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her present, and dimmed the radiance even of ;bat future, which just now she was picturing with a mother’s fondest hopes. Uoung* as these children were, they knew their mother had suffered—they knew it as it were l>y intuition, and this :.,ade their love for her all the more ten der. Sometimes painful memories would c me over that mother’s heart, and tears v,\)u!d trickle down her pale, sad face those children saw those tears, hide them as she might; they did not know tlwir cause, but well they knew what would chase them away, arid bring* -miles instead ; they would throw their ; : mad her neck, and say : “ Mamina, do •. t cry, I love you so dearly.’’ Dear ;; r!e innocents! they knew how the mother ] vod them, and, in their guilelcs.snoss, they thought there was no sorrow love could not cure. Vfe know that one who lias suffered can never forget, for great sorrows leave a rjting behind them ; yet this mother’s home was now so peaceful and happy, she looked back upon the past, just as a ship wrecked mariner does, who, after being t v-ed and buffeted by the angry waves of the sea, at last finds finds himself in a harbor of safety, All life’s happiness was gathered up in this mother’s home where she was the beloved and idolized object of every heart. Love shielded her so tenderly, that even “the winds of heaven might not visit her too roughly.*’ She often felt no sorrow could reach her there, and sweet were her dreams, in the calm and lovely evening, which had succeeded the stormy day. Poor mother ! little did she dream of the dark cloud which was gathering in the distance, and which was coming* to overshadow this little nest of human hap piness—built so far above this world, as to reach almost to Heaven —yet, alas ! it was to be cast down to earth— teaching us a lesson which God never fails to teach his creatures—that here we can have no abiding place; make it as beautiful as we may, death comes with relentless hand, and shatters it, and a voice whispers, lay up treasure in Heaven, and not on earth. As we stand beside these little graves, 1 would like to tell you something of the home in which lived and died those little ones; but it would be impossible to de scribe it to you—you must have entered to know all its joys and peace. Love was the presiding divinity of this house hold. The little family were so bound to each oilier, lived so entirely for each other, that their home seemed altogether removed from the bustle, the excitement, and cares of the world—when you crossed its threshold, 'you felt you were coming in to a different atmosphere from that without. Its holy peace seemed to rest upon you, and linger around you, when you again went forth into the busy world. What a beautiful group we have in this family tableau. Alas ! that Death has power to mar so lovely a picture. Yet it is even so. He comes, places his hand on the fair and gentle Lily—she fades —she dies. Again, his icy touch falls on the bright, the beautiful Rose, and she, too, droops, and is exhaled to Heaven— and so the light of the picture is gone forever. There are but few persons who find anything like religious interest in the life and death of little children—but we who know their innocent lives, feel that tins is not so. The purity’ of childhood, its innocence, its trustfulness, called forth iroin our Divine Lord those blessed words, so full of consolation to the bereaved mother, “ Os Huch is iho kingdom of Hoavon.” Children, loving God after their own sim ple imaginative way, teach us more of Christianity than books filled with theo logical erudition ; and so it was with our little Lily—for, in her conversation, there was a wisdom far above her years, and tiiis was united with the exquisite sensi bility ot the child. She would often talk ot Heaven as her beautiful home in the skies—and oft times when we listened to these words, falling from her pure little lips, how fully we realized, “ Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou perfected praise/’ Iler trust in God was something very touching Every little wish and desire formed itself in a prayer, and with child liKe iaitli, she believed that it was wafted shaight to the throne of her Father in liea\ en. In the most touching manner was this faith exemplified at this child’s deith-bed. Through pain and suffering, hei little soul was kept in patience, and the sweet and gentle" accents of resigna tion lingered on her pale lips, till they were closed in death. On her snow white couch lay this little Lily—suffering had spiritualized her love ly features, and Heaven was so near, that light already illuminated the angel ‘ace. There comes a moan from the little suiierer—the strickened, agonized mother u*-'hes to know what ails her darling. Oh! how touching is that mute appeal for help from the dimmed, but loving eves. The child has never known pain which the mother’s voice and touch could not heal, but now, in woe unutterable she looks upon her darling—she knows she is powerless to spare her even one pang. Willingly, gladly, would