all—l know it all; Yet still with grief opprest, Jv*y spirit sighs for her recall, And will not be at rest. i cannot, cannot give her up, I am n"t reconciled ; O, take away the bitter cup, And bring nje back my child ! She was the last enchanting ray That cheer'd me here below. The only star that lit my way, Thro’ this dark world of woe: And now bereft of that sweet light, 0, ho v shall I sustain The shadows of the awful night. Which must with me remain ! Like him upon the rocky peak, In wrath and vengeance doom’d A victim to the vulture s beak, To sufii r uneonsum and So am I doom’d ia darkness deep, All desolate and chill. To bear a pang that will not sleep, A death that will not kilt. Then be it so—a! 1 silently I’ll bear the adverse weight; But He, I hope, in vouder sky, Who dooms me to my fate, Will, in His own good way and time, My lovely one restore— If not on earth, in that blest dime, M here parting is no more. I know ,will—far even now, On faith's enraptur’d eye, He breaketh 1 ke Ills own bright bow— llis small, still *oiee is nigh. Amidst iny deep despondency, He whispers in mine ear— Thy daughter may net come to thee, l?nt thou eaust go to her. VOL 111. Enough, enough—l ask no more; A light hath flash’d within ; Mv child from earth He only bore, To lure me on to Him. Then let Him keep the jewel bright ; O, let him wear the gem : I would not snatch so pure a light From Ilis bright diadem. The only boon, O God, I crave, Is soon thy face to see ; I long to pass the dull, cold grave, And wing my way to Thee— To Thee, Lord, and those dear friends In Thine eternal sphere, Where I may make some poor amends, For all rny errors here. THE GREAT GOLDEN EAGLE. Some people have u trick of describing in cidents as having happened within their own i observation, when in fact they were at the time tying asleep in bed, and disturbing the ; w hole house with the snore of their dormito ; r.Y. Such is too often the character of the eye-witnesses of the present age. Now, we would not claim personal acquaintance with an incident we had not seen—no, not for a hundred guineas per sheet; and, therefore, we wan the reader not to believe the follow ing little story about an eagle and child (by the way, that is the Derby crest, and a favor ite sign of inns in the north of England) on our authority. “1 tell the tale as ’twas told to me,” by the schoolmaster of Naemaii slaws, in the shire of Ayr; and if the inci dent never occurred, then must he have been one of the greatest liars that ever taught the young idea how to shoot. For our single selves, we are by nat: re credulous. Many extraordinary things happen in this life, and though “seeing is believing,” so likewise “believing is seeing,” as every one must al low who reads these oar recreations. Almost all the people in the parish were leading in their meadow-hay (there were not in all its ten miles square twenty acres of rye-grass) on the same day of midsummer, so drying was the sunshine and the wind,— and huge-heaped-up wains, that almost hid from view the horses that drew them along the sward, beginniug to get green with se cond growth, were moving in all directions towards the snug farmyards. Never had the parish seemed before so populous. Jocund j was the balmy air, with laughter, whistle, and 1 ’ r s j song. But the Treegnomans threw the sha dow of “one o’clock” on the green dial-face and the earth—the horses were unyoked, and took instantly to grazing—groups of men. women, lads, lasses, and children collected under grove, and bush, and heldge-row— graces were pronounced, some of them rather too tedious in presence of the mantling milk cans, bullion bars of butter, and crackling cakes; and the great Being who gave them ! that day their daily bread, looked down from j his Eternal Throne, well-pleased with the | piety of his thankful creatures. The great Cl olden Eagle, the pride and the I pest of the parish, stooped down, and away j with something in his talons. One single, j sudden female shriek—and then shouts and out-cries as if a church spire had tumbled down on a congregation at a sacrament. ‘ Hannah Lamond’s bairn! Hannah Lamond’s bairn!” was the loud fast-spreading cry. “T he Eagle’s ta’en ass Hannah Lamond’s bairn !