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—**«nb VOL. I. THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. rt? RKV. ABRAM 3. RTAI<. My brow ip bf ntbeneath a heavy rod! My face ifc wan and white with many woes. But I will lift my poor, chained hande to Goa, Vnd for my children pray, and for my foes. Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son. I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, And pray , oh! Father, Thy will be done! My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast: My hopes are buried with ray children’s dust: My joys have lied, ray tears are flowing fast— In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust V Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft, When T was happy, rich, and proud, and free : But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft. And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee. Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman’s path 1 kneel, and wailing o’er my glories gone, I Btill each thought of hate, each throb of wrath. And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done! Pity me. Father of the Desolate ! Alas! ray burdens are so bard to bear: Look down in mercy on my wretched fate. And keep me, guard me, with thy loving care. Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief, That hearts of earth, wherever they shall break. Might go to His and hnd a sure relief. Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse V Or is it night with no tomorrow’s sun ? Oh! Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips. And gadder heart, I pray, Thy will be done. My homes ar# joyless, and a million mourn Where many met in ,lovh forever flown; Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn ; Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. And, ah! the widow’s wails, the orphan’s cries, Are morniDg hymn and vesper chant to me; And groans of men and sounds of women’s sighs Commingle, Father, with my prayer to thee. Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead— Oh! how I loved each known and nameless one.! Above their dust I bow my crownless head. And murmur—Father, still Thy will be done, \h! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair: But foemeu came, ami, with a ruthless hand. Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there. Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shovu. And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod. And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn. To catch one smile of pity from my God. Around me blight, where all before was bloom. And so much lost, alas! and nothing won! Save this—that I can lean on wreck and tomb And ween, and weeping, pray, Thy will be don*. And oh ! 'tis hard to say, but said, ’tin sweet: The words are bitter, but they hold a balm— A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat. And lulls my sorrows into holy calm. It is tlu prayer ol prayers, and how it brings. When heard in Heaven, peace and hope to me! When Jesus prayed it. did not angels’ wings Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane V iiy children, Father, Thy forgiveness need: Alas ! their hearts have only place for tears ' Forgive them. Father, ev’ry wrongful deed And ev'ry sin ot those four bloody years, And give them strength to bear their boundless loss, And from their hearts take every thought of hate; And while they climb their Calvary with their Cross. Oh 1 help them. Father, to endure its weight. And for my dead, my Father, may I pray V Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more! 1 keep eternal watch above their clay. Oh I rest their souls, ray Father, l implore ! Forgive my foe*—they know not what they do— Forgive, them ail the tears they made me shed; Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew, And them, though they curse my poor, dear dead. Oil! may my wot s he >;:u*h a carrier-dove, \Aifh swilt, whit.- wings, that, bathing in my tears. Yt ill boar Thee. Father, all my prayers of love, And bring me peace in nil my doubts and fears. Father, I kneel, 'mid ruin, wreck, and grave - A desert waste, where all was erst so fair— And for my children an*l my foes I crave Pity and pardon—Father, hear my prayer! Granville Perkins, who has been re siding* in Cuba, exhibits in his New York studio a number of picturesque scenes of the tropics, which are new and pleasing. One is a view of the Cienfue iros river, with mountains in the dis tance. Others, of sunset on the coast, have a sentiment of solitary grandeur, which is unique and effective. From the Month. PIERRE PREVOST'S STORY: Or, True to the Last, CHAPTER i. lu one of my summer rambles through the north of France, I carne across a little seaside village which possessed so many charms that it was the greatest difficulty in the world to tear myself away from it.. It was indeed a lovely spot .’ The vil lage, situated on a noble cliff, was en closed almost in a semi-circle of richly wooded hills, which stretched, as far as the eye could see, into the very heart of noble Normandy. At your feet the glorious sea came dashing in to a shore over which great masses of bold rock were liberally scat tered, anil round which the waves used to play in the summer-time, however little obstacle was afforded to their fury when fierce winds blew up a storm in the cruel winter-time. But perhaps the most attractive fea ture of the place to me was a splendid river, within a mile’s walk of the village, which was plentifully supplied with fish, and afforded me many and many a day’s amusement, and not a little’excellent sport. My time was pretty well my own, and I had made up my mind for a tolerably long spell of idle enjoyment; so, under these circumstances, it may not appear strange that! resolved to take up mv quarters at . The inhabitants of the place were mostly poor fishermen, who used to ply their trade nearly the whole of the week, and by great g*ood luck frequently g*ot back to their wives and families towards its close. Avery pretty cottage, with a bay window commanding a splendid view of the sea, took my fancy immensely, and though it was rather a