she have borne them all—died for her precious babe; but Goa had willed it otherwise. The child was to rejoice in Heaven, ihe mother to mourn on earth. Darkness falls on the beautiful eyes of the dying child— ’tis the shadow of death, and through that shadow she passes into the eternal morning. Who shall speak that mother’s anguish! It is too sacred for us to look upon—it is veiled from all eyes, save God’s. Death again enters the household—the mother has now learned the tread of Death’s angels ; she makes ready to give up her youngest burn—her own bright blooming Rose. The little sister, who had loved her so dearly in life, cannot be happy in Heaven without her, and now she is calling her. This sweet babe bad always been accustomed to have her mother sing her to rest; now, as the darkness of death gathers round her, she thinks it only the darkness of earth’s night, and so she begs her mother to sing her a lullaby ; she falls asleep, thinking she will waken on the morrow on her mother’s breast; but, ah no! she is going to sleep in death to awaken in Heaven. What patience, faith, and hope, we be hold at these little death-beds I Well may we say, there is a holy beauty in the life of every child ; there is a touching pathos in the death of every child, to which the sternest, coldest heart cannot be insensible. So lived and died these little children ! As we standby their little green graves, let us learn a lesson full of instruction and hope. Let us realize, how short is life! How worthless is everything, but the prospect of another. We must love and trust God with child-like confidence through all pain and suffering. We must become “ Humble as a little child weaned from its mother’s breast.” lake these dear children, we must close our eyes in death, with the sure hope and expecta tion of opening them in Heaven. I think often of that desolate home, and of that desolate mother. Hushed forever are the merry voices that used to ring in childish glee and laughter; heard no more is the patter of tiny loot, the sweetest of all music to that mother’s ear. Nothing is left to remind us of them, but an empty little bed and two vacant little chairs. Did I not tell you how ruthlessly Death destroys these bright little homes of earth ? You ask me if the mother is still griev ing for her babes ? Is their memory to her still a scourge of sorrow ? still a bleeding wound ? For years she walked along life’s path way, in weeping, and in sorrow—she yearned—she prayed for consolation—yet it came not; but, at last, she has found a holy Faith which alone has power to heal her broken heart. In it, she finds full consolation—she feels it all sufficient for life’s trials, and she longs that all earth’s sorrow-stricken children, like herself, may know the unspeakable comfort of this blessed Faith. Many little mounds are around us, and they, too, have their own sad history. We see weeping mothers beside them, and we bid them, like her, take their bruised hearts to the foot of the Cross. Tristf.sse. —awa God in tiie Fields.— A man and boy were at work in the field and talking. “How do you know there is a God ?” asked the man. “I want some proof of it.” “Proof enough,” answered the boy. “Here is the corn drying up, and the seed in the pastures shrinking, and the apples dropping off the trees, all for the want of a little rain ; and the farmers, with all their complaining, and fretting, and seolding, cannot make so much as a drop. There is the miller idle at his hopper, all for the want of a little rain. Would he wait, with all the corn to grind, if he or anybody could contrive to manufacture it ? \\ ould father drive his cattle two miles to water, night and morning, if he could get his wells filled ? No. Yet all the learning, and study, and skill, and invention of man, cannot make a single drop of rain. There are some things man cannot Jo, and they teach that there is a God, the Almighty, Maker, and Pre server of the world.” Yes, it is true, God is known by Ilis works. Who can make a leaf ? Who can form an apple ? Who can create a fly ? God is ail around us, the great God, who is as good as He is great ; for sec how everything is done for the happiness ol His creatures. Why is Gen. Sickles not one of the worst of men. Decause he is as goed as Cauby (can be.) Mia M ss® wfi. Ashes of Glory. ISY HOX. A. J. REQUIEB. Fold up the gorgeous silken gun, By bleeding martyrs blest, And heap the laurels it has won Above its place of rest. No trumpet’s nute need harshly blare— No drum funereal roll; Nor trailing sables drape the bier That frees a dauntless soul! / It lived with Lee, and decked his brow, From Fate’s empyreal Balm; It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now— As spotless and as calm. It was outnumbered—not outdone; And they shall, shuddering, tell, Who struck the blow, it« latest-gun , Flashed rain as it fell. Sleep, shrouded Ensign ! not the breeze That smote the victor tar With death across the heaving seas Os fiery Trafalgar; Not Arthur’s knights, amid the gloom Their knightly deeds have starred; Nor