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VOL. I.
T For th« Banner of the South.
?f Tho Prostrate South to the Radi
cal North.
)
P,Y PAUL H. HAYNE.
'Mid the tumult, the hurry, the madness
i of the srtifes that convulse you to-day—,
i Mid the echoes of frantical gladness
That the Blue is still high o’er the Gray —,
Are ye deaf to the tempest which sunders
! Th e last ties that bind us to faith,
Are deaf to the roll of the thunders
| ‘ forerunning the blackness of death ?
i Tis true that they bear but a distant
j Faint menace from lands of despair;
Where the Spirit once proudly resistant,
Hath sighed its last gasp on the air;
I But a Fate mutters low in that warning,
And the South-winds are laden with doom—;
Aye ! crush the wild omen with scorning !
Aye! dunce on the verge of your tomb!
1 Ye have swathed us with cloud-palls of sorrows,
Your breath was the breath of Simoons—,
i Ye have stolen all light from our morrows,
And withered our freshest heart-blooms—,
> nut the Hates your blind fury hath planted,
! The dragon’s teeth sown in your ire,
As from heat of Hell’s furrows enchanted,
Oruw warm, and burst upward in fire !
‘ Armed warrior-demons of ravage,
Unquelled by a or an art,
Fierce, monstrous, untamably savage,
And thirsting for blood from the heart :
Yoon hearts that are ruddy and swollen,
Notours, so drained and so cold—,
j With uo food but those memories olden
i Ufa tile that long since hath been told.
j
i Do ye think to escape, O ! my masters,—?
Do ye say, ’tis a dream of sick thought—, ?
A night-mare of phantasmal disasters
To remain all unfeared and unwrought ?
0 ! fools, and O ! blinded ! ye see not
How swiftly fate’s cohorts unite,
0! fools, and O! blind! ye can flee not
That wrath in its might!
j Not a drop of the life-blood of heroes
By your hireling Vandals laid low,
! But shall poison the sleep of the Neroes
Who caused the red torrents to flow—;
Not a pang of our wives and our daughters,
Or slain, or all maddened with doles,
| But shall pierce thro’ hot visions of slaughters,
To the depths of your agonized souls!
I
Soon, soou ye shall compass the anguish
War’s visage bent near you, must bring,—
The vague fears that smoulder and languish.
The keen pains that harrow and sting;
By your thresholds blanched, sorrowful faces,
On your marts the gaunt figures of care,
Deep wailings in desolate places,
Winged wild o’er the pall and the bier!
With the terrible woe that comes only
When Hope has been strangled in gore,
! When distraught, and despairing and lonely,
) You stand on a blood-deluged shore—,
' With the last friend of Liberty perished,
> With the last chance of ransom undone,
I And the fair face of Freedom, uncherished,
hying mangled and stark in the sun:
With the knowledge this fearful undoing
Your hand and yours only hath wrought,
Till the blackness of darkness and ruin
Shall fall like a madness on thought;
1 And you faint, and sink down in dumb languor,
Appalled, and accursed by your Past—,
Ft the flames of God’s infinite auger
Have searched you, and scathed you at last!
[Written for the Banner of the South.] '
1 Ttie Earls of Sutherland.
1 BY RUJH FAIRFAX.
! PART SECOND.
» o
j CHAPTER XVII.
; (concluded.]
CHAPTER XXL
Amy was sitting in a little boudoir.
* Her head was reclining on the back of
, her chair, her hands listlessly folded to
gether on her bosom. So absorbed was
■ in thought that she did not hear
! IhiKes hg it tap at the door, nor his foot-
I stop on the floor; she did not know he
; was near her until he spoke:
‘ Amy, do I intrude ?”
■ Du, no!” and she lifted her soft eyes
■ to his.
j f J ! l *e looked very stern; he was trying
,*“ !ll, le traces of feeling, and dared
I l . 1 r> !a °t the least liberty to lip or eye.
• ! , v looked down again; she could not
, tear to see that look on 'Duke’s, face,
i • “C'k at ll]e Amy!” said ’Duke, seat
in in self near her; “what! you will
tetevon lift your eyes to mine! Be it so
t f : perhaps I can better say what I
' ir you do not look at me.”
j mre was a short pause.