humble sort of place, I determined, if possible, to make an impression on its possessors, in order to secure two rooms for mv use during my stay. AJphonsinc was certainly not the most sweet-tempered woman 1 ever met, in fact rather the contrary : at the same time I. fully persuaded myself that a great many disagreeables would be counteracted bv the possession of my much coveted bay-window. Alpbonsine evidently ruled the estab lishment with a rod of iron. She was a tall, thin, ill-favored woman, who was always prepared for a wrangle, and who looked uncommonly sharp after her own interests. However, by paying pretty liberally and in advance, I soon won her heart, and flatter myself that it was by excellent generalship on my part that I contrived very soon to be entirely in her good books. Her hard face used some times to actually to relax into a grim kind of smile in my presence, and I fan cied her harsh voice used almost imper ceptibly to soften in addressing me. Be sides, she was accustomed to hustle about in a rough kind of way in order io get things straight and comfortable, and I really think tried to do her host to make me feel at home. What more could I want than this ? And then she had two delightful children, a hoy and a girl, with whom I was very soon especially friendly, and who tended to enliven' me up a bit whenever I chanced to he at all dull The boy was about thirteen years old, and his sister, who looked a year or so younger, was indeed a lovely child. She was as fair as a lily, and had that sweet expression of countenance which is so often found among the peasants in Nor mandy ; her eyes were large and exquis itely blue, and with all this she had a decided will of her own. But then she was the daughter of Alpbonsine. It was some little time before l made the acquaintance of the master of the es tablishment ; for he was always busy AUGUSTA, CA., MARCH 28, 1868. fishing, and, as I have said before, the fishermen who lived in the village seldom got home before Saturday evening, and had to be oft' again either on Sunday evening or by day-break on Monday. However. Saturday soon canie round, and with it Pierre Prevost. He was about five-and-thirty years old. very dark and singularly handsome. His hair, which was thick, fell about his head in ringlets; he was short and had most expressive eyes. I was not long in perceiving that he was in every way a great contrast to Alpbonsine. His expression was sad, and he seldom or never smiled; and I noticed he seemed to shrink rather nervously from the piercing look with which he was very frequently favored by “ la belle Alphon sine.” His sweet and handsome face soon disposed me favorably towards him, notwithstanding that there were circum stances which occurred on our first ac quaintance which would otherwise have tended to prejudice me entirely against him. I was smoking h pipe and chatting quietly to Alpbonsine in the chimney corner on the evening l allude to. when all at once the two children came tear ing in from school with their hooks under their arras. “He is cornel” cried they, in their shrill treble voices. “We saw his boat just coming near the shore. He will he on the sand almost in a moment . We may go and meet him ; may we not, mother V' “ What’s the use V said she, in rather a more disagreeable tone than usual. “I am sure he would much prefer to come alone. Besides,-1 want you both. Go into the garden to get me something to make a salad of. Come now 1" These last two words settled the mat ter, and the children were soon off, with out another word about the expedition to the sea shore. “ That’s strange,” thought 1 to myself; “ I wonder if this Pierre can be a bad father, or at any rate a bad husband V A few minutes afterwards he came in. As if to strengthen this had impres sion of mine, 1 noticed that Aiphonsine never moved when he entered, and did not attempt to offer her hand or cheek to him. She did not even welcome him with a smile. No, she contented herself with taking a slate down from the wall, the pencil belonging to which was already in her hand : “ How much?"’ said she coolly. Pierre Prevost pulled out of his pocket a great leather purse, and detailed, day by day, how much he bad made by the sale of his fish. After which, he put down the money upon the corner of tlu* table. All this time the woman was eagerly dotting down the various sums on the slate. Then she gravely added them all up. and determinedly counted out every sou. By great good luck the figures tallied with the money. Then Alpbonsine shut up the money in a drawer, and locked it very securely Meanwhile, Pierre repocketed his leath er purse, which ho had just emptied, never attempting to grumble in the least, and going through tin* task as methodi cally as possible. “ 1 was quite wrong hi forming* so hasty an opinion,’ thought 1 to myself, as I witnessed this peculiar scene ; “ Pierre is not such a bad fellow, after all.” It was not Ion; before the young ones made a second burst into the room, making rather more noise than they did on the first occasion. They were not long in scrambling on to Pierre’s knees, and smothering him with kisses, and it was all done so hearti ly, with such warmth, and so naturally, that I could not help exclaiming to my self. “ Why, he’s a capital father, after all 1” But, judge of my astonishment when I heard their pretty voices call out, “Oh 1 we’re so glad to see you back again, dear uncle Pierre !” Then he was their uncle, after all, and he was not married to Aiphonsine. But was lie her brother, or merely a brother in-law t And yet she seemed so entirely to have the upper hand over him. It certainly was a very remarkable coin cidence. But what surprised me most of ail was the fatherly affectum that Pierre Prevost seemed to have for the two children. He took them on bis knees, and played with them, and appeared to make so much of them, that I, who was a silent spectator ol this little scene, became really quite interested. This lasted for about five minutes, and then all at once it seemed as if the old pain came over him, for he turned quite sad again, and became} deathly pale, and I could see the