*’ and many hundred feet were in ano ther instant hurrying towards the mountain. Two miles of hill and dale, and copse and shingle, and many intersecting brooks, lay between; but in an incredibly short time | the foot of the mountain was alive with peo- j pie - The eyrie was well known, and both old birds were visible on the rock-ledge. But who shall scale that dizzv cliff, which Mark Steuart the sailor, who had been at the storm ing of many a fort, once attempted in vain ! All kept gazing, or weeping, or wringing of hands, rooted to the ground, or running back and forwards, like so many ants essaying their new wings, in discomfiture. “What’s the use—what’s the use o’ ony puir human means ? We h ave nae power but in prayer!” And many knelt known—fathers and moth ers thinking of their own babies—as if they would force the deaf heavens to hear. Hannah Lamond had all this while been sitting on a stone, with a face perfectly white, and eyes like those of a mad person, fixed on the eyrie. Nobody noticed her; lor strong as all sympathies with her had been at the swoop of the Engle, they were now swallowed up iu the agony of eyesight. “On ly last Sabbath was my sweet wee wean bap tized in the name o’ the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost!” and on uttering these words, she flew off through the brakes and over the huge stones, up—up—up —faster than ever huntsman ran in to the death—fearless as | a goat playing among the precipices. No one doubted, no one could doubt, that she would soon be dashed to pieces. But have not peo ple who walk in their sleep, obedient to the mysterious guidance of dreams, elomb the walls of old ruins, and found footing, even in decrepitude, along the edge of unguarded battlements, and down dilapidated stair-cases I deep as draw wells or coal-pits, and returned i with open, fixed, and unseeing eyes, unharm ied to their beds at midnight! It is all the , work of the soul, to whom the body is a slave ; and shall not the agony of a mother’s passion—who sees her baby, whose warm mouth had just left her breast, hurried off bv a demon to a hideous death—bear her limbs aloft wherever there is dust to dust, till she i reach that devouring den, and fiercer and I more furious than any bird of prey that ever i bathed its beak iu blood, throttle the fiends > 0H t ll’ that with their heavy wing would fain flap her down the cliffs, and hold up her child in deliverance ? No stop —no stay—she knew not that she drew her breath Beneath her feet Provi dence fastened every loose stone, and to her hands strengthened every root. How was she ever to descend ? That fear, then, but once crossed her heart, as up—up —up —to | the little image made of her own flesh and | blood. “The God who holds me now from perishing—will not the same God save me when my chiid is at my breast ?” Down ; came the fierce rushing of the Eagle’s wings —each savage bird dashing close to her head, so that she saw the yellow of sheir wrathful eyes. All at once they quailed, and were cowed, \ oiling, they flew off to the stump of an ash jutting out of a cliff’, a thousand feet above the cataract; and the Christian mother, falling across the eyrie, in the midst bones and blood, clasped her child—dead— dead—no doubt—but umnangled and uiitorn —and swaddled up just as it was when she laid it down asleep among the fresh hay in a nook of the harvest-field. Oh ! what p ing of perfect blessedness transfixed her heart from that faint, feeble cry —“it lives! it lives! it lives!” and baring her bosom, with loud laughter, and eyes dry as stones, she felt the lips of the unconscious innocent once more murmuring at the fount of life and love. “O, thou great and thou dreadful God! whither hast thou brought me—one of the most sinful ot thy creatures ! Oh ! save me lest 1 perish, even for thy own name’s sake! O Thou, who died to save sinners, have mercy upon me!” Cliff’s, chasms, blocks of stone, and the slu letons ol old trees —bar—far down— and dwindled into specks a thousand crea tures of her own kind, stationary or running to and fro! Was that the sound of the water fall, or the faint roar of vob es ? Is that her native strath ?—and that tuft of trees, does it contain the hut in which stands the cradle of her child? Never more shall it be rocked by lief foot! Here must she die—and when her breast is exhausted—her baby too. And those horrid beaks, and eyes, and tahms, and wings will return, and her child w ill he devoured at last, even within the dead arms that can protect il no more. M here all this while, was Mark Steuart, the sailor ? Halfway up the dill’s. But his eyes had got dim, and his head dizzy, and his heart sick—and lie who had so often reefed the top-gallant sail, when at midnight the coming of the gale was heard afar, cov eted his face w ith Ins hands, and dared look no longer on the swimming heights. “And who w ill take care of my poor bedridden mother ?” thought Hannah, who, through ex haustion of so many passions, could no more retain in her grasp the hope she had clutched in despair. A voice whispered “God.” .She ■ looked round expecting to see a spirit; but nothing moved except a rotton branch, that, under its own weight, broke off’ from the I crumbling rock. Her eye —by some secret ! sympathy with the inanimate object—watch ed its fall; and it seemed to stop, not far off, on a small platform. Her child was bound upon her shoulders—she knew’ not how or when—but it was safe—and scarcely daring to open her eyes, she slid down the shelving rocks, and