Gallic Henry’s matchless plume, Nor peerless born Bayard; Y - Not all that antique fables feign, And Orient dreams disgorge; Nor yet the Silver Cross of Sx>ain, And Lion of St. George, Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still Thy crimson glory shines Beyond the lengthened shades that fill Their proudest kingly lines. Sleep in thine own historic night— And be thy blazoned scroll; A warrior’s banner takes its flight To greet the warrior’s soul! BATTLE SKETCHES—NO. TWO, [concluded, j In the year 1844, nearly eighteen years ago, there lived in the middle part of Geor gia, in the village of A , a wealthy planter and his wife, named Win ton. Though originally blessed with many chil dren, the relentless hand of death had seized all but one son, Henry, on whom was lavished all that wealth of love which the others had shared, and who, as he grew lip from infancy into boyhood, and from boyhood into youth and manhood, by his nobleness of mind and gentleness of spirit, proved himself deserving of all their affec tion. Brave, yet gentle; high-spirited, yet amiable: handsome, yet modest; talented, yet unassuming, lie was all that a mother’s love, or a father’s pride, could desire. And if, at times, there was a little wildness manifested by him, it was but the way wardness of youth or the exuberance of health and spirits, and soon subsided. Worshipped at home, beloved abroad, the idol and darling of the village, yet pre served unspoiled by his native good sense, Henry Winton grew’ to the age of sixteen —that sweet spring time of life—without a single care worthy of the name to cloud the bright sky of his life. Nor had lie been less fortunate in his love than in other pursuits. In this, too, had ardor, good looks, and wealth won the heart of the ob ject of bis affections, and if not a sanction of their engagement, for they were too young for that, still the approbation of her parents for his visitsto her. Ellen Fairfax, like himself, an only child, and like himself blessed with health, youth, and affluence, had known Henry Winton since childhood, and they had loved each other with all the ardor of two passionate hearts. Their homes joined each other, and from the earliest days of infancy they had been com panions; at the village school, when they grew older, he had been her champion and lover ; when she quit school, at fifteen, to live with her parents, and he had gone to the University of Georgia to attend the law r school there, he went away her be trothed, and every mail brought words of love and affection from each other. When he had been but a few short months at college, the election of Abraham Lincoln and the secession of the Southern States from the Union took place. The formation of the Confederacy, the selection of Jefferson Davis as our first President, and the organization of an army to defend our rights, followed each other in rapid succession. The whole South w’as in a blaze of indignation and patriotism. Henry Winton’s father, a man of ability and in fluence, w’as an ardent lover of liberty and a zealous defender of the rights of his State and section; and his son followed in the footsteps of hi 9 sire. Mr. Winton, raising a regiment from the immediate counties around them, his son came home and en listed as a private in a company formed in the village and belonging to his father’s command. After a few days, his regiment tendered their services to the Confederate Government, were accepted, and ordered to Virginia without delay. The day before their departure, he and Ellen took a fare w’ell walk into the wood, and in the light of the summer moon, beneath the shadow of their favorite oak, they sat upon its rugged roots, and with one hand around her waist and the other in her gentle clasp, did he lin ger till way into the night, renewing the fond vows of love and devotion which they had so often spoken before, and the tears fell thick and fast upon his golden curls when, rising to go home, she embraced him, perhaps, for the last time. But she did not bid him stay. No; though it al most broke her heart-strings asunder to do so, still she said to him : “ Much as I lo\e you, and would have you stay with me, yet our country has the strongest claim upon you, and I would not have you desert her in her hour of need. Go then and do, as I well know you will, your dutv towards her, and I will remain behind and interpose my lovq and prayers a> a shield between you and harm, and surely God will protect you and not suffer two young and innocent hearts to he blighted bv death.” One more embrace when they had reached her home, and lie was gone. Arid, though she had spoken so bravely while in his presence, yet, when she reached the solitude of her room, all her assumed fortitude deserted her, and with tearful, prayers she kneeled by her bedside and be sought her God to watch over apd bring safe home one whom she felt that, without, life itself would be a burden. On the fol lowing morning, Henry Winton accom panied his regiment to Virginia, and ar rived there in time to participate in that first