( r:, :i one was gathering up their eour
■y 1 meet the coming conflict with leel
‘ ' , Amy spoke first, and very calm
Vv ’• her voice.
11 wished to speak to me Duke,
mi-'mi.g very important, is it
ery important Amy. I am going
away.”
“Where ?’’ the icy coldness of her heart
crept into her voice, and ’Duke noticed
how coldly she asked him, “where.”
“To join King William’s army. He is
going to war.” ’Duke spoke bitterly ;
“and I may, by some k»ppv chance, be
killed !”
“Is life then so burdensome to you?”
asked Amy, lilting her tearless eyes to
his face.
“Aye! life is a curse to me!” replied
’Duke. F
“And I, I am the cause of it all, am I
not ?” asked she, still with that tearless
gaza.
’Duke did not answer.
“Do not tear to hurt my feelings,
’Duke ; speak to me ; tell me the truth!
Answer me, my lord of Surrey, ami not
the cause of your misery ?”
“I cannot deny it,” answered ’Duke,
turning away.
“It is well!” said Amy; “I thank yon
lor telling me. Is there anything more
you wish to tell me ?” Oh how fearfully
calm she was; too culm—it conld not
last long.
les, one thing more. I have come to
tell you that you are about to be released
trom your marriage vows. Your formal
consent is ail that is necessary, and you
wiil then, in a short time, receive a di
voice! Duke's voice was sharp with
agony, but Amy only thought it harsh
and angry.
A divorce!” she cried ; “adivorce did
you sa y > teh uie my lord, did 1 under
stand you aright ?”
“lou did, madame,” answered ’Duke.
“A divorce!” she repeated ; “a divorce
in the houseot Sutherland! Tell me, was
such a thing ever heard of before ?”
Never madame,” was ’Duke’s answer.
“And is there no other way ?”
. “None!” ’Duke scarcely dared trust
his voice.
None! Amy sank back on her chair,
and again said, as she did before:
“It is well!”
“You will give me your consent then,”
said Duke,” you will say thatvouaie
willing ?”
Willing, oh yes! said Amy, pressing’
her hand to her eyes.
“That is all then,” said ’Duke, rising
and taking her cold hand in his; “I will
not prolong this painful interview. I
leave to-morrow morning; I may not sec
you again, and will now bid you farewell!”
He hesitated a moment, then pressed her
fingers to his lips, and dropped her hand.
I aieueli madame,” lie said again;
may you be happier in the future than
you have been as Countess of Surrey!”
lie had reached the door, another
moment, and he would be gone! Amy
started from her seat, a bright spot glow
ing on either cheek, her lips apart.
“Sir! my lord Surrey! one word !
she gasped ; “you called me Countess of
Surrey, just now!”
“Aye, lady Sutherland ; but you will
forgive me, it was for the last time !” re
plied Duke, pausing, with his hand on
the door.
lor the last time, yes ; but you have
called me so before now. But there is a
woru. one name! oh, ’Duke, forgive me,
but you are going away ; I may never
.see you again! Aou have called me Lady
Sutherland; you have called me Amy ;
now, for once, and it will be the only
time, 'Duke, call me your wife !”
. She liad advanced a few steps towards
him, hoi beautiful eyes streaming with
tears, looxing pleadingly towards him.
■M} wife .' cried Duxc, springing to
her side; “my wife, will you then allow
me to call you by that sweet name even
once . Sinking at her feet he clasped
her hands m his, and lifting his eyes,
glowing with emotion, to her° face," he
murmured in thrilling tones*
“My wife !”
Amy trembled like a leaf tossed bv the
passing breeze.
AUGUSTA, GA., LAJNTTJAYRY 16, 1869.
“Do not think harshly of me for this,
’Duke, I could not help it. You are
soon to be lost to me for ever, and the
eager cry of my heart refused to be si
lenced. Oh! for once—only once, the
first, the last time ! oh ! mv husband!”
Amy threw herself into his arms, and
her own clung closely around his neck.
“What is this, Amy ? Oh, you have
thrown all my self-control to the winds.