found herself on a small piece of j firm root-hound soil, with the tops ol’ hushes appearing below. With fingers suddenly strengthened into the power of iron, she : swung herself down bv brier, and broom, and heather, and dwarf-birch. There, a loos ened stone lept over a ledge, and no sound was heard, so profound was its fall. There, the shingle rattled down the screes, and she j hesitated not to follow. Her feet hounded against the huge stone that stopped them ; but she felt no pain. Her body was callous j as the cliff. Steep as the wall of a house was now’ the wall of the precipice. But it was j matted with ivy centuries old—long ago dead, and without a single green leaf-—but with thousands of arm-thick stems petrified into the rock, and covering it as with a trcl lice. She felt her baby on her neck, and with hands and feet clung to that fearful lad der- Turning round her head and looking down, she saw’ the whole population of the parish—so great was the multitude—on their knees. She heard the voice of psalms—a hymn breathing the spirit of one united prayer. Sad and solemn was the strain— but not dirge-like—sounding not of death, ; but deliverance. Often had she sung that tune—perhaps the very words—but them she heard not—in her own hut, she and her moth er—or in the kirk, along w ith all the congre gation. An unseen hand seemed fastening her fingers to tne ribs of ivy, and in sudden inspiration, believing that her life was to he saved, site became almost as fearless as if she had been changed into a winged creature. Again her feet touched stones and earth— the psalm was hushed—but a tremulous sob bing voi< e was close beside her, and a she goat, with two litile kids, at her feet. “W ild heights,” thought she, “do these creatures climb—but the dam will lead dowm her kids by the easiest paths; for in the brute crea tures holy is the power of a mother’s love!” and turning round her head, she kissed her sleeping bahv, and for the first time she wept. Overhead frowned the front of the preci pice, never touched before by human hand or foot. No one had ever dreamt of scaling it, and the Golden Eagles knew that well in their instinct, as, before they built their eyrie, they had brushed it with their wings. But the I downwards part of the mountain-side, though | scared, and seamed, aud ehasmed, was yet COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING. NOVEMBER 18,’ 1852. accessible—and more than one person in the j parish had reached the bottom of the Glead’s j Cliff. Many were now attempting it—and ! ere the’ cautious mother had followed her dumb guides a hundred yards, through among dangers that, although enough to terrify the , stoutest heart, were traversed by her without a shudder, the head of one man appeared, and then another, and she knew’ that God had delivered her and her child into the care of their fellow-creatures. Not a word was spoken—she hushed her friends with her hands—and with uplifted eyes pointed to the j guides sent to her by Heaven. Small green i plats, w here those creatures nibble the wild flowers, became now'more frequent—trodden lines, almost as plain as sheep-paths, showed that the dam had not led her young into dan ger ; and now the brushwood dwindled away into straggling shrubs, and the party stood on a little eminence above the stream, and forming pa.it of the strath. There had been trouble and agitation, much sobbing and many tears, among the multitude, while the mother was scaling the cliff—sub lime was the shout that echoed afar the mo ment she reached the eyrie—then had suc ceeded a silence deep as death—in a little while arose that hymning prayer, succeeded by mute supplication—the w ildness of thank-, ful and congratulatory joy had next its sway and now that her salvation was sure, the great erow'd rustled like a wind-swept wood. And for whose sake wms all this alternation of agony ? A poor humble creature, unknown to many even by name—one who had had but few friends, nor wished for more—con tented to work all day, here—there—any where—that she might be able to support her aged mother and her child—and who on Sabbath took her seat in an obscure pew, set apart for paupers, in the kirk. “Fall hack, and give her fresh air,” said the old minister of the parish; and the ring of close faces widened round her lying as in death. “Gie me the bonny bit bairn into my arms,” cried first one mother and then anoth er, and it was tenderly handed round the cir cle of kisses, many of the snooded maidens bathing its face in tears. “There’s not a sin gle scratch about the puir innocent, for the Eagle, you see, maun hae struck its talons into tho lang clues and the shawl. Bliti’, biin’ maun they be who see not the finger o’ God in this thing !” Hannah started up from her swoon—and, looking wilely round cried, “Oh! the Bird the Bird! —the Eagle—the Eagle has carried off my bonny