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VOL. I.
IN MEMORIAM,
t 1 \ 'I! .
BY RET. ABRAM i. RYAN.
YonTijj as tUc youngest who donned the grav,
True as the truest that wore it—
Brave as the bravest, be marched away,
(Hot tears on tho cheeks of his mother lay,)
Triumphant Waved our flag oie day,
Ho fell in tho front before it.
Firm as the firmest, where duty led,
He hurried without a falter ;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won—but the field was red,
And tiio blood of his fresh young heart was shed
On his country’s hallowed altar.
On tiie trampled breast of the battle plain,
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled,
On his pale, pure face; not a marl: of pain,
His mother dreams they will meet again,)
The fairest form amid all the slain,
Like a child asleep—he nestled.
• In the solemn shades of the wood that swept j
The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there—and the big tears crept,
Into strong men’s eyes that had seldom wept,
(His mother—God pity her I—smiled and slept,
Dreaming her arms were around him.)
A grave in the woods with the grass o’ergrown,
A grave in the heart of his mother—
His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ;
There is not a name, there is not a stone—
And only the voice of the winds maketh moan
O’er the grave where never a flower is strewn,
But, his memory lives in the other.
[Translated from the German.]
FORGET-ME-NOT!
Or, The Picture that was Never Seen.
[concluded. J
l>ut now it was no longer the strong
tenor voices of the south, but two sweet
female voices, so low and melodious, that
rest and peace came back to him, and
turning to his couch he murmured softly:
“ Holy, blessed fatherland. The roll
ing fates have taken me from the lap
to foster me in a strange land, with a
s range crown, hut with blessings I
think of thee; and blessed, thrice blessed,
nmy’st thou be, 0 my loved fatherland,
my sweet home!”
* * * *
“That is not Cremato,” spoke the
King, as the Count, according to the com
mand, presented the modest painter, a
slender, handsome, youth, scarcely ar
rived at manhood.
"I am called Guido, sire !” answered
he, fearlessly.
‘ Guido was always a fortunate name
for your art,” replied the King, as he
dismissed the Count. “I have heard
good of you. Have you brought with
you the picture of which the Count has
spoken ?”
“No, sire,” said the painter a liberal
connoisseur had bought it and taken it
. awa ) r > before the command of your Ma
jesty reached me.”
‘ a misfortune !” said the King
condescendingly.” “I am a patron of
fiii. and desire t.o employ your brush.”
, ‘ i am sorry,” replied Guido, “that I
have no specimen of my poor talent to
diow to your Majesty. But I have
1 -wight with me a work which will ob
tam >' our favor, sire. I was on my way
your court, and have Cremato’s mas
terpterce to give to your Majesty.”
y He King became pale at these words.
lic moked at the painter piercingly, but
a ; !>° received the glance without re-
Plaint, questioned him further.
“Cremato ! His last work ? You Mr
perhaps his son ?”
/‘His student, gracious sire ! his student
V° buried him a few months ago at Nu
kes, and promised the dying man to
°img the picture to your Majesty.”
, . ( reniato dead !” sighed the King. “In
j/ m ( *“ G d a true artist, a peculiar but no-
Ul:ln - I have never inquired further
;' m-erning him. He was to me only a
man being, whom I could protect,” ad
ae, slowly. “The last sign of hisin
- pm*-.once ! You have brought it with
you ?’> °
“ Yes - y° ur Majesty,” replied Guido.
j It stands in the anteroom. I hasten to
! bring it.”
! uY® fc a tt'ord,” began the King dis
| turbeqly to the artist. “The subject of
the picture. 7 ”
“For me a secret,” answered Guido.
The master worked on it with closed
I door—embellished it with his own hands,
j aT]d locked it in tho box. It stood long
so, ready for departure. Cremato would
entrust it only to me, and said to me, on
his dying bed, that only your Majesty
knew what the picture designated.”
liie King’s countenance cleared, and
he allowed that Guido should bring the
box, in which the picture was locked, into
the room. itli a kind of grim horror,
he refused to have it opened.
t kome other time,’ lie said abruptly,
“I will see if you arc the student of your
teacher. Bid Cremato leave relatives to
whom I can return the price of this mas
terpiece ?”
