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p SOUTHERN SENTINEL M IS I*I'HLISII KI) lltV THURSDAY MORNING, # BY I T. LONI AX & CO. TENNEXT LOMAX, editor. (Vftce on fl'Tndoi’ h street. Cvtcranj Department. Conducted r.y .CAROLINE! LGE lIi’NTZ. [WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINET-i A TALK OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. BY CAROLINE LEE HEXTZ. “Oh, seldom have we heard a tale, So sad, so tender, yet so true.” The incidents we are about to relate are true, but feelings of delicacy induce us to throw a veil around them, bv substituting fic titious names. This is all the fiction con nected with the sketch. Emma and Lelia Wayne were two lovely, fair-haired, blue-eyed girls, just blooming into womanhood. They seemed the favorites of nature and of fortune. Their father, a weal thy merchant, was one of the most affection - ate and indulgent parents in the world. He was proud of his fair, sweet-faced daughters, .and they were proud of him. He was a re •markably handsome man, and the gencrou.-. qualities of his soul diffused their glow and lustre over his countenance. Their mother was an invalid, and constantly confined t<< her room, but her gentleness and piety made her chajnber seem nearer Heaven, than any other apartment in the house Wherever they moved, these two young girls breathed an atmosphere of love, and diffused it around them as they moved Emma, the eldest, had a brighter eve and a deeper bloom, than her sister. Her smile was more joyous, bar step more elastic, and her voice had a gayer tone. Lelia had one of those haunting countenances which once seen is remembered forever, with a thrill of sadness, too. h is said that every face is ei ther a history or a prophecy. Lelia’s was a prophecy. She had large, languishing, mournful, loving, melting eyes, that looked up wistfully through long lashes, darker than her hair, then suddenly drooped as if fearful they revealed too much of what was passing in her heart. Her mouth was very lovely, but a shade oti melancholy hovered round its roses. A redundance of flaxen hair, al wavs simply and gracefully arranged, softened tin* outline of her painfully interesting face. The expression may seem strange, but no one could look upon Lelia without feeling that site was born to love and to sutler too deeply. As yet her capacities for love and suffering were undeveloped, and while so tenderly shielded by parental care, it seemed impossi ble for sorrow or disappointment to approach with blighting influence. Mr. W ayne did not wish or expect to keep his daughters from marriage, hut lie said be could not lie parted from them. Their moth ers health was too delicate to bear the shock of separation. Whoever should win the treasure of their affections must consent to £ive near the shadow of the paternal roof. Ii svas not long before Emma married a promising young lawyer, and was establish ed in -an elegant mansion contiguous to her home. She was happy and her parents were happy in this union, and Lelia tried to be happy, Coo, but she felt as if a stranger had come between her and the bosom companion 4>f her childhood and youth. Her sister could never be to her what she was before, and she sighed at the thought that Emma loved another better than herself. Just at this time she became acquainted with a young and gallant officer, with lau rels gathered in the “land of flowers,” bloom ing on his youthful biow. There was a grace, a gallantry, a chivalry in his manners that charmed the imagination of the roman tic and tender Lelia. We will call him Clif ford, not wishing to make use of his real name. He was returning to his post on the frontiers, where, with numbers of his brave country men, he was engaged in defending the bor ders-from the depredations of the red man —dangerous and protracted warfare! \ oung Clifford conceived for Lelia Wayne one of those deep and impassioned attach ments which orce in a while break in on the dull routine of every day life. The military ,character is invested with a peculiar charm. The military gentleman is generally graced with peculiarly attractive manners. Lelia yielded to their seductive influence. Her large, melancholy blue eyes were now’ illu ,minuted with the light of iove. It was like the moonbeams shining on the mist of the valley, and transforming it to a silvery glory. Clifford pressed his suit with characteris tic ardor. With the frankness of a soldier, he declared his sentiments to Mr. Wayne, and asked him for his daughter, assuring him that his l.n e was returned, and that Lelia had authorized him to entreat his sanction to their immediate union. Mr. Wayne turn ,ed pale as he listened. He liked, he admired the young man, but lie could not consent that hi- daughter should leave him for the dark and stormy scenes to which his duty called him