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Dcooteb to literature, Science, anb ~Ut, tl)c Song of (temperance, ©bb Jfcllocogl)ip, illasonrn, anb ©cncral intelligence.
VOLUME I.
PROSPECTUS!
& Miniiffii p&ffiiLi,
A WEEKLY SOUTHERN NEWSPAPER,
DEVOTED TO
literature, science and art, foreign and
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ANCE.
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tim m ii
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E. J. PURSE, Savannah, Ga.
CAPT. ISAAC HOLMES.
How many pleasant associations does that name call up—
that tall, erect and commanding form stands before us again,
ft* it stood surrounded by a score of other uniforms on Savan
nHh s Common at the Grand Camp in ’4O, and again at Fair
Lawn in ’42, when from the hands of the fair he received that
stand of colors which he bore with him to Mexico —but what
aro these to that nobleness of soul that beamed forth from his
countenance—to the earnest grasp of friendship with which
he “rung your hand—to those words of kindness which poured
forth from the tullness of his noble heart? The form of clay
as been laid in the ground, but he lives still in a habitation
and beautiful the temple of Heaven—and in the hearts
oi nis countrymen.
rom Southern Literary Gazette.
JN'ES ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN HOLMES.
BY Le ’LA CAMERON.
No tr uinpet’s war-like blast
The baftlp tl** ** i r ° US /’ 1 lee b'om thy quiet rest;
The ? dere Shall disturb not.
strife Os war no more thy peace molest!
Full 3l\ g ”i II * , ! t benr f’ anf l Georgia’s sons
And Inn \ S 1 her °ic virtue know;
g and truly shall each patriot breast
urn or tbe hero in the grave laid low!
hie summons came
No on * 1 le f * rom hie scene of strife away;
anrH> n s no t, annerg waV ed around,
1 >et the messenger brooked no delay.
Ath r a eart thine to brave
y n e L.°j deaths, while combat round thee raged;
-jpL a ? l ear can blanch a hero’s cheek,
iOu S* 1 hand to hand in mortal strife engaged!
But ah! ’twas hard to die os thou hast died,
To part with life when aH thy hopes were high—
When glory wooed thee to press on and win,
The victor’s wreath, beneath a foreign sky !
E’en while thy breast with martial ardor glowed,
To conquer, or to share the soldier’s doom,
The fiat of Omnipotence went forth,
And fell and isease prepared thee for the tomb !
Ah! many a gallunt breast was filled with woe,
And many a manly heart with anguish bled,
When pealed thy death knell o’er the prairie wild,
And low’ in dust they laid thy noble head!
What thoughts were thine, while mourning comrades
stood
Around thy couch, in far-off Monterey,
While pallid brow and waning strength foretold
The shades of death w'ere closing round thy w'ay ?
Was not thy spirit stiired with thoughts of those
Who long and vainly would thy coming wait?
The dear ones, in thy distant Georgia home,
Thy fair young children and thy gentle mate!
Yes! e’en in death, thy noble heart w'as true
To her who won thy fervent early love ;
Thy last sad thoughts w r ere hers, thy dying words
Commended her to Him , w T ho reigns above !
Alas ! fond wife thy cherished one has reached
That distant bourne whence trnv’ler ne’er returns,
And thou, all lone and sad must linger here,
E’en though thy widowed heart to join him yearns!
But not alone shall thou lament his loss;
For all who knew him loved the gallant heart,
Where ever gen’rous feelings had a home,
And base dishonor never shared a part!
Sleep on, brave Holmes! within thy quiet grave
The call to glory cannot reach thee more;
A soiTowing country mourns her hero son,
A thousand hearts her grievous loss deplore !
Peal high the requium for the gallant dead !
From Georgia’s hills let echo catch the sound ;
Upon thy country’s scroll thy name shall live,
And thy last resting place be liallow'ed ground!
“WOMAN AN ENIGMA,
Or Life and its Revealings .”
BY MARIA J. M’INTOSH.
Like the Bee the province of the editor is to cull from every
flower its sw'eets, and deposit in his hive. The sketch that
we have extracted from this delightful liitle book, is but one of
the many honey drops with which it is filled.— Ed.