/‘A mother and two daughters,” re
plied Guido. “It is true they are not
pressed by wane, but from a painter’s in
heritance is seldom left a surplus. Yet,
do not pay for this gift in gold. Weighty
grounds compel them to remain in a for
eign land, and they wished to find a re
fuge in the kingdom that your Majesty’s
wisdom makes happy,”
”I o take care of Cremato’s daughters
shall be my work, but, perhaps his stu
dent has found his way to the heart of
one of them ?”
Guido, bowed blushinglv and denied.
“I am already bound,” said he, “but
to take to them the hope of your Majes
ty's grace will be my first duty. They
will soon thank you in person ” The
King bowed, and said :
“Let yourself be presented to the
Queen, and look at the drawings of my
two young daughters. Cremato’s pupil
has certainly inherited quickness in art
Horn him. His spirit is in your eyes.
You please me.”
He dismissed the joyful painter, and
turned toward the secret picture. “It
seems to me,” he said to himself, “as if
Albo’s eyes looked through the wood in
order to wound me. Angry friend ! On
thy death-bed, hast thou after so many
years kept thy pledge and made the, shade
of the murdered one at home in my
court ? When will I obtain the strength
to look at thy earnest work ? To look at
it! Never! I think I should die from
the glance. I will never sec it. I know
it already, too well. Away with it.”
With his own hands he set the box
away behind the heavy silken curtain
that fell in long folds before a window.
Ihen he threw himself into an arm-chair
and asked himself, “llow is it possible
that one single deed performed in unjust
revenge must perpetually swing its whip
over my wounded heart? The fields
which my battles have enriched with
blood, the scaffolds which have been
erected in the course of time—these dis
appear when my eyes look into the past ;
but Albo’s grave lies ever open before
them.”
*******
It bad become late in the evening.
Government cares occupied the King. He
had worked with his counsellors." The
reception room was deserted ; but tile
tapers still burned in the rooms of the
Queen, ihe Princess Sophia, overcome
by ’weariness, had retired to her room.
The more beautiful sister kept her mother
company. She endured impatiently the
reading of the governess. An undescrib
aole unrest spoke in every movement of
the beautiful maid. Her eves rambled
lrom the ceiling to the walls, then looked
fixedly down at the floor. The light work
with which she employed herself did not
increase in her hands, and dropped fi
nally, entirely from them. With growing
unrest she changed her place a few times
and started when the clock struck the de
pai ture ot another hour.
Ihe Queen, a careful, loving, mother,
ae.ayed not to notice this unusual beha-
Moai, and herself becoming anxious,
-A.TTGTC7ST.A., GA., MAY w 2, 1868.
took advantage of the first suitable pause
which came in the reading, and released
the lady irom further duty tor the oven
ing. Mother and daughter remained
alone.
“Please do me the favor to play some
thing on the harp,” said the mother to
Lliza. “Ihe instrument that I once
played so readily, will not do duty under
my neglectiul fingers. Quick young fin
gers succeed better in bringing feeling
out of its strings. Play, my child ; I
need the enlivening.”
n
Kliza obeyed. Her tender fingers
glided over the strings in prelude. But
the affectionate performer could not long
hold the measured run of the selected
piece. The- restless, trembling, spirit
betrayed itself in the rising and falling
tones. Andante became presto, and pre
sently broke out into a striking disso
nance.
“Forgive me, mother,” cried the Prin
cess, springing up. “I cannot play
any longer. My heart will break that I
have since morning kept something secret,
and secrecy must not be between you
and me.”
“It shall not,” replied the mothercalmly,
‘because thy own feelings lead thc.e to
confide.”
The Princess came closer to the
mother, and related that in the morning,
in her sister’s room, almost under the
eyes of Aja, while the strange painter
was looking over Sophia’s crayon
sketches, a paper was dropped into her
hands, on which she, with astonishment,
read the words, “Most gracious Princess!