My darling, my Amy! why, oh, why
have you been thus cruel to me ? It has
been like tearing my heart from my bo
som to part with you, but for your ' hap
piness®, though death to me, I am going;
why have you, for one instant, shown me
this glimpse of Paradise, only to turn me
back to the cold wretched world again !”
“For my happiness’ Duke; leave me
to make me happy ?” said Amy, lifting
her head from his bosom. “Can it be
possible that you have so misunderstood
me ? Have you thought I did not love
you,’Duke?”
“Love me! no I never dared hope that
you would love me, I only feared that you
bated me ! Oh, Amy, if you could but
know how I love you.”
“And we have been making ourselves
so unhappy,” murmured Amy, smiling
brightly, and clingliag fondly to her
husband.
Put even now ’Duke could scarcely
believe in this great happiness that had
come to him thus suddenly. He seated
himself beside Amy,mis arms clasped
closely around her, as if he feared to lose
his new found treasure, and over and
over again he asked her:
“And do you really love me; can it be
possible that I am so blessed ?”
And she answered:
“More than life I love you! If my
love is a blessing, truly are you blessed!”
And then such honeyed words of love
would he pour into her willing ears—but,
stop; have we any business listening ?
Certainly not; the words of the noble
Earl of Surrey are meant for his wife
alone. And thus, sitting in a fond em
brace, Emily found them, after she had
waited hours for ’Duke to come back, and
at last went to seek him.
Ah ! were we not true prophets ? This
part of the cloud has turned toward us a
most beautiful rosy lining, gorgeous with
beauty as the rising sun.
Let us look toward Reginald.
CHAPTER XXL
Marrnaduke left Reginald at the door
of the room next to Eugenia’s but Regie
did not go in; lie went to ’Genie’s room
and knocked for admittance. She opened
the door instantly, but started back when
she saw Reginald. Rowing low Regie
entered the room and closed the door.
Ilis looks were very cold and stern,
and in an instant Eugenia summoned up
ail her pride and turned haughtily to
wards him.
“To what am I indebted for your visit,
sir?”
.“A mere nothing, madame,” said Re
ginald ; “I only wished to ask you to
restore to me the rose I gave you a little
while ago.
O
“Your rose! 1 have it not!”
‘Aii! perhaps you have given it
away?”
“Perhaps so, sir, you surely do not
expect me to remember what I do with
evory flower that happens to be given
me ?”
“Allow me to assist your memory,”
said Regie with a slight sneer; “I think
I saw you give it into Lord Vernon’s
hand!”
“Sir!”
“And if 1 mistake not your rosy lips,
those lips which I have not touched for
many weeks, were pressed to the flower
before you gave it to him !”
“Reginald!”
Genie was strongly tempted to con
fess all; to tell him wuat she said when
she gave Lord Vernon the rose, to show
him how violently her iove struggled with
her pride; in one word, she longed to
throw herself into Regie’s arms, and
begging pardon for the past, promise the
kindest love for the future.
Pride, that treacherous demon, con
quered, and she only repeated.
“Reginald!”
“\es, and his lips caressed the flower,
where your lips had been so lately press
ed !”
“Sir!” exclaimed ’Genie angrily;
“bow- dare you watch me? Yes, I did
give him the flower, and if I choose I
will give him another ; you shall not
watch me; I will not endure it! You
are not my master, Sir Reginald, if you
are my husband !”
“It, is only of that fact that I wish to
remind you, madame!” lam your hus
band, and I insist upon being treated with
the respect due a husband !”
In Her heart ’Genie almost worshipped
him, as he stood before her so proudly
beautiful, but she would not explain, “at
least not yet,” she said to herself, “how
much power I have over him ? oh! 1
will throw my arms around him directly
and tell him all! How he does love me,
my beautiful darling.”
“And what do you think she said ?
“I am not likely to forget that you are
my husband sir, you so often remind me
of it.”
“And it is unpleasant to be reminded
oi it, is it not so ?” asked Reginald.
our absurd jealousy renders it so,”
“Absurd! Do you call it absurd.
Think Eugenia, were you to see me press
my lips to a rose and then offer it to a
lady, and she should hold it to her lips,
what would you think, what would you
say ?”