to return. No! it was impossible. It would kill her mother—it would make himself unspeakably wretched. It must not be. Lelia had been nurtured in the lap of luxury. She had never known privation or care. She was too delicate a flow er to bloom in the camp, too frail to be exposed t > the unspeakable horrors of Indian warfare. With tenderness and feeling, yet firmness and de cision, he told the young mart he never, never could consent to their union, and begged him, as he valued the happiness of Lelia, nev er to seek her presence again. He demand ed the sacrifice of him, but Clifford would ot promise what he felt he had- not the pow- VOL 111. er s o perform. He could not go without see ing Lelia once more—and that meeting seal ed her destiny. Borne down by the weight of her love and sorrow, she rashly consented to a clandestine union. At the house of a mutual friend, who imprudently promised se cres.y and aid, the ill starred marriage was consummated, which made the loving and affectionate Lelia an alien from her father’s ro-f. Mr. Wayne, justly incensed, refused to see his disobedient child, but the invalid mother yearned over her lost darling. In her husband’s absence, she sent for her and slighter, who wept in agony on her bosom, when she saw how much her desertion had added to the ravages of disease, on that pale and gentle face. Mrs. Wayne forgave and blest her, committed her to the care and mer cy of her Heavenly Father, and suffered her to depart. Never more was she to behold that lair, young, pensive countenance The prophecy written on her brow was about to be fulfilled. The parting with her sister was another hitter trial. She began to realize the strength of the ties she was sundering. She under stood for the first time the metaphor of the bleeding hear’ Could -lie hut see her lather, only see him, herself unseen, she thought she would feel comparatively happy, and she did see him thus. But instead of feeling happier, her anguish was increased by her remorse. He looked so pale, so sad, so stern—looked as if iie could lievet smile again. What an ungrateful return she had made for his ten der, his guardian cares! She had forsaken him for the stranger of a day. She had left i-he guide of her youth. Yet even in the midst of her sorrow and remorse, she exult*, and in the mighty sacrifice she was making on the altar of love. It was for Clifford she was enduring a lather’s just resentment—it was for Cliff r.i she was leaving a loving mother and tender sister—home, fortune, friends—and she loved him the dearer for the costly price she paid for iiis love. ii was the first time she had ever been a traveller. Born amid the magnificent scene ry of the W est, she had a vivid perception of the beautiful and the sublime. At first she was incapable of doing any thing but lord; back, through blinding tears, on her native city and its picturesque surroundings, as the boat glided down the nobD river, on whose glassy waves she had looked down so many years, little dreaming she would float over its azure bosom a discarded daughter, a clan destine bride. For a time she could think only o! all she was resigning, but outbful feelings are trausihent, and she soon gave her self up to the joy of the present moment, while hope spanned with its arc-cn-c-iel the clouds of the future. Arrived at her new home, the charm of novelty threw an illusion over every object. The Fort, which her hus band commanded, had a sublime aspect in her eyes, with the'Star-spangled banner floating f oin its walls. The martial music, how inspi ring it was! The soldiers, with their measured tread and respectful bearing, she loved to gaze upon, especially when they gave t l e graceful military salute to her gallant hus band. She loved the morning reveille and the evening serenade, and in her enthusiasm, thought she never could grow weary of a military life She saw nothing of the wild Indians who infested the borders, and grown fearless by unmolested tranquility, entreated her husband to let her roam in the woods for the wild flowers, which had given name to the luxu lions region in which she now dwelt. This, however, he constantly refused, never allow ing her to go beyond the limits of the Fort, unprotected by his presence. It was strange to see this young and love ly female in a rude Fort, surrounded bv offi cers jmd soldiers, and ail the rough parapher nalia of war. She moved amid the group like an angel, sent to minister to their ruder natures, and had danger threatened her, not a man but would have died in her defence. Alas! alas! tiiat danger was so near! One morn* g, preparations were making to send a quantity of ammunition to another Fort. Lieut Willard, a very young and in teresting officer, commanded the expedition. | About thirty soldiers were to escort him. The morning was clear and resplendent, the