Doubtless your heart is what your lovely
features speak, noble, tender, gracious,
and charitable. Oh ! will you plead for
the unfortunates who are hidden by fler
gereita in the forest, and wait for a
gleam of hope ? Hear their prayer. In
terest your elevated mother in this work
ot love- Protect the most humble from
the anger of your father.” “These strange
entreating words,” continued the Prin
cess, “took possession of my heart. The
painter must have placed the paper in my
hands. Mv searching glance read in his
the answer, ‘yes.’ I should, perhaps,
have scorned the boldness; but his en
treating glance disarmed me. I could
not shame him before my sister and the
instructress. I concealed the paper, and
this afternoon my devoted maid has
spoken to Hergereita, and found an old,
troubled looking woman, and two beauti
ful girls, and, at my command, requested
them to be in my room at eleven o’clock
to hear how I can be useful to them. I
should have liked to hear what the griev
ing ones wanted, before speaking to you of
them, dearest mother, but my unrest has
betrayed me, and so, if you allow, I will
bring the petitioners immediately before
you.”
“Thou hast done rightly, my daugh
ter.” said the Queen, kissing Eliza’s brow.
“Thy trust excuses the censurable indis
cretion of taking a paper from a stranger’s
hand. We will together find out what the
circumstances ot the strangers are, and
deal with the youg artist according to the
truthfulness of his representations.”
“The maid of her royal highness waits
in the ante-room,” said a maid to the
Queen.
Eliza blushed.
“The pointer stands on the eleventh
hour,’ whispered she. “The petitioners
are certainly already in attendance, and,
it you will allow it, I will command that
they be conducted here.”
The Queen consented. The Priuces3
gave the necessary command, and in a
short time a lady, dressed in mourning,
entered the loom. She seemed aston
ished at finding herself in the presence of
the Queen; but this circumstance failed
to deprive her of the security of carriage,
which immediately betrayed her acquain
tance with life of the highst stand, al
though her dress belonged to a time long
past. Her noble, expressive countenance,
betrayed her great age, but the firm, ereat
gait, almost denied the white hairs which
spread out thinly under a black veil.
With the usual bow, the matron ap
proached the Queen, kissed, before she
could prevent it, the hem of her robe,
then arose, and spoke with a voice filled
with emotion :
“Your Majesty sees before you a wo
man who has had the misfortune to be
come gray under sorrow, and older than
her years would speak. Unjust fate has
finally overcome iny pride, and now when
I have lost all except two hearts which
love me, I pray only for the favor to be
allowed to die within the borders of this
kingdom. The making of anew throne
could not so rejoice your illustrious hus
band,. as a grave in this land would re
joice me.”
“Madame,” replied the Queen, aston
ished and overcome by the weary sadness
in the suppliant’s voice, “before you speak
further, who are you ? Your name ?”
At this moment the tapestry door
opened, through which the king was ac
customed to enter, and the Monarch ap
peared suddenly before the women. The
Queen and Eliza were silent in terror.
Ihe stranger looked him fearlessly in the
eyes. Ilis wrathful look fell only on her.
With a curious mixture of hardness, as
tonishment, and auger, he finally broke
out into the words :
“Vv horn do I see here ? What is pass
ing here? How did you come into this
room, Frau von Alho ?
“Albo ! cried the Queen, and threw
herself upon the arm of her trembling
daughter.
“\ou have not forgotten me, sire !” an
swered the lady, earnestly and firmly.
“For many years I have been unaccus
tomed to this name, and just here, where
it is proscribed. I hear it again. Your
presence, sire, decides my fate, which I
would have entrusted to friendly hands.
Unjustly banished from your state, I know
only too well that I stand before you as a
criminal. I have stepped over the ban,
and death is my fate. Dispose of this
gray head as you will, only protect my
grand-daughters, my King ! Their mother
lias departed. They do not bear the
hated name of Albo. Let them live in
the home of their mother, to plant flowers
on mine and their uncle’s grave.”
For a long time the King made no re
ply, but his expression was dark and
menacing.
“I am no tyrant who thirsts for your
blood,” said he finally, “but guilty you
are. I must know how all this lias come
about.”
Eliza threw herself at her father’s
feet, and related to him what had hap
pened.
“Guido !” replied the King, and pulled
the bell, “this presumptuous stranger
shall answer me on the spot.”
The servant, who had come, was or
dered to bring the painter immediately
into the royal presence. The lady ap
peared to hear nothing of all that was
passing. Her eyes raised toward heaven
and her lips moving as if in prayer, she
stood there as if belonging to another
world. The Queen spoke conciliatingly
to her husband, but bis features remained
hard and dark,
“Must pictures of a miserable past
swing for ever before me ?” murmured
he, “Must death resign the booty long
due him in order to torment me ? And
what could have induced you, Frau von
Albo, now that you are on the verge of the
grave, and have lived so long, to put your
self in such a position ?”