They walked together one evening to the brow
of a hill in Mr. Elford’s grounds, from which
there was a fine view of the. Thames and its
banks. Louise pointed out, with enthusiasm, all
the charms of the scene. De Mont revel looked
more admiringly upon her than upon the pros
pect, as he said, “ You are eloquent in your
praise.”
“ We are always eloquent when we feel deeply ;
and I feel the charms of nature very deeply, es
pecially of this view, for here I took one of mv
first lessons in what Mr. Elford calls the beautiful
realities of life.”
“Does he mean by that there is no reality in
the moral world V”
“Oh no —far otherwise,” She paused a mo
ment, then added, with a smile, “To explain his
meaning fully, I must talk a little of myself.”
“ You can speak of nothing more interesting to
me,” said De Montrevel, with an ardour which
brought a slight flush into the cheek of Louise.
“ You will not wonder that my experiences in
France—l mean in Paris —among the terrible
scenes of the Revolution, divested life of all
charm in my eyes. I had learned even there,
and perhaps from the moral exercise of those very
scenes, something of its value. I had ceased to
regard it wholly as a burden.
“ Wholly as a burden ! Did you ever so re
gard it?” , j j
Again Louise was slightly embarrassed, ana
she proceeded without replying to his question.
“I had learned to regard it as a valuable gift lor
valuable ends—a school of discipline, which was,
by strengthening and developing our powers, to
fit us for a higher and happier condition of being
SAVANNAH, GA., THURSDAY, MARCH 15, 1849.
—hut it had no beauty in mv eyes ; and when
Mr. Elford first talked to me of its beautiful re
alities, he seemed as one who mocked me. He
saw that my sickly mind could not then appre
ciate the beauty of our social life, and it was with
nature’s charms that he first acquainted me, stri
ving to attune my heart to gladness by awaken
ing its response to these; and here, as 1 before
said, he began to initiate me into the true phiios
phy of life.”
“ And may I ask what was that philosophy ?
I, too, should like to take mv first lesson here.”
. *
Louise looked smilingly up at him as she re
peated, “Your first lesson ! it is a philosophy in
which, if 1 mistake not, you have taken many
lessons, though in a very different school from
this ; but you shall judge. Mr. Elford teaches
that, as in the natural world our pleasures as well
as our necessities are supplied, so life in the moral
world ministers to our cheerful enjoyment as well
as to our improvement ; and that as in the one
the dark cloud and rugged rock render yet more
attractive the sunbeam and the smiling landscape,
so in the other, the sternest circumstances ad
vance our highest happiness, if, instead of yield
ing supinely to them, we exert ourselves, with
humble submission to Heaven, in earnest contest
or cheerful endurance.”
“ He is right,” said De Montrevel, with energy.
“ My life, till within the last five years, had been
a succession of pleasures ; these years have been
full of stern trial and bitter conflict, yet in -these
years only have I caught a glimpse of the true
happiness which never shows itself to us unless
associated with duty.”
# # # * # #
It was yet early —scarcely noon —when De
Montrevel arrived at Mr. Elford’s. He had been
so frequently a visitor there, that he was quite
au fait of the habits of the family, and knew
that at this hour Louise would probably be read
ing in the library and alone. He proceeded there
immediately, and acting on the privilege con
ferred by intimacy, he entered unannounced. —
Louise was there, still in her simple morning
dress of white muslin, and the smile with which
she received De Montrevel did not proclaim him
an unwelcome intruder.
“Are you earlier than usual, or has any book
made time pass more swiftly ?” she asked as she
returned his greeting.
“It is quite early. 1 wished to see you before
there was danger of interruption by other visiters.”