wee Walter—is there mine to pursue?” A neighbor put her baby into her breast; and shutting her eyes, and smiting her forehead, the sorely bewildered creature said in a low voice, “Am I wauken—oh! tell me if I’m wauken—or if a’ this be but the work o’ a fever.” Hannah Lamond was not yet twenty years old, and although she was a mother--and you may guess what a mother—yet—frown not, fair and gentle reaker—frown not, pure and stainless as thou art—to her belonged not the sacred name of wife—and that baby was the child of sin and shame—yes—“the child of misery, baptised in tears!” She had loved —trusted—been betrayed—and deserted. In sorrow and solitude—uncomforted and des pised—she bore her burden. Dismal had been the hour of travail—and she feared her mother’s heart would have broken, even w hen her own was cleft in twain. But how healing is forgiveness—alike to the wounds of the forgiving and the forgiven! And then Han nah knew that, although guilty before God, her guilt was not such as her fellow-creatures deemed it—for there were dreadful secrets which should never pass her lips against the father of her child. So she bowed down her young head, and soiled it with the ashes of repentance—walking with her eyes on the ground as she again entered the kirk—yet not fearing to lift them up to heaven during the prayer. Her sadness inspired a general pity—she was excluded from no house she had heart to visit—no coarse comment, no ribald jest accompanied the notice people took of her baby— no licentious rustic presumed on her frailty; for the pale, melancholy face of the mother, weeping as she sung the lullaby, forbade all sucli approach—and an universal sentiment of indignation drove from the par ish the heartless and unprincipled s< ducer — il all had been known, too weak a word for bis crime—who left thus to pine in sorrow, and in shame far worse than sorrow, one who, till her unhappy fall, had been held up by every mother as ati example to her daughters. Never had she striven to cease to love her betrayer—but she had striven—and an ap peased conscience had enabled her to do so —to think not of him now that he had deser ted her for ever. Sometimes his image, as well in love as in wrath, passed before the eye of her heart—but she closed it in tears of blood, and the phantom disappeared.— Thus all the love towards him that slept— hut was not dead—arose in yearnings of still more exceeding love towards her child. Round its head was gathered all hope of comfort—of peace—of reward of her repen tance. One of its smiles was enough to brighten up the darkness of a whole day. In her breast—on her knee—in its cradle, she regarded it with a perpetual prayer. And this feeling it was, with all the overwhelming tenderness of affection, ail the invigorating power of passion, that, under the hand of God, bore her up and down that fearful moun | tain’s brow', and after the hour of rescue and deliverance, stretched her on the greensward like a corpse. The rumor of the miracle circled the moun tain’s base, and a strange story without names had been told to the Wood-ranger of the Cairn-Forest, by a wayfaring man. Anxious to know what truth there was in it, he cross ed the hill, and making his way through the sullen crowd, went up to the eminence and ! beheld her whom he had so wickedly ruined, and so basely deserted. Hisses, and groans, and hootings, and fierce eyes, and clenched hands, assailed and threatened him on every I side. His heart died within him, not in fear, but in remorse. W hat a worm he felt himself to be! And fain would he have become a worm, that, to escape all that united human scorn, he might have wriggled away in slime into some hole of the earth. Hut the meek eye of Hannah met his in forgiveness—an un-upbraiding tear—a faint smile of love. All his better nature rose within him, all bis worse nature was quelled. “Yes, good peo ple, you do right to cover me with your scorn. Hut what is your scorn to the wrath of God ? The Evil One has often been with me in the woods; the same voice that once whispered me to murder her—hut here 1 am —not to offer retribution—for that may not —will not—must not be—guilt must not mate with innocence. But here I proclaim that innocence. 