air bland and elastic, receiving tone from the sea-born breezes that were waft. J from ; the coast. Lelia stood on the ramparts, her | cheeks glowing with unusual excitement. “Let me go,” cried she to her husband, whose arm was linked with hers. “Let us go ou horseback and accompany them. It is ! such a charming morning.” “I cannot go,” he answered. “I am obli gt dto remain at the Fort. I wLh I could, j for your sake, mv Lelia. You must weary ol ; your confined and lonely life.” “Oh, no!” she eagerly replied. “I never should be weary where you are. It was a childish wish. It is past already.” The young Lieutenant approached, with his plumed hat in his hand, and addressed his | commander — “Let me escort your wife,” said he. “I , shall be proud of the honor, and will ensure ; her safe return.” “Shall it be so, Lelia?” said Clifford, look ing into her now animated blue eyes and i reading her answer there. “Go, then, and ! make ready with all possible haste, for the morning hours are wasting.” Lelia fle\V away with the joyous step of youth, while commanded his riding horse to be caparisoned and brought near. Lelia §QQn returned in ft costume, whose dark blue color set off to peculiar ad vantage, her blonde complexion and fair hair. A small black hat, with black, drooping feathers, was placed carelessly on her head, and heightened by contrast, her transcendent fairness and roseate bloom. Never had the ; dark eye of Clifford rested on her so loving ly, so admiringly, as it did after placing her on the back of the spirited animal, adjusting the stirrups and placing the bridle in her slen der hand, which he pressed, ere he relinquish ed it, with all a lover’s ardor. “Lieutenant,” said he, before giving the signal for their departure, “remember you have a precious charge committed to your care—guard it with all a soldier’s vigi lance.” “I will guard it with my life,” said the young soldier, with a bright blush and a beaming smile, little dreaming that he was uttering the words of prophecy. Captain Clifford stood watching the party as long as it was in sight. Lelia was mount ed on a milk-white horse, Lieut. Willard on j a coal black one. Again and again Lelia ! looked hack, kiss ng her hand to her husband and gayly smiling. When he could no longer I catch a glimpse of her black plumes waving | in die breeze of morn, lie turned away with a sigh. “Should any evil befall her,” thought lie, “I never should forgive myself for suffering her to-depart. But impossible. The Indians eie driven from this vicinity, and she is nobly j guarded.” In the meantime Lelia went on her way rejoicing, thoughtless of danger and exhila- ! rated by exercise. The young Lieuten ant charmed her by dwelling on her hus band's (liaises, which were music to her ear. Then he talked to her of Ids mother and sis ters, till her eyes overflowed at the remem brance of her own. All at once, young Willard drew Ids horse ! nearer to hers, and bent his ear in a listening I attitude. They were passing a dense thicket I and he heard a kind of hissing sound, which j was immediately followed by a fierce, savage whoop. Lelia, struck with deadly fainting, threw her arms round the horse’s neck, and buried her face in the flowing mane. Young Wil lard sprang to the ground with the speed of j lightning, and taking Lelia from tiie saddle, i tried to place her in the ammunition wagon, i where she could lie sheltered from the am hushed fire of the Indians, who were now rattling their shot from the thicket, she iiad fainted from teiro , and lay a helpless weight I in his arms. Before he could reach the wag on, she received a death-wound in her bosom, j and lie fell wounded and gaming by her side The soldiers, in the meantime, discharged a volley on the sheltered savages, which pro I bably sent them to a deeper covert, for they ceased their firing, leaving behind two youth : till victims to their indiscriminate vengeance. Thank Heaven! that intimi laved by the fierce defence of the soldiers, they had fled without daring to approach with the terrible scalping knife. The remains of the lovely Lelia were spared this awful desecration. She was in sensible when she received toe death-wound, i and passed unconsciously the shadowy con- ! fines of the spit it world. She suffered all the 1 agonies of deatli when the horrible yell first. : burst upon her ear. In that moment, father, ; mother, sister, native home, dearly-loved, re membered scenes all rose before tier with life-like vividness; then her husband, stand ig on the ramparts, waving his hand in to ken of adieu, with a beaming smile—then the dreadful conviction that it was the last glimpse of life and love that would ever be hers—then i —all was darkness. The horses which had fTorne Lelia and Willard, dispossessed of their riders, rushed back to tiie Fort Clifford read a tale