tears starting to his eyes. And then he got up, and look ing steadily into the young innocent faces of his nephew and niece, said, in an extremely soft voice. “Go and play on the sand. Go along* mv pretty ones !” The poor children, who seemed quite astonished at the sudden change in his demeanor, hesitated for a moment How ever, another beseeching* look from their uncle, and an angry word or so from Aiphonsine, soon persuaded them what to do ; whereupon, they set out very slow ly for the sea shore. “They know perfectly well how little you care for them,” said Aiphonsine, very bitterly : “and it would he just as well if you would not go out of your way to show* it.” Pierre made no answer. He shut his eyes, and put his hand to his heart as if to express the pain he was suffer ing. Then, taking a spade from the corner, “I am going u* work in the garden,” said he, gently. And then he went out, looking very sorrowful CHAPTER 11. Things seemed to be taking quite a dramatic turn, and 1 made up my mind to try hard and unravel the plot. I followed Pierre, and having secured myself in a convenient- hiding place, de termined to watch. He walked quietly on but soon stopped at a little vegetable garden, quite at the end of the village. At first, he pretended lo set to work vigorously, but his eyes kept wandering to a little rose-covered cottage within a. stone’s throw of the garden. He soon left off working, and leaning listlessly on his spade, lie kept his eyes firmly fixed on one of the win dows, which was almost covered with the luxuriant growth of roses;and honey suckle. As the wind played fitfully with the curtain of green which darkened the window, I fancied 1 recognized theshadow of a woman. Immovable an ;i statue, Pierre Pre vost remained where lie was, and though night drew on, lie did not leave his post till the heavens were bright with myriads of stars ; and then swinging his spade over his shoulder, lie began to retrace his steps to the village. But, just be tore he left the garden, I thought I hoard a bitter sigh borne on the wind from the cottage window. The next dav, when 1 was coming away from early Mass, 1 saw Pierre standing in the porch of the church. The two children were clinging to one of his hands, while the other, still wet with, holy water, was gently extended to a young woman who was in t lie act ol j passing before him. She was a lovely j creature, with golden hair, large expres sive blue eyes, and a face like one! of Fra Angelico’s angels. Although .she could not have been less titan thirty years old, she appeared to have all the lightness aud vivacity of a girl of eigh teen. When their fingers met, an almost imperceptible thrill seemed to affect them both, and as they gazed into one another's faces they both turned deathly pale. Could it have been the shadow that I recognized through the roses the evening before ? The tide came up very early that even ing, and necessitated the departure of all the fishermen before night came on. Pierre Prevost was one of the first to start, hut he went a long way round to get to the sea shore, and passed before the windows of the rose-covered cottage. A flower fell at his feet. He picked it up eagerly, and kissing it passionately, thrust it into his bosom and hastened away. As the evening wore on, and while the little boats were just fading away in the distance, 1 watched again, and distinctly saw a white handkerchief waving from the window of the pretty cottage. I was naturally anxious to find out about this little romance, and was con tinually puzzling my poor brains to dis cover the truth of the story. There were hundreds of people I might have asked, and, of course, Alphonse would have been only too happy to have enlightened me. But I determined, if possible, to hear it all from Pierre’s own lips, and accordingly made up mv mind to stifle my idle curiosity. CHAPTER HI. Pierre and I soon became firm friends, and I persuaded him on one occasion to take me on one of his fishing expeditions. It was a lovely night, the heavens were ablaze with stars, and the little boat tossed idly on the waves which scarcely rippled against its keel. Pierre’s companions were asleep down in the cabin, waiting for a breeze to spring up before they could throw* in their nets. As for myself, I was smoking quietly on deck, having my back against a coil of rope, and revel ing in the delicious quiet which reigned around, when Pierre joined me, and having lighted his pipe, sat down by my side, and spoke, as far as l can remember, as follows : “Ibelieve, monsieur, you areanxiousto know why 1 am such a sad looking fellow '( Perhaps you will laugh at me, hut that can’t be helped. lam sure you are sin cere, and wish me well, and, therefore, I have no hesitation in opening my heart to you. “I love Marie! There is hardly any need, perhaps, to tell you That. And yet this love is the foundation of all mv sor row. But 1 firmly believe that the good God willed that we should love one an other, and so lam content. Ever since our earliest childhood we have gone through life hand in hand. When we were little ones we always played together on the sand ; and there has hardly been a pang of sorrow or a feeling of joy which has not been felt by both alike. I used to think once that we were one both in body and sou), and there are old folks in the village who have said it over and over again. We made our first communion on the same clay, and at the same hour, side by side; and these little matters are bonds of union indeed, ami are not easily forgotten. Wheu I first began to seek my bread on the sea. she always offered up a little prayer for me at the cross in the village, and she was ever the first to rush waist-deep into the sea to greet ine on my return. And then l used to carry her on my shoulders hack again, and kiss off the tears of joy which (lowed down her pretty cheeks. Ah', we were happy in deed in those childish days, which are passed and gone. Why are not we al ways children ! “Aud the years that followed were hard ly less happy for either of us. In the cold winter-time we were always side by side in the chimney-corner. Spring saw !No. 2.