1 deserve death, and I am willing here, on this spot, to deliver myself into the hands of justice. Allan Calder—l call on you to seize your prisoner.” ‘Fhe moral sense of the people, when in structed by knowledge and enlightened by religion, what else is it hut the voice of God! Their anger subsided into a stern satisfaction —and that soon softened, in sight of li£*r who, alone aggrieved, alone felt nothing but for giveness, into a confused compassion for the man who, hold and bad as he had been, had undergone many solitary torments, and near ly fallen in his unaccompanied misery into the power of the Prince of Darkness. The clergyman, whom all reverenced, put the con trite man’s hand in hers, whom he swore to love and cherish all his days® And, ere sum mer was over, Hannah was the mistress of a family, in a house not much inferior to a Manse. Her mother, now that not only her daughter’s reputation was freed from stain, hut her innocence also proved, renewed her youth. And although the worthy schoolmas ter, who told us the tale so much better than we have been able to repeat it, confessed that the wood-ranger never became altogether a saint—nor acquired the edifying habit of pull ing down the corners of his mouth, and turn ing up the whites'of his eyes—yet he assured us, that he never afterwards heard any thing very seriously to his prejudice—that he be came in due time an elder of the kirk—gave his children a religious education—erring on ly in making rather too much of a pet of his eldest horn, whom, even when grown up to manhood, he never called by any other name than the Eaglet.— Christopher North. [From De Bow’s Review.] LAFITTE-PROFESSOR INGRAHAM’S LETTER. The following note with which we have been favored by Professor Ingraham, is an amusing comment upon the controversy which has sprung up in regard to this tradi tional and historical personage, about whom we suffered ourselves once to he put out of temper, though, upon our word and honor, we never cared a pinch of snuff whether his reputation were that of pirate or pedlar. We simply published in the first instance a graph ic, though highly embellished sketch, which was furnished us by a literary gentleman of Louisiana, the correctness of which, we said, was vouched for, using his own language, upon a number of authorities, which were set forth. Every one could weigh the value of these authorities, and the paper was pub lished, as every editor in the Union is accus tomed to publish, upon its own merits. What lias restored our good humor, however, is, that we observed in the columns of the very journal which called us so severely, and, as we think, ungenerously, to task, in classing ours among “other fictitious works,” and italicising its claims to veracity, before even the ink of the criticism had dried, a notice under the editorial head most flattering in its terms, and associating the Review, in rank and “scientific” position, with Silliman’s Journal—certainly one of the most veracious journals in America. This opinion of our labors corresponding with a great many oth ers from the same source, for which we have always entertained the most grateful feel ings, we try to flatter ourselves, comes from the heart; though the other is quite disagree able enough, upon the old principle, to be nearer the truth. ‘Fhe Delta has gained lau rels enough in its own short career (and none more than ourselves have rejoiced over them) to leave a few for its neighbors. Even the “pirate” Lafitte—we ask pardon of his mem ory, whilst we dismiss him—cannot rob us of these. “Aberdeen, Miss., Sept. 1, 1852. “That Lafitte was ever a ‘blacksmith’ I cannot, in justice to my taste in the selection of a hero, for a moment, entertain the idea. The romantic young ladies who have fallen in love with him, and the amateur juvenile buccaneers, who have admired him as a dar ling corsair, would never forgive me, should it prove so. It is not to be questioned that there have been very clever blacksmiths, cit- izens good and true; and our own day has produced a learned blacksmith. There is Vulcan also, who has doubtless done much to ennoble the profession; but as modern he roes of romance do not usually ‘On thundering anvils ring their loud alarm, And pufilng low the roaring bellows blow,’ I must beg leave to protest against Captain Lafitte being biographized into a blacksmith! To exchange his picturesque costume’into a leathern apron ; ‘that Damascus blade’ for a rusty iron hammer; those ‘jeweled fingers’ for sooty fists; that ‘darkly flowing, plume’ for unkempt locks, ‘With cinders thick besprent his quarter-deck for the mud-floor of a forge ; and the ‘Glad waters of the dark blue sea,’ for a cooling trough ; and all the buccaneer ing splendor of his aristocratic person, for, ‘Sinewy arms and shoulders bare, His ponderous hammer lilting high in air ; While bathed in sweat from forge to forge he flies, ’Mid sulphurous smoke that blackens all the skies!’ —I must positively protest against smutting the fair fame of the elegant ‘Pirate of the Gulf,’ by admitting for a moment the possi bility of such a thing. A blacksmith! ‘Fhe hero of the Mexique seas a blacksmith! Two duodecimo volumes of sentiment,* rose-col ored at that, thrown away upon a shoer of horses, and peradventure of asses! Not even Vulcan’s fame, god though he were, nor Ve nus’ ‘smile celestial,’ as she watches her soo ty lord forging thunderbolts, not even die fact that he was the son of Jupiter and broth er of Neptune, the god of the Sea, on which Lafitte achieved his romantic name, can in duce me to consent for a moment that this chivalrous and very gentlemanly pirate should he hlncksmithed down to posterity! Wha would become of all the romances that make him the fighting Adonis of the seas! We shall next learn that Ivanhoe was a tailor, the Red Rover a cobbler; and that the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ sold old clothes! We should handle these t wo-vol umed-novel he roes, especially nautical gentlemen, my dear Mr. De How, with the softest doeskin-enca sed fingers. “But to reply more seriously to your in- j quiry : 1 have every reason to believe Lafitte ! to have been, if not gentle-horn, well-born, ! and educated with some degree of refinement. At this late day I cannot furnish you with very authentic information that would serve as data for a faithful biogophical memoir. Seventeen years ago I gathered from various sources, from persons who knew Lafitte well, and from others, many fads which 1 wove into the fabric of my romance. Since then other facts have been related to me, all of which have led me to the conclusion that he was an intelligent man, brave and chivalrous, with the bearing and amenities that distin guish the courteous Creole—and a Creole undoubtedly he was by birth and education. He first prominently made himself known by certain smuggling operations, by which he introduced rich freights into New Orleans, furtively conveyed from the Gulf through bayous. In these enterprises he wag aim'd . by the means of merchants, who, in a few years, were enriched by this unlawful com merce. AY hen at length Lafitte, who was in their confidence, and had also made great gains, learned that he was watched, and that efforts were being made to entrap him into the custody of the law, he abandoned this perilous pursuit, and with his two or three small vessels lent his aid to one of the strug gling republics of the Spanish main. Success in arms seems to have rendered him bolder and more ambitious; for the following year we hear of him actually buccaneering on the coast of Texas, and carrying on a system of spoliation—respecting no flag that came into his power. Some depredations upon the coastwise navigation of Louisiana, drew down from Gen. Claiborne a proclamation upon him, appended to which was a large re ward offered for his head ! “Such, so far as I could ever obtain it, is the outline of his career up to the beginning of our war with Great Britain; and this out line I filled out in the novel, with the usual free creations of the romancer’s pen. Al though authentic enough for fiction, it wants the rigid verification which a biography calls for. “At the time the war broke out, (1812-15,) Lafitte had his rendezvous at Barrataria, a picturesque bay on the Gulf coast, less than j fifteen leagues from New Orleans. His sym- j pathies were enlisted on the side of the Amer icans; and it is a matter of well authentiea ted history that when the English comman der would have bribed him to conduct them by the secret avenues of the bayous to the city, he refused their bribes of gold and na- ! val rank with disdain ; and in the face of the proclamation for his head hanging over him, he presented himself before Governor Clai borne and volunteered his arms, vessels and ; men, in the service of his native State. “That he was at the battle of New Orleans, as asserted by you, and served one or more guns with his crews, there can be no ques tion. 1 have had pointed out to me on the field the very spot on which he was posted, it having been close to the river on the ex treme right of the American line. The ac count in the novel was faithful to the narra tive of his conduct there as told to me. If you have at hand a copy of Marbois’ Histo ry of Louisiana, or Latour’s, you will in one or perhaps beta of them, find a correspon *Lafitte—by Professor Ingraham- t vc!*. TERMS OF PUBLICATION. Oue Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,. *.s2 00 “ “ “ “ “ in six montts, 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 those who advertise largely. NO. 47. deuce between Governor Claiborne and Pres ident Madison, in which the fact of his pres ence in the battle and his gallantry in sus taining his position, is not only stated, but is, 1 think, advanced as good ground for the clemency of the Executive. But it is so ma ny years since 1 have thought of the subject, that I have quite forgotten where I found many of the tacts made use of in the novel; and it is barely possible I may be incorrect in referring you to Marbois, as I have no copy by me by which to verify my reference. | Col. Chotard, of Natchez, commanded, in ; the defence of New Orleans, a troop of Mis i sissippi horse, the only cavalry, 1 believe in 1 the battle. A letter to him would no doubt elicit what knowledge he possesses upon this point. Governor Poindexter, of Louisville, was