of hor ror in their empty saddles and loose, flowing in idles Mounting one, he rode with the speed of an eagle t<> the fatal spot. The uu fortunate Willard still lived, ’hough life was j fast ebbing away. He was supported in the arms of the soldiers, who gazed alternately I on his pale anti altering features, and tiie i beauteous body reclining near. What a spec- ‘ taele for a young and adoring husband! — i There she lay—his fair, young bride—whom he had lured from her happy home, only to be the victim of the ted man’s wrath. No mark of violence was visible—no blood oozed from the wound, which closed as soon as it was made. Her hat had fallen from her head, and lay, with broken feathers, on the ground. Her long, fair hair, loosened and flowing, streamed around her in bands of j palev gold, and glistened with mournful lus tre on her dark riding dress The glow of ® I life still lingered on her cheek, but her eyes, those large, loving, pensive blue eyes, now half closed, were fixed and glassy. “Captain,” murmured the expiring Lieu tenant, “l would die happy, could I have sa ved your wife. Oh! my Captaiu—it is you, who die.” Clifford, who had stood as if transfixed, ! gazing on his slaughtered wife and dying friend, here uttered a loud and bitter cry, and threw himself by the side of her, whom he would have died to ransom from death. He folded his arms around her, and coveied her cold lips and cheeks with kisses, such as “joy ne’er knew.” He called upon her by every fond and endearing name, to look at him, to speak and tell him that she lived. In the midst of his frantic adjurations, the soul of the brave young Willard passed into the ? presence of its God. Oh! for a mother’s j COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 16. 1852, bosom on which to pillow his fainting head ! Oh ! for a sister’s arms, tu support his sinking frame! But the soldier’s death-pillow is the cold ground, and his last sigh is breathed up to the heavens bending above him. It is well. We will not attempt to describe the an guish of the unhappy Clifford. For a time it threatened to unthrone his reason, height ened as it was, by the bitterest remorse. A dreadful task awaited him—to write to her parents and inform them of the mournful tragedy. This being done, lie felt as the criminal does, while the doom he dreads is impending over him. He expected to be looked upon in the light of a murderer, for had it not been for him, Lelia might still be warm with life, and youth, and joy. With trembling hands he broke the letter which came in reply to his, communicating the fa tal tidings. It contained no word of reproach —no language of bitterness. It entreated him to come back, bearing with him all that was left of the ill fated Lelia—to come and take a son’s place in their darkened home and sorrowing iiearts. Capt. Clifford obtained a furlough, and fulfilled the wishes of the mourning parents. It was a sad meeting, but reconciliation, born of sorrow, made it hallowed. Embalmed by the tears of her young com panions, the lemains of the murdered Lelia were deposited in her native soil. Remem brance of iier fault was lost in pity for her untimely doom. The)’ could not speak harsh ly of one who had expiated her disobedi ence by her life. “Had I only forgiven her!” was the bur then of the father’s heart. “Oh ! had ! only forgiven !” Yes! fallible and erring beings that we are, let ns forgive, as we pray to be forgiven by our Father in Heaven. Let not pardon be delayed till the heart it would have glad dened, is cold beneath the clods of the val ley. The relenting voice cannot penetrate the deep, u rk abyss of the grave. No one ever mourned for having followed the exam ple of Him, who forgave even his murderers with his expiring breath; but how many have sorrowed, when too late, over the inex oAible will, and the severe though just de cree. Let the young maiden, who perchance may read this sad but true history, tremble at the consequences of filial disobedience. God, sooner or later, avenges the violation of His sacred laws. She may not, like Lelia. per i,h by fine death-shot of the Indian but siie may be reserved for a late more mournful still—the slow wasting away of the heart, un der the (flighting influence of unkiudness or perfidy. As she has forsaken her parents,she may be herself forsaken and betrayed. Lelia was sweet, lovely, gentle anu earnest, but she yielded to the dictates of passion and exposed herself to the terrible doom we have recorded. Yes! she was indeed lovely. Never shall we forget the soft, beseeching, pensive e,\- pression of her prophetic eyes, the tones of her sweet, plaintive voice. We are remind ed of the words of Gssian: “Sweet is the memory of departed frierds. Like the mel low rays of the setting sun, it fails tenderly yet sadly on the soul.” THACKERAY’S NEW WORK. i'he