De Montrevel’s tone, his looks, and manner,
conveyed more than his words ; and fearing to
check his confidence by coldness —fearing yet
more to force it by manifesting her interest—
Louise vainly sought some objectionable mode to
break the silence which succeeded. This si
leuce did not continue lons 7 .
o # ,
“Louise,” said De Montrevel, in a voice the
depth of whose tone made the heart of Louise
bound and her frame tremble, “Jacques Brissot
has arrived ; I have seen him, and it now de
pends on you whether to-morrow I look not back
from the sea on England—again an unconnected
wanderer. I came here for the sole purpose of
seeking your confidence, and entreating you to
prove that you had pardoned my intemperate up
braidings in our last painful interview, by accept
ing the provision to which my sister’s wishes en
titled you —”
“ Pray spare me, Monsieur—”
“ Nay, Louise, hear me, fori have much to say,
and on this subject I will not now trouble you.—
Long before 1 came to England, I had felt that
in their full extent my upbraidings had been un
just, as well as intemperate. Bitterly had I con
demned myself for suffering any disappointment
to make me, even for an hour, suspect one so
transparent in her simplicity, of systematic treach
ery and mercenary designs. I speak these words
with shame, Louise, and scarce dare ask your
forgiveness for such injustice, for which the mad
dening circumstances of the hour are the only
palliation I can offer; let me add that, before you
left my presence on that morning, my heart had
given the lie to my own words, and ~ reproached
me more bilterly than you ever can. But though
thus acquitting you of mv harsher accusations, I
did not, and thought I could not, doubt your in
difference to me—your devotion to another—until,
since your abode in England, communications re
ceived from Mr. Elford have led me to think that
even here I may have been mistaken.”
A burning blush rose to the very temples of
Louise, and De Montrevel hastened to explain.
“1 mean that those communications made mo
doubt whether he whom I had supposed my suc
cessful rival had truly and permanently estab
lished himself in your regard. My interest in
you suffered me not to leave this doubtful, and I
hoped that the confidence I came to England to
seek from you would extend to this subject. You
may ask why I have so long delayed to seek this
confidence. Louise, my answer will unveil to
you my whole heart. Our very first interview in
England taught me that, though you had former
ly pleased my fancy and interested my feelings,
it was only now that you commanded the full ap
proval of my mind, and entire devotion of my
heart. Louise, when first I sought you in your
convent home, I said, I love you, and I was not
consciously false ; yet how r much deeper meaning
dwells now in those same words ! Louise, I love
you with a love which makes your happiness,
your excellence, dearer to me than all else—a
love that would not owe life’s most precious treas
ure—yourself—-to the lightest sacrifice of these.
Here I have seen you happy—l have received
every day new proof of your excellence—-and
I have been happy. Can you wonder that I have
hesitated to risk this happiness—hesitated while
blessed with your friendship, to urge a suit for
more—a suit which, if unsuccessful, must have
banished me from your presence V But this
morning I heard, Louise, what would have re
moved every fear, had any fear remained—that
he whom I dreaded as a rival possessed an inter
est in your heart ; and, Louise, before I heard
this, I had sometimes dared to hope —nay, you
shall know all my boldness—l have felt—here—
since I learned to estimate your native integrity
of character, I have felt—dare I say it ?—that
once your love was mine ; and when you allowed
me to call you my own, you were my own in
deed. Was it not so Louise ?”
For an instant Louise lifted her eyes to De
Montrevel’s, and he caught the smile that played
in them as she whispered, “ Have you forgotten
the miniature?”
His heart bounded with hope as he replied,
“No, Louise, I have not forgotten it; but my
trust in your truth is stronger now than even that
memory. Ido not understand it. I acknowledge
that it perplexes me when I think of it, yet it has
no power over my faith in you. I ask no expla
nation of that or anything else. Give me your
simple avowal that the heart I wronged so deeply
was mine—may be mine again, and I desire no
more. Speak, Louise.”
De Montrevel had drawn near, and clasped
her hand. Louise averted from him her crim
soned face, as with her other trembling hand she
drew the miniature from her bosom, and holding
it towards him, murmured, “Let that speak for
me.”
His emotions who can describe ? Louise saw
him not, but she felt that he was at her feet; that
his face was bowed upon her hands as he held
them clasped in his. It was long ere either spoke.
At length, De Montrevel, as he yet kneeled be
side her, drew her towards him, till her head rested
on his shoulder; and bending over her, said ten
derly, “ My own again ;” and as he gazed on the
serene, trusting expression of the face—op her
quick, bright blushes —on the eyes veiled by their
snowy lids and long, dark lashes, and on the soft,
sweet smile that played around her lips—the
Louise of the convent seemed, indeed, again be-
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