and most glorious victory of the Con federate arms: the first, Battle of Manassas. In this fight, Col. Winton was killed, while gallantly leading his men, and Henry was left to endure, unaided, the physical ’ham ships and moral temptations of camp life; but, shielded by his love for Ellen, ho passed through the fiery ordeal unscathed. Frequent letters from her, breathing all the goodness and devotion of a noble woman’s heart, had enabled him to stand where so many young and brave men fell. Such had been the situation of affairs up to within two days before the battle in which he had been wounded, when lie received a letter from her, dated in Richmond, to which place she had come to nurse her father, who, a surgeon on duty there had been taken sick with the camp fever, begging him to obtain a furlough and come and see her if possible. Appli cation had been made, and the Colonel of his regiment had promised him a short leave as soon as the Army reached , where it expected to make a halt. Such, then, is a brief history of the wounded soldier on the cot before us. sic sjc sit ife Imagine the evening of the second day to have come, and we go with the surgeon to say farewell to the dying soldier. What a change has taken place in these two days! The field which then was white with the tents of our soldiers is almost deserted ; out of so many thousands of men, but enough remain to take care of the wounded—the others are all gone to carry bloodshed and desolation elsewhere. The woods and ravines w hich then echoed back the wild trumpet notes of the cavalry, or the deep peal of the artillery’, are now’ hushed and still. The birds sing in the trees as if they had never been disturbed by’ the shocks of battle; the streamlet’s pelucid waves have lost their crimson hue and roll over golden sands to the Rappa hannock : the plain begins to smile once more, and does not look as if it had wit nessed the deadly strife of contending hosts; all now is peace where lately’ had been nothing but battle and bloodshed. The setting sun is just on a level W’ith the treetops as we enter the sick room. The sick man, who has been arranged by the nurse neatly and cleahlily, is lying in the bed, propped into an almost sitting posture w ith pillows, and as one looks at the ghastly face and white forehead, on which is gathered great beads of death-sweat, the sunken cheeks and lustreless eyes, tell us that death is upon him. His right hand is ex tended from his side, and the attenuated fingers are held in the smooth, white palm of Ellen Fairfax, who sits by the bedside, plunged in grief too deep for tears. And surely, if ever truth and purity w T as dis played in a woman’s face, it was in hers. Tall, slender, and graceful, with pale brown hair—which looked as if a sunbeam had gotten imprisoned within its meshes and w'as struggling for liberty—overhanging a forehead white as marble, and with deli cate tracery of the velvet veins which wound over her temples; a mouth, neither large or small, with lips of coral and teeth of snow ; cheeks which once glowed with the fire of youth and the vigor of health, but now as pale almost as that of the form on the bed; large hazel eyes, lustrous and full of soul, combine to form this lovely picture, and, gazing on it, we can easily ac count for M inton’s devotion, and his de sire to see her onae more before he died. The patient’s strength seemed to be ebbing fast, and the Doctor stepped to his bedside to prepare him lor the fatal event. He seemed to anticipate him, however, for as soon as he reached his side, he asked, with a faint smile : “ How much longer have I to live, Doctor ?” “ I am afraid, but a few minutes more," was the reply, as lie turned hastily to brush away an unbidden tear. “ Then, Ellen, draw close to me. while we say that dreadful word, farewell!” and Ellen, with quivering lips and streaming eyes, drew nearer to the bedside, and clasping'his other hand too in hers, leaned close to the dying man’s face. “ Ah. my darling, this is the way in which 1 would die; no other death do I de sire than for you to he near me, and smooth the rugged road of death, as you have that of life, with tenderness and love. And yet, oh, my God! it is hard to die so young and leave you, Ellen, and this bright, beautiful world forever. Ellen, darling, I cannot leave you behind,” and lie tried to press her more closely to him, as if in order to carry her with him, but his strength' failed, and he fell back exhausted upon the pillow. The Surgeon now administered a stimu lant, which revived him a little. Ashe re vived, lie became more calm, and continued: “Ellen, in a few brief seconds I shah he no more ; but, I fear not, for I feel safe in the love of our Saviour, who will intercede for me at the mercy-seat of God. My chief sorrow is in leaving you ; hut, remember, darling, that, in the bright, Heaven beyond the clouds,’’ and he pointed, or r.q.her looked through the open window at the foot of the bed, to the heavens, now in a blaze of gl<|ry- ffroin the crimson clouds which enveloped the setting sun, ** my