History of He.miy Esmond, Esq., Col onel in the strode of h r Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself. By W. M. Thackeray. Harper and Brothers. Except Macaulay’s History, no work has of late been so anxiously awaited as this new novel by Thackeray. It was partly curios ity to see how tiie author would acquit him self in iiis new sphere—how the artist who had produced the clever drawings in “Yel low Plush,” and brilliant portraits in “Vanity Fair” and “Pendetmis,” would succeed upon a large canvas, and in the more subdued style demanded by a historical picture. Yet this was not all. We feel toward Thackeray as we do toward few authors. We debate whether or no Bulwer’s “Novel” is equal to “The Caxtons,” but we care about it only as our own enjoyment as readers is concerned. But had “Henry Esmond” proved a failure, we should have felt as if a personal friend had missed of success. The reason is be cause Thackeray has stamped himself upon iiis work. He is a satirist, as keen as Swift but as genial as Addison. Like that of Car lyle, his literary career is marked by the bones of the shams and humbugs he has slain. Their mode of warfare is different. Carlyle rushes upon his victims, mace in hand, and smites the life out of them with such a superabundant force, that their very corpses are not recognizable. Thackeray ad vances with the air of a gentleman, bows to his opponent, crosses weapons ; your eyes are blinded tor a moment by a dazzling play of light—when you perceive him coolly wip ing his blade. The victim smiles, perhaps, as though, like the slave in the eastern story, he had only felt something cold passing through him, and never discovers, till he at tempts to move, that he has been cloven through from shoulder to thigh ; then indeed he tumbles asunder, a sham dead forever. In point of style and skill in composition, Henry Esmond is fully equal to its predeces sors. The archaisms and slight tinge of pedan try, by the id of which the reader is carried back to the period when the scene is laid, are exquisitely managed ; the historical persona ges who appear as secondary characters are sketched with great felicity; the passages of moral reflection, where the author steps for- | ward in his own person, are equal to anything j in “Vanity Fair” or “Pendennis while | the whole piece is more delicately and har moniously toned than either of those works. ‘Flie principal interest is concentrated upon Henry Esmond, Lady Castlewood, and her daughter Beatrix. Henry, the son, reputed illegitimate of the late Lord Castlewood, is lovingly protected by the new Lord and La dy, and repays this protection by the most lo\al and chivalrous devotion. The most elaborately drawn character is that of Bea trix Esmond, of whom we present a few sketches taken at different intervals : BEATRIX AT THIRTEEN. Esmond found his little friend and pupil Beatrix grown to he taller than her mother, a slim and lovely young girl, with cheeks mantling with health and roses, with eyes like stars shining out of azure, with waving bronze hair clustered about the fairest young forehead ever seen, and a mien and shape haughtv and beautiful, such as that of the fa mous antique statue of the huntress Diana,at one time haughty, rapid, imperious, with eyes and arrows that dart and kill. She had been a coquette from the earliest times almost try ing her freaks and jealousies, her wayward frolics and winning caresses, upon all that came within her reach ; she set her women quarrelling in the nursery, and practiced her j eyes on the groom as she rode behind him on S the pillion. She was the darling and torment !of father and mother. She intrigued with each secretly, and bestowed her fondness and j withdrew it ; plied them with tears, smiles, kis-es, cajolements; when the mother was angry, as happened often, flew to the father, and sheltering behind him, pursued her vic tim ; when both were displeased, transferred her caresses to the domestics, or watched until she could win back her parents’ good graces, either by surprising them into laugh ter au4 good humor, or appeasing them by submission and artful humility. V\ lien she made mischief, used cutting speeches, or j caused her friends pain, she excused herself | for the fault, not admitting and deploring it, ! bnt by pleading not guilty, and asserting in ! tmcence so constantly, and with such seem j ing artiessness, that it was impossible to ques i (ion her plea. In her childhood they were ! but mischiefs then w hich she did ; but her ! power became more fatal as she grew older —as a kitten first plays wdth a ball and then pounces upon a bird and kills it. Harry Esmond goes to the wars in Flan ders, and on his Veturn thus finds BEATRIX AT SIXTEEN. “Look! who comes here—ho, ho!” he bursts into a laugh. “’'Pis Mistress ’ Frix with anew ribbon; I knew