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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 domestic intelligence, masonry, odd- FELLOWSHIP, AND THE SONS OF TEMPER ANCE. m mswatlm mmm* In presenting to the public anew paper, we are aware that it is customary to make large pro mises in advance of performance, but we prefer to perform first, and refer to it afterwards. It may not be deemed presumptuous, however, to say, that it is our intention to make as interest ing a sheet as possible; knowing, as we do, the more interesting it is, the more liberal will be the support extended to it. Arrangements have been made, by which we shall he in receipt of the latest Foreign Intelli gence, and our patrons may depend upon receiv ing the latest intelligence in regard to the staple products of the Southern country, as well as a cordial and hearty support of the interests of the South, and its peculiar institutions. The Masonic Fraternity, Odd-Fellows, and Sons of Temperance, will always find such gen eral information as may be deemed interesting under their appropriate heads. tim m ii TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. Three Copies for one year, or one copy three years, -$5 00 Seven Copies, - - - 10 00 Twelve Copies, • - - i§ 00 E2T A liberal discount will be made to Post masters who will do us the favor to act as Agents. All communications to be addressed (post paid) to 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- NUMBER i,