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l ““*^ P "^ — ""* m^m—*~^ ' "" " *“"*"' ' '"~ '," ■■>■ i»m r> '.^f^. ( VOL. I. For the Banner of the South. Sitting by the Fire. i ,i<led is the sunset’s glow, Tiw short-lived clay is uead, And darkness bangeth o’er the snow, O’er earth’s broad bosom spread, i sit Him watch the shadows play, As the flames mount high and brighter; I is sweet to dream the hours away, Sitting by the lire. How often, in the days gone by, I watched the ruby glare, An.l mused, and built, all dreamily, Bright castles in the air! Aid visions gay, of wealth and fame, My fancy ne’er would tire, As 1 kept gazing in the flame, Wfcil sitting by the iire. Wild dreams of pleasures, bright and fair, My young heart would beguile, such fairy happiness as ne’er Huth gilded Earth’s dark isle. [ grasped the; laurel wreath of tame, Awoke the tuneful lyre, \nd won myself a poet’s name, While sitting by the fire! ! made me friends, too, true and kind For faithless world like this, Where oft that friendliness we find Which ends with Judas-kiss. To rose-hued summits of success My fancy w ould aspire, And revel iu each fancied bliss, While sitting by the fire. -NH'c, all is changed! Grief’s gloomy night Hath fallen o'er my way, ■ iid where the red flames flickered bright, I now see ashes grey. ! hear sweet tones'that, lost to Earth, Now swell the Heavenly choirs, Aj.d see closed eyes, once bright with mirth While sitting by the tire. Without those loving, dark, bright eyes, Without those voices low, I h« glittering things that worldlings prize, c an never charm me now 1 , i ut, sweeter, holier, visions came, And fancy rises higher, [•:! cl reamings of my Heavenly Home, While sitting by the fire. Tte Earls of Sutherland. BY RUTH FAIR-FAX. PAHT~ SECOND. (continued.] chapter vi. Amy looked a little surprised; she did R .;t understand him, but Margaret did, and, with a merry laugh, ordered the hot porridge and whiskey, that her father-in law spoke of. L} this time, John, with his compan ions, had reached the house. Old Mac km welcomed them cordially, and usher them in to the breakfast table, i denlyon was a pleasant, affable man, mid proved quite an acquisition to the little family circle at Glencoe. He lis iMvd to the old man’s weird stories with ijemost profound attention, clambered the rocks with Amy and John on pleas r . - vs > s »d played cards with Alexan- U 'T in the long evenings. Pleasant even ings these were, when gathered round the glowing peat fire, they listened to won drous tales of “second sight,” and sipped , 10ntdl brandy, on which no duty had , , 11 1 a bj, from tiny French glasses that looked strangely out of place in these wiki mountains. Little did John think, & uldlu g Glenlyon along the diffi - passes ot the mountains, andpoint , W out . the secure hiding places in the -most inaccessible caves, that he was ! 1 dv !' s °* himself and clansmen J )e -lands of an enemy. G.enlyon communicated all the infor uaaontnus obtained, to Hamilton, who, i • Kn £ ie information sufficient for if* Purposes, fixed the tinm of attack at ,1N v o ei„ c k on the morning of the thir teentu of February He "expected, by hat tune t ° reach Gleucove with about ■■ L Guild red men, and, closing up every ;V : ::! iUe escape, hem in the clan of j‘ - l! o o, while Glenlyon butchered them, ■j, Miocker he arrived in time or not, O'clock Glenlyon was to make the attack, and kill.every Mac Donald under seventy. On the night of the twelfth of Februa ry, Captain Campbell and Lieutenant Lindsay came into the old Hall at Glen coe in unusually high spirits. Glenlyon kept .foln'c and Alexander in a rear of laughter with his merry talcs, and they were in the midst of their enjoyment, when, suddenly, a loud voice was heard outside, saying: “I do not like this business. I don't mind fighting, but to kill men in their beds”— Lieutenant Lindsay sprang from his seat, and went out; there was a slight disturbance without, and then all was still. “ One of the men has taken too much of your whiskey,” he said, laughingly to Mae fan, but he glanced uneasily atGlen |lyon. John noticed the look, and felt a ! vague fear take possession of his heart . “ Come, let us go and see about those : fellows,” said Glenlyon, rising. John ■ followed him to the door; “What is going on, Campbell ?” he asked, uneasily. “ Why, to tell you the truth,” answered the Captain, “some of Glengarry's men have been harrying the country, and I must scud some of the men to put them down. Have no fear for yourselves; do you