she would put one on as she heard a Captain was coming I to supper.” • This laughing colloquy took place in the I hall of YValcote House; in the midst of which is a staircase that leads from an open gallery, where are the doors of the sleeping chambers; and from one of these, a wax candle in her hand, and illuminating her came Mrs. Beatrix—the light falling indeed upgn the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon : the most brilliant white neck in the world. I Esmond had left a child, and Found a wo ! man, grown beyond the common height, and i arrived at such dazzling completeness of ; beauty—that his eyes might well show’ sur prise and delight at beholding her. She was | a brown beauty, that is, her eyes, hair, and j eyebrows and eyelashes were dark ; her i hair curling w ith rich undulations, and wa ving over her shoulders ; but her complexion was as dazzling white as snow in sunshine, | except her cheeks, which were a bright red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper ! crimson. Her mouth and chin, they said were too large and full, and so they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes were fire, whose look was love, whose voipe was the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect symmetry, health, decision, activity, w hose foot, as it planted, itself on the ground, was firm but flexible, and whose motion, whether rapid or slow, was,always perfect grace—agile as a nymph, lofty a a queen, now melting, now imperious now sarcastic—there w'as no single move ment of hers but was beautiful. As he thinks of her, he who writes feels young’: again, and remembers a paragon. So she came, holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond. “She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes,” says my lord, still laughing “O, my fine mistress ! is tiiis the way you set ’ your cap at the Captain She approached shining smiles upon Esmond, who could look at nothing but her eyes. She advanced, hold ing forward her head, as if she would have him kiss her, as he used to do when she was ! a child. “Stop,” she said, “I am grown too big ! Welcome, cousin Harry !” and she made him an arch courtesy, sweeping down to the ground almost, w ith the most gracious bend, looking up the while with the brightest eyes and sweetest smile. Love seemed to radi ate from her. Harry eyed her with such a rapture as the first lover is described as hav : ing by Milton. “Right foot forward, toe turned out, so ; now drop the courtesy, and show the red stockings, ’ Frix. They've silver locks, Har ; ry. The dowager sent ’em on,” cries my lord. “Hush, you stupid euildj” says Miss, smothering her brother with kisses; and then she must come and kiss her mamma, looking ali the while at Harry, over her mistress’s shoulder And if she did not kiss him, she j gave him both her hands, and then took one , [ of his in both hands, and said, “O, Harry, j 1 we’re so, so glad you’re come!” i [From the Spirit of the Times] SPORTING SCENES IN TEXAS. Brownsville, Texas, Oct. 25, 1852. Mr. Editor: —l will add in my present letter a few additional characteristics of the | region of country on each side of the Rio j Grande, or Rio del Norte, near its mouth. ‘ It is obvious to the most casual inspection ; that this vagrant river, compared with which the Mississippi runs in a bee line, has in for mer times traversed, in all directions, a vast ; extent of territory in this quarter. It h.-\g en- | tered the Gulf of Mexico at various points j along the coast, from the North to the South, each side of its present mouth, fora distance of nearly three hundred miles between the extremes. The oid channels of the river, called “resacas,” are found on all sides for two or three hundred miles from the Gulf in the interior, showing that it has shifted its ; channel, in ancient times, cftene: - than any j stream known. These resacas can be traced for hundreds j of miles, and are now generally dry, unless j in very wet weather. They are uniform in i appearance, being about three hundred yards wide, and thirty feet deep. W4en the river is high, it spreads for miles over the country, on both sides, hits up these dry channels, converts them into lakes, which are frequent ly not exhausted during a whole year. Some of these beds, where the bottom is composed of hard blue clay, remain nearly full of wa ter the whole time, thereby supplying a most essential want of this country. I lie water of the Rio Grande is exceeding ly muddy, even more so than that of the Mis sissippi—but when cleansed and purified, it serves very well for all domestic uses. In consequence of the great length of the river, and the peculiar formation of the surround ing country, il rises at times with surprising rapidity. 