spirit will look down lovingly upon you and watch over you. awaiting the dawn of that blissful day when we will meet in Heaven.” J he poor girl could only sob, u Yes, yes, Henry, your Ellen shall soon follow you.” “Ah! Ellen, we have been very happy together, but.it was too much bliss to last; and now I have oho parting request to make of you. When lam dead, have my body taken home, and laid under the shadow of the oak where I first saw you, and where we have hud so many, many happy hours together. And I know you will come and sit sometimes there, dar ling, and strew: sweet tioweps on my grave. But, my sight is beginning to fail; 1 can not see you, darling; sit close to me, and put your arms around me, as you used to do, that I may know you are here.” She placed her arms round his neck, and while the hot'tears rained upon his face, sobbed: “1 will soon come to yum, precious one; you shall not wait long for me.” “All is night now. It will soon be over. Kiss me, darling, and say farewell.” The queenly’ iiead bowed over him, and the red lips touched his forehead, while she murmured “farewell!” As she did so, there was a slight twitching of the mus cles, a single pang, and all was over. Dark shadows were creeping over the room; we looked out of the window, and the sun, as if averting his face from such a scene of woe, had sunk in a sea of glory, to dawn again upon another world. The soldier was dead! * * * , % * Twelve months had passed since this in cident took place, and we were traveling through Georgia, on business for the Gov ernment, when, late one evening, we ar rived in the little village of M . After supper, while sitting alone, in the moon light, on the hotel porch, smoking a cigar, we suddenly remembered that this was the place in which Henry’ Winton had lived, and we determined to visit his grave, under the old oak, and look upon the last resting place of one Who had met such a melan choly’ fate. Inquiring the way, from our landlord, wo set out. It was eight o’clock, on a summer’s evening, and there was that full moon, casting its silvery’ beams over a peaceful landscape, which we had so often seen shining over the battle-field upon the pale laces of the dead, and''ren dering them more ghastly still by its re flection. The road wound gently’ along the borders of fields of grain, waving in the night breeze, past the homes of the Wintons and Fairfaxes, until it came to a path, which we could see led to wards the little dell in which stood the old oak. Turning down this path, we soon came to a neat iron railing, which en closed the old oak and Henry Winton’s grave. A plain and simple slab of white marble was placed over his remains, which had been deposited, as he wished, under the umbrage of his favorite tree. One rose bush, bending beneath the weight of its snowy buds, is planted at liis feet, while a wreath of violets and immortelles is laid npon the stone itself. While we are looking at these sweet offerings of affec tion, a sound of coming footsteps is heard, and, with a vague presentiment of who it is that visits the soldier’s sepulchre at night, we step hastily outside of the rail ing, and crouch down in the grass, com pletely concealed by the thick shade of the trees. The step approaches nearer and nearer ; the gate opens, and, standing out in the clear light of the moon, we be hold Ellen Fairfax. But, ah ! what a change has taken place since we first be held her at that death-bed in Virginia. The form is still light and graceful; the face even more beautiful now than it was then; but the cheeks are hollow and sunken, and the subdued hue of health has given way to to the bright hectic flush of consumption. The eyes were large and lustrous, but beamed with au unearthly fire, which told that she was not long for this world — that she would soon redeem the promise she had made to Henry Winton. Fho approaches the marble, and taking tlie wreath of violets and immortelles from it, replaces it by a fresher and more beautiful one, which she had brought with her. Pressing her lips to thw cold marble, she kneels before the tomb in which ail her earthly hopes are buried, and seeks consolation in her affliction from a merciful God. And, now, let us leave her there in the moonlight, itlone with her dead lover, and let no unholy eyes witness this sweet com munion between the body of the living and the soul of the dead. Unwatched by any save heavenly eyes, let her guileless soul pour itself forth in humble resignation be fore the throne of its Maker, an<L receive from on high that sweet support in afflic tion which is never denied to those peekin'* it. We go upon our way, feeling that in a few short weeks the patriot lover and Ids spirit bride will meet in aland where the battle-shock is not heard, where the band ot Death is powerless, and where thev v. ill experience that unalloyed bliss which, al though denied on earth, will, at last, crown the loves of Innocence and Patriot ism. What should be the fate of a cook v. ho would serve up a cat in what should he a veal pie ? Purr-dish on (perdition. 3