not suppose, that it there wore any : danger to your family, f would not have | given Alexander and his wife a hint of it?” Reassured by these words, John re turned to his wife, and soon after the family separated for the night. It is five o'clock in the morning, the thirteenth of February, sixteen hundred and ninety-one. Let; us see where are Hamilton and his followers, Glenlyon and his men The night had been dark and stormy; Hamilton bad not been able to keep his appointment, yet, promptly at fiveo’cioek, GleiTlyon commenced his work oi de struction. His first victim was the aged Inverriggen, where Glenlyon had gone to spend the night. Going to the bedside of his host, the murderer grasped him by the throat, and, ere he was well awake*, he lay weltering in his blood on the floor. Nine others, who were in the house, were treated in the same way, and the soldiers went on to Achianon. The tacksman Auehintria tor was kneeling, with seven or eight of his family, around the fire-place, offering up their morning prayers. In deterred by the solemn sight, Glenlyon ordered his men to fire, and a volley of musketry laid all but one of them upon the floor. This one was Auchintriator’s brother. Springing to his feet, he called aloud to the Sergeant: “ Grant me one favor, l/ot me die in the open air.’’ “ Well/’ -aid the Sergeant,” “ 1 agree. You have been kind to me, and L will grant you that favor, for the sake of your kindness.” The soldiers drew away from the door, the young moutaineer came forth, with his plaid in his hand, rushed unon the soldiers who were about to level their pieces at him, dashed his plaid in their faces, and sped away with the fleet step of the mountain deer. While this wa« passing at the house of the tacksman. Lindsay went up to the house of the chief and knocked at the door. “ Wha’a there ?” asked Mac lan. Lindsay, answered the wretch. “I am not feeling well this morning, and want to get something from you ” Mac lan sprang out of bed, and catch ing his clothes in one hand, opened the door with the other. Then, calling to his servants to come wait up.m the Lieutenant, he turned with kindly inquiries to the traitor, putting' his clothes on meanwhile. v\ hut ails the words were cut -hort, Lindsay levelled his gun at Mac lan, and he fell shot through his head! Not, ■ l his lips after he fell, but AUGUSTA, GA, DECEMBER l •>, 1868. the last glance of his dying eyes haunted Lindsay forever more. The two servants who had come at Mac lan’s call, were also slain instantly. The wife of Mae lan had also risen from her bed at Lindsay’s call, and was already dressed, when she heard the re port of the gun. The men instantly rushed upon her, and tore from her per son such little trinkets as the old lady wore. The wedding ring that had been placed upon her finger in early youth, would not come off, and one of the brutal assassins tore it away with his teeth. Jean, who had been the horrified wit- | ness oi the scene, fled iroin the room, and entering John’s apartment, was just in time to prevent his going forth, to know to know the cause of the disturbance. “No! no! you'll no go there. The old Master and the Mistress are dead outright; ye can 11a help them; but, maun, try to save your own wee bit wiftie!” cried Jean, snatching the clothes from the bed, and rapidly knotting them into a rope. John instantly barred the door, and lent his assistance. The rope, sindi as it was, was fastened to the inside of the window, then, lifting Amy in his arms, John bound her closely to his breast, with his plaid, and let himself out of the window. Scarcely had his feet touched the ground, when he heard his name called in a low voice. Looking up, he beheld Jean, lowering herself from the window in tiie same way' he laid done. He could not leave the brave girl who had saved his life; therefore, he paused a moment, until she reached the ground. That moment’s pause was fatal to him. though not immediately so. As soon ns Jean reached his side, he turned and ran, lidding his precious burden tenderly in his arms. Looking from a window, Glenlyon saw the tall figure almost flying over the mountain With steady hand he raised his musket, aimed carefully, and fired! Amy gave alow moan, and the hand that had been clasped round John’s neck, fell uselessly away. Her arm was broken! John fell to his knees for a moment, and a sharp pain darted through his shoulder; then, rising again, and defiantly tossing his hair from his brow, lie sped on faster than before. Jean, alone, knew that tlie ends of his