1 have seen it swell up thirty feet in a few hours. After one of these great floods, the resacas, and other low grounds, continue full of water for a considerable pe riod; vegetation springs forth with unexam pled luxuriance, and nothing but the period ical overflow of the Nile can equal the abun dance it produces, and the thrifty growth it imparts to grazing animals of all kinds, both wild and domestic. Throughout this vast region the beautiful prairies are interspersed with patches of chapparel, of unequal extent, and .irregular shapes, which often give to the scene a curi ous and picturesque appearance. This chap- i parel consists of thickets of mukt and thorns of several species, so thick, tangled and im penetrable, as to laugh the best cultivated hedgerows u#scorn. The hushes are leafless the arms and thorns as white as if painted, and they glitter in the sun. Attached to the stems; and scattered beneath, to the depth of several inches, are myriads of shining white snail shells, which render the ground almost as white as if it were shrouded in snow. In terspersed among these chapparels are vari ous trees of other kinds, such as the musqui to-ebony, wskl-brier, cabbage-wood, and nu merous others, valuable for fire-wood, fen cing, and other mechanical and domestic purposes. When these thickets are cleared away, the ground is exceedingly fertile, and easily tilled— cotton, sugar, corn, &c., all flourish there with the highest degree of per fection. In these chapparels are found countless numbers of rabbits, of the ordinary gray spe cies, as well as a large gray rabbit, much re sembling the English hare in shape, but far larger, with enormous ears; the true zoologi cal name 1 do not know, hut they are vulgar ly called the “jackass rabbit.” They are fine eating, and I have shot them weighing fifty pounds. Vast flocks of wild turkeys, some of them very large, and all of them fat, in habit these forbidden haunts—quails, pigeons, pisanos, <Ac., and it must be added, no small quantity of rattlesnakes and tarantulas find here a safe and inviting abode. In all parts ot this region, deer, in fine condition, abound; also the peccary, or Mexican hog, one of the most game-blooded animals that exist. They will fight any thing, man or beast, and some amusing stories are told of their driving bur.g ters “up a tree,” and their besieging them for hours. We have also a peculiar bird, de nominated the “chachalacha,” about half the : size of an ordinary game cock, which is well i worth describing. It is shaped much like a uma pigeon, of an ash color, black legs, : black shining beak, strong and sharp—and 1 with eyes of great brilliancy. In its native state i: is wild and shy, but when caught, is j easily domesticated, and becomes especially fond of thostrwho feed and camp it. At day light in the morning, whether wild or tame, they commence a furious reveille, repeating in a loud, dismal a chant, from the j sound of which they deiive their name. This ■ is prolonged for about haff an hour—the ; woods all around you appear to be alive with i these invisible songsters, when sutraenly they j stop, and not another sound breaks from them j during the whole day. The chachalacha! will cross-breed with the common game fowl, and produce not only a beautiful bird, but ! one of the greatest value, on account of its game qualities. Their crosses are a little un der size, hut in spirit, endurance, activity, and j vigor, they are unmatched. They are the bes'fighting cocks on earth. This is no fancy sketch ; they have been tried frequently, and never were known to skulk or yield; like the Old Guard, they can “die, but never surren der.” - nfe ’ii They are difficult to catch, and have gen- ! erally to be reared from the egg. I bare ! TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,. ..$2 00 “ “ “ “ “ in six niomfcs, 250 “ “ “ “ at end of year, 300 R ATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, - - - - - SI 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of those wh® advertise largely. SO. 51. known, even there, twenty dollars to be paid for a pair, so highly are they esteemed. I have often been surprised that breeders of game fowls have not turned their attention to these birds to renew and improve their stock. Perhaps they were not aware of their high and valuable qualities. Let them try this gal lant little hero, and they will find a full con firmation of all l have urged in his behalf. We have, likewise, another peculiar bird, called the “pisano,” which is deemed of great value by the Mexicans and Indians on ac count of its hostility to the serpent tribe. It is larger and taller than the chachalacha, del icately and beautifully formed, black and white speckled in color, and can run as fast as a licet dog. W henever one of them dis covers a rattlesnake, or any other serpent, no matter how large, it commences a fierce cry, which summons to its aid all the