also in the action as aid to General Jack son. Either of these gentlemen could give certain information touching Lafitte’s pres ence at. the lines on that day. “That there were two brothers is probable, though questionable; yet, that there were others of the name is quite likely, as it is by no means an unusual name, either in the South or in France. There is hut one La fitte, however, who has any romantic or his torical interest at all associated w ith his ea ieer; and this personage is the veritable Bar ritarian chief, known as the ‘Pirate of the Gulf,’ the velvet-capped, sabre-armed, lofty browed, glossy-locked, chisseled-lipped, ten der, sentimental, courteous, throat-cutting Lafitte! Whatsoever harmonizes not with the chivalrous character of this Barritarian hero and salt-sea gentleman, should he set down to the credit of his obscure namesake to whom you allude, and the events of whose life you conjecture have crossed and mingled with those of the true romance man. This personage may have been his brother, for aught that 1 know, and also have been a ‘learned’ or unlearned blacksmith, and, like Old Vulcan, have forged his more war-like brother’s cutlasses and cannon. A sword has been presented to me by a gentleman of New Orleans, Duncan Henrien, Esq., which was taken from Lafitte at the time of his cap ture; and if one might venture an opinion . mi the rude, massive, cleaver-like fashion, in which it is made, it was doubtless fabrica | ted by his leather-aproned brother— a Jirst effort, unquestionably, of the anvil-heating brother’s smithy skiil. Moreover, a six pounder, which once belonged to Lafitte, was a few years since presented o me by a friend; as a trilling souvenir of ‘my hero.’ It has such a fierce, hull dog look'about the muzzle, and so rough a coat, that l have set it down as a first effort at rough casting of the hypo thetical brother aforesaid. Mr. Tooke, who ought to know, says in his ‘Pantheon,’ that immortal English classic, how that Vulcan wrought a trident for his brother Neptune. Why, then, should not Lafitte, the junior, cast a cannon or forge a two handed irotr sword for his brother? “Had I now at hand all the alledged facts which l once collected in relation to Lafitte, I could not offer them to you as authentic,* not regarding them as sufficiently genuine” material for a faithful memoir. 1 found, in my researches, twenty years ago, romantic legends so iußfiHyoven with facts that it was extremely difficult to separate the historical from the traditional. 1 atrT‘?s r y sure that the same cause will make it impossible to arrive at the truth of his life. His only at last must he the romancer ! “There is to be found in Mr. Timothy Flint’s ‘History of the A alley of the Missis-- sippi,’ a chapter, the perusal of which first suggested to me the idea of writing the nov el of‘Lafitte.’ I inclose a copy of the chap ter. Mr. Flint was cotemporarv with Lnfltte, was a keen hunter of testimonies, arid is to he regarded as good authority touching him as any one now to be found. He says, in brief space, all that I believe can be said with cer<- iainty respecting him ; and he asserts, as you will perceive on reading this extract, that he icas at the battle of New Orleans. “ ‘A curious instance of the strange mix-- ture of magnanimity and ferocity often found among the demi-savages of the borders, was afforded by the Louisianan Lafitte. This desperado had placed himself at the head of a band of outlaws from all nations under heaven, and fixed his abode upon the top of an impregnable rock,* to the Southwest of the mouth of the Mississippi. Under the col ors of the South American patriots, they pi rated at pleasure every vessel that came in their way, and smuggled their booty up the secret creeks of the Mississippi, with a dex terity that baffled all the efforts of justice. The depredations of these outlaws; or, as they styled themselves, Barritarians, (from Barritaria, their Island,) becoming at length intolerable, the United States Government dispatched an armed force against their little Tripoli. The establishment was broken up, and the pirates dispersed.; But Lafitte again ■ collected his outlaws, and took possession of his rock. The attention of the Congress be ing now diverted by the war, he scoured the Gulf at his pleasure, and so tormented the coasting traders, that Governor Claiborne, of Louisiana, set a price on his head. This da ring outlaw, thus confronted with the Amer ican Government, appeared likely to promote the designs of its enemies. He was known to possess the clue to all the secret windings ♦Mr Flint is in error, as we are all liable to be, in re | gard to the “rocs.” There is no rock on the Northern i throes of the Mexican Gulf, in the neighborhood of the 1 Delta of the Mississippi. Lafitte had a fort in the inter rior,“which uill remains in tolerable preservation.’*