hair was tinged with blood, and that the crimson of his tartan was gaining a deeper dye. And away they sped, until far away in the wild recesses of the moun tains, John paused, faint from the loss of blood, for lie was wounded, and laid the insensible torm of Amy upon Jean’s lap. Oh ! invaluable in this time of direst ne cessity was this humble, loving Highland lassie. M ith his own hands John at tended Amy’s broken arm, while Jean clasped her to her bosom, warming and soothing her back to life, and when, at last, she opened her eyes, Jean drew her own plaid from her own shoulders, and wrapped it around Amy’s shivering form. “Do you suffer much, my wife?” asked John, tenderly bur, softly, and with lowered eyelids. “Very little,” answered Amy; “but, you, John—are you hurt; your voice is weak, and you are pale?” ” Indeed, yes; he is wounded him own -el , answered Jean, removing the plaid from his shoulders. Tenderly as she touched him, John shrank from her hand. Amy came to his side, and her soft hand drew away tlie clothes from his shoulders. Oh! un doubtedly was he wounded, but the wound was not bleeding now, the dark blood lay in a thick clot over the cruel wound, “ Oh! my husband, you will die!” cried Amy, m a voice of deepest agony. “ Oh! no; I hope not,” answered Join}, with a faint smde; but, even while he spoke, the crimson life stream tinged his lips, and he icsted his head on Amy’s bosom. And Amy, the gentle, timid Amy, subduing all outward manifestation of pain, put her sound arm around Ids neck, and spoke calmly. i ou must not speak, dearest; every word will make you worse. Go, Jean, higher upon the mountain, and gather a handful of snow.” Oh! there Was a depth of courage and fortitude in that gentle heart that none knew of, and now, at this awful time, it shone forth brilliant as the morning star to the lonely watcher. And with what a depth oi adoration did John lift his beau tiful eyes to her face, and, if his lips i moved not, his eyes told the sweet talc of j his love o’er and o’er again. Jean returned with the snow, and, in i tiny morsels, Amy pressed it between his I pale lips. Oh! vile ingratitude! or, vile | carelessness, that could place this daughter of Sutherland (daughter in blood, if not in name,) in such a position. Well knew William that Am} 1 ’ was the wife of a Highland Mac Donald, why, then, when he gave that order for the wholesale butchery of a Highland clan, did he not ask the name of if. Oh! shameless care lessness! A Sutherland died for him; others, time and again, risked, their lives for him, sheltered him in danger, were true when all others were false, and, now, behold the result! This carefully ! nursed, and tenderly loved daughter and sister of Sutherland, supporting the head of her dying husband in a lonely cave among the mountains. Tremble ! Wil liam, or Monmouth, whoever ye be. lest, speed}’ retribution overtake you! Trem ble! lest that throne, supported by the hands of Sutherlands, should fall, now that one of those hands has been broken by thy act. The Master of Stairs, the head that planned, but thine the hand that dealt the blow, for, when thy hand placed thy name to that fatal order, the blow was struck! The day wore away, and late in the afternoon, the brave Jean left iheir re treat, to seek help, if help might be found. Site returned to the house of Glencoe. Oh! what a mournful sight meet her eyes. The house was more than half de stroyed, the surrounding cabins were now a smoking mass of ruins. Mangled bodies, weltering in gore, were lying around The troops had retired, and the Mac Donalds were creeping out of their hiding places, and returning to the reined village. Jean speedily procured help, and returned to the cave. He who was now, by the death of his father, for a few brief hours, the chief of his ela n, was j carefully lifted from the ground. Colin, the brother of Auchintriator, lifted Amy in his arms, and the mournful company returned to the village. The moon was dimly shining through Hie clefts of the mountains, like clouds piled up in the sky, shedding a mournful light over the mourners gathered round the murdered loved ones. Plaids were spread on a broad rock, and Mac Inn laid upon it, Amy sat by his head, holding down the might v grid’ ofhor heart, and trying to wreathe her pale lips with a sad smile. Oh! what a mournful scene ! Allan, the hereditary bard of the clan, took his rude harp in his hand, and clambered up to a high rock, blending his voice, in a wild lament, with the sighs and groans of those below. Faint Lung tlmmoon oVr the waters; The Lark clouds low- red redly! i The Storm King rode on the wild winds. And his song came down from the cairn! 