Yesterday.
--Thanks were returned to the Most High yesterday in the different churches of this city, for giving us the victory in the late battle. The day itself was "altogether lovely"--the finest one of the season — the ultima thule of delightfulness. Italy never beheld a softer or a bluer sky; Andalusia never felt a purer or a sweeter air. After the rain of Saturday, the Heavens seem to have apparelled themselves in new beauty, like Cythere rising from the bath. The a phyes fitted by with balm upon their wings Alas, a thing of beauty is not a joy forever; but a speeding sentiment, a glorious beam, a passing order! We can only remember it with sadness, because it is no more, and sometimes in our sorrow regret that its apparition ever transformed a longing memory into pain.