“Age makes me a child again,” re
lipod the baroness, quietly. “I was mi
serable in the strange land ; I must, even
at the price of my life, sceor.cc again the
spot wliicli bore me. It remains iny fa
therland, m whose bosom my boues would
gladly rest near those of my son.”
“0, sanctissima !” sang the two angel
voices through the forest, and the tones
came through the open window, and the
King thought again of his fatherland, and
sighed deeply.
At that moment the painter Guido en-
tered, quickly and boldly. “Your com
mand, your Majesty,” said he. The ba
roness interrupted him with the words,
“I # have lost my play, most gracious
Prince, and I commend to you the or
phans whom I must leave.”
I bat will God and the brave King’s
magnanimity not allow,” replied the be
trayed, and went reverently to the royal
pair. “I am Prince Julius,” said he,
‘*l wished to convince myself, without
being recognized, whether the soul of the
beautiful Princess, whose hand I wish to
gain, were like her rare charms. My
hope has not deceived me, and my confi
dence in your Majesty’s grace will surely
be justified to the favor of the two inno
cent suppliants whom I recommend
your mercy.”
The Queen bowed pleasantly to the
Prince Eliza, overcome by delighted
surprise, clung bashfully to her mother.
The King reached his hand to the Prince,
and spoke with slight reproach. *
“The young hero, who is so welcome to
my court, had no need of dissimulation in
order to call out mv justice. His word
alone” * * * J * * *
“Sire !” The Prince interrupted him,
“I flattered myself that the circumstan
ces themselves would speak to the heart
of the wisest of Kings more than any
word of the undistinguished man who
would consider himself happy if the ruler
whom he so admires, would allow him to
become his student, and belong to his
family.”
The ambition of the King was so flat
tered by these words from a descendant oi
an old royal family, that Jie, with joyful
pride, led the exultant Julius to Eliza,
with the words, “My Prince, your bride.”
Turning toward the baroness, he spoke,
“You have placed yourself under the pro
tection of the Queen. I will not have
seen you, but a woman who conspires
against me I will not endure in my king
dom. Go back. An amount sufficent to
meet your expenses shall show that I do
not allow private vengence to work
against you—l cannot do more.”
“Away from the home !” cried Frau
von Albo,sorrowfully; ‘‘no, no, never!
Be merciful, your Majesty! I have never
plotted against you. The mother’s heart
commanded itself. I have never cursed
you. The calumniation of your dead
Chancellor ruined me, and chased me
iifto banishment, and still I have never
cursed you. Therefore show mercy. l)o
not keep an old woman in doubt. My
daughter found her grave in the waves.
I cannot seek it out to die on it. The
grave-mound of my son is in this land.
I cannot leave it again. Keep the gift of
your graciousness, sire ! Keep the pro
perty which was unjustly taken from us.
I ake my life. Take the last treasure,
the legacy of my sou ; only let me finish
my days here whre I was born.” In the
outburst of feeling, the baroness had
pulled a letter from her bosom, and, with
trembling hands, handed it to the King.
Asew 7 withered forget-me-nots, sprinkled
with drops of ldood, fell out on the floor.
The King and Queen stood trembling,
and “O sanctissima J” sounded anew,
blessing and entreating through the silent
grove.
“Whence these wonderfully entranc
ing tones of home ?” asked the King,
quickly.
“Cremato’s daughter’s it is,” answered
Prince Julius, “and here stands his
mother. Aiho’s sister was Cremato’s
wife, and, shortly before his death, per
ished on a pleasure excursion near the
coast. Grief for her loss hastened Lis
death, and his family, to whom your Ma
jesty to-day promised your protection, pray
for a home in their fatherlannd. Shall
they pray in vain ?”
“Cremato the husband of your daugh
ter!’' asked the King, astonished. “Bid
dles multiply.”
“In our humiliation and poverty in a
foreign land, the strange man found us,”
answered the lady. “Less love than the
warmest thankfulness which wc owed
:no. 7.