'The strangers sought for shelter ’Neath the lordly roof of Glencoe. The feast was spread for the stranger, And the bright flames rose for his warmth, j The sun sank, and the moon rose, 1 And the Storm King came in his wrath! Then rose the one we had nourished. “ Why liftest thou thy spear, oh! stranger? Contest thou not in friendship?” “ Yea, came I in friendship, great chief of Glencoe. ' But liis tongue was false, and his heart black, The stranger smote great Glencoe. Wild shrieked the shade of Mac Tan, And fled to the spirit land ! Desolate are our homes, And our brothers lie in their blood. Tin voice of weeping Mingles with the wail of the blast. And the blue-eyed son of Mac Tan, He of the golden locks, and mighty strength— He. the- nursling oi Fairies, the smi ofKomerlid, Hath fallen in his mighty strength, Fallen in the glory of his courage. 'fhe Storm King hushes his roar, The fire falls in the distance, The clouds darken the sky, And the moon falls in the chill wave, For the splendor of Mae fan is o’er. The voice of wailing is heard in the glen, For the glory of Mac Tan is o’er!” His song was hushed. The moon hid herself behind the clouds, and with its last departing ray, the spirit of the young Chief rejoined his fathers.* With a wild scream, Amy fell fainting over his body, and the wailing mourners took Old Allan’s lament.. Loud rang the words, in a despairing cry, far over glen and hill, “ The glory ol‘Mac lan is o’er.” CHAPTER X. The first day of March. Eugenia, brilliant with youth and beauty, sat in her bed-room. A carpet of rare beauty covered the floor, and the luxurious furniture was of French manu facture. Curtains of heavy velvet shaded the windows, and low chairs were drawn in a semi-circle around the Are. The rain had been falling in torrents all day, and, now, as night closed in, the wind howled mournfully around the house. Without, all was bleak and cheerless: within, all was mirth and gavetv. Emily and Ormnnd sat on one side of the fire-place, their little "Raymond curled up on a soft cushion at their feet. Mar maduke sat beside Emily, while ’Genie, Arthur, and Regie, formed another group on the opposite sideof the chimney. Arthur was in high spirits; ’Genie seconded him; | and their mirthful sallies drew smiles from all, even the grave Mannaduke. “ Come,” cried Arthur, tcasingly, to Regie, “ you hnvo got to be quite an old man since your marriage, and 1 insist upon your putting aside vour dignity.” “ I think you had better assume a little,” said Emily, laughing. “ 1!’ ! exclaimed Arthur, in mock hor ror; “no dignity for me, if you please; Regie lias enough for both of us. Come, ’Genie, sing for us! ’ ’Genie willingly complied with this re quest, and the words of a merry song tell in musical accents from her lips. In the midst of the song, a loud rapping, at the outer door rang through the house; but, this did not disturb the merry party, and ’Genie continued her song. As the last words fell from- her lips, a merry peal of laughter rang through the room, and while he silvery notes still floated on the air, the door was silently opened, and a pale spectre stood within. They did not recognize the figure, but the smile was frozen on every bp as they rose to their feet Pale, very pale, was the face that met their gaze; the long robes of sable that draped the figure were wet with the cold rain, and the large, hollow eves, looked mournfully upon them, iiv.m be neath the snow-white brow where the tangled curls clung wildlv. One arm was supported by a sling, and the other held a Highland tar;an ib!d<- I mound her. For nearly a ruinuto, they sood thus, in silent astonishment, and ’i hike was | the first to break the awful silence. Dash- I ing aside his chair, he sorang to the m*w comer’s side : “Amy! YVhal means this?” “Amy!” repeated the others, and ’Genie, unmindful of the dripping dress, or her own rich silk, clasped her sister in her arms. She held her thus a moment, and then ’Duke, tenderly, but forcibly, drew Amy away from ’Genie’s arms. “ She is dripping wet,” he said, grave ly; “ let us wait to know what calamity brings her to us thus, and ear ' for her alone, now. Come, Ormnnd: let us all leave her alone with her sisters, until they change her dress.” The brothers immediate]; left the room. : ' r lam aware tLat tin* son oi >1 ■ f > >... - not killed in the great massacre of Glencoe. r. j . TSTo. 39.