Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.