pisanos within hearing. They begin to run and fly about the snake in a circle, crying and chat tering all the time till their victim becomes confused, when, quick as the lightning’s flash, one of them, and immediately others, make a dash at the eyes of the snake, and Vith their sharp, unerring beaks, he is blinded in a moment. He then falls an easy prey to their united prowess. These battles are of fre quent occurre nee, and are described by spec tators as interesting in the extreme. Along the rivers, lakes, ponds, and water courses, innumerable species of water-fowl are seen. Millions of wild geese, brandt, ducks of all sorts, flamingos, snipe, Sic. Sic., start up before you at every step. The large black-brindled wolf, a fierce and sanguinary animal, wild cats, Mexican tigers, and other dangerous beasts of prey, are occasionally troublesome, but not to an alarming extent* ‘1 he prairie wolf, or coyote, a small impudent animal, is found in myriads, and makes “night hideous’ with Ids yells, hut is no further to be regarded, than as a most arrant thief, who will come up while you are sleeping, and steal your “grub” from the hag under your head. One shout will, however, send them scampering off a mile from your encampment*! Nothing can exceed their cowardice. The armadillo is often caught here, au|jb| “'hen “roasted in the shell,” is reckonejjpr delicious article of food, which once roamed in vast, hards over tfiest* prai ries, far into the mountain ranges for upwards of a century past. The •a ild cuttle have, in some degree, taken their [ilace, and are no had representatives of these animal “inhabitants of the plains.” These “wild cattle” are large, fat, symmetrically formed, and, with their long, tapering, polish ed horns, lofty heads, and elastic steps, look as it those boundless pastures were all their | own. Jhe noble mustangs alone can compete with them lor the right of ownership. Both are worthy of it, in the absence of man, their common master and tyrant. The oxen of this region are among the finest in the world. • hey are prodigiously large, stately looking beasts, moving quickly, and possessing extra ordinary strength. ‘They are spirited, but do cile, and without a handful of food, except the grass they crop at night, they perform w onderful service. They are chiefly driven by Mexicans, and are worked in the primitive mode, by having their yokes fastened to their horns. 1 he fish in the Rio Grande aniV-ti/ilmtai v watoss, are few in variety, and us no great va lue. They consist of two or three kinds of cat fish, white and yellow perch, buffalo-fish, a large coarse grained fish, but tolerably good for use, and a curious species of shrimp, par ticipating, apparently, of the characteristics or the shrimp and lobster. In form they par tially resemble both, and sometimes are caught weighing half a pound. When cook ed and dressed in the style of cooking and dressing lobsters, they are a very excellent ; dish. All these waters are literally swarming with several kinds of very superior terrapin ! * he fish ui the Gulf of Mexico, about tiffs : vicinity, and in the bayous, and in Eagura j Madre , a vast shoal of water, almost an in ! land sea, are of nearly every variety, and of ! the best quality. As fishing ground for sports | men, it is not to be surpassed. We catch ] here red-fish of all sizes, from one pound to ! eighty pounds ir, weight—sea-trout, averag | ing about six pounds—sheep-head, jevv-fish, | whiting, drum-fish, cat-fish, sea-eels, some-’ ! times nine feet in length, hut fine and tender, | and numberless other sorts. Os the shell-fish —first, there are abundance of green-turtle, I occasionally seven hundred pounds in weight, | many of which are shipped to New-Orleans | and elsewhere. The Lagura Madre seems to be the very paradise of these delicious mon sters. Then we have plenty of excellent oys ters, crabs, lobsters, &c. die. Enough, in-, deed, of all sea-fish, to satisfy the taste of the nicest gourmand u-ho ever smacked his lips over a bowl of green-turtle or a plate of fried oysters, at Delirionico’s, or any other gout producing laboratory. We can fish or hunt here at all seasons, with equal comfort and success. Thanks to our glorious climate for this! “aKwfipt H Our neighbors on the other side of the Rio Grande are becoming very restless and dis contented. The whole Republic of Mexico is, in fact, rapidly approaching a volcanic eruption. Treasonable yronunciatnentos are put forth in almost every Stattp of that con federacy. The national government is pow erless—the army is in a mutinous -state—for eign men of-war menace the blockade of her ports —her treasury is empty, and the nation al authority is everywhere contemned I hear muttering thunder. “God ana Liberty !” cry our Mexican patriots, and I join in their invocation. May it not be iu vaiil J.