Genie pressed her lips closely together,
and murmured to herself:
“I'd kill her!'’
Reginald caught the words.
“You would! Well'l was tempted to
kill him, and had not ’Duke been there
to restrain me I would, long ere this,
have crushed his life out!”
“Oh! Reginald you terrify me!” cried
’Genie, in a choking voice.
“lear not, madame! I will not see
him again,” said Regie, scornfully; “com
fort yourself with the assurance that
Lord A ernon shall not be injured. lam
going away; it matters not where ; and
you will not see me again for years, per
haps never!”
j “Don’t say that Regie!” exclaimed
’Genie, laying Her hand on his arm.
“Does it grieve you ’Genie ?” asked
Regie earnestly ; “tell me, does it cause
you the least sorrow ? If so I will gladly
remain!”
“He is not going away, he wants to
frighten me,” thought ’Genie.
“Oh! speak to me ’Genie, tel! me that
you have only been tormenting me for
these past few weeks, tell me that you
love me ! he clasped his arms around
her ; tell mo that you love me, iny beau
ti!u! queen, bid me stay near you! do
not torment my loving heart any longer,
look up, darling, and say that Regie is
dear to you!”
Oh! how sweet it was to lie there in
iiis arms, listen to his words, and feel his
warm kisses on her lips, and eiAmraged
by her silence Regie ‘folded *er more
closely to his heart, pouring into her car
the story of his hopes and fears, his love
and anguish.
“And now my beautiful wife, unclose
your dear eyes, and let the light of love
shine once more on me, 1 know now that
you have been teazing me ; yes, I was
jealous, I acknowledge it ; but 1 love you
so intensely dearest, you must not blame
me ! Speak now, ’Genie, and let the
first words that pass your lips be, 1 love
you!”
Eugenia lifted herself from his circling
arms, she looked calmly upon him, and
smoothing her elegant laces, said :
“Have you finished, sir ?” 1
Do you ask me what demon prompted
Her ! I can not tell, but this was the
last cruel blow she intended to give :
“one more word now, and I will fly to
his arms,” she thought. But she had
gone too far.
Dashing her away from him, Reginald
cried in a hoarse voice.
Yes madame! I have finished, aye,
finished forever! Never shall another
word of love pass my lips! Oh, cruel
cruel woman, you know not what you
have done! I will leave you; you will
not hear my name again, unless it is read
to you tioin the list of killed or wounded.
Heaven forgive you, Eugenia Suther
land, ] cannot! You have broken mv
heart!”
Pi casing his hands to his face, Regi
nald rushed from the room
“Regie! oh! come back Rome! I was
but jesting!”
But Reginald did not hear her.
He went instantly to the stables, had
his horse brought out, mounted him, and
turning his head toward London, galloped
furiously away,
And thus the dark cloud over Suther
land descended lower and lower.
Marrnaduke would not leave his young
wife, out Arthur followed his dearly loved
brother to London. Together they en
tered King AVilliam’s army, and fouHit
side by side.
Alas that so fair a morning should end
in so dark a night.
******
The city of Namur had been taken, but
the citadel still held out; twice the English
lushed vigorously upon it, twice they were
repulsed. As they retreated the second
time tney leit dozens of their wounded
ano killed in the enemy’s hands.
Among them lay our Reginald, the
young Earl ot Clare, with a ghastlv sabre
wound across his brow.
A\ e must bring our story to a close for
the present, but there are others of this
family ot Sutherland with whom we have
yet to deal, for we cannot thus readily
relinquish the beautiful Countess of Clare.
THE ENT)
FACING DEATH.
: From the New York Weekly Review.]
A man will go blind, and mad too,
from fear; I have seen it happen, and if
you don’t mind listening, will tell von
tiie story. L was apprenticed to a builder
when 1 left school, and soon got to like
the trade very much, especially when the
work was perilous, and gave me a chance
to outdo the other lads in daring.
“Spider” was'my nickname in those days,
given partly on acount of my long iees,
tor I had outgrown my proportions, and
partly because they said I could crawl
along a roof like my namesake. When
l was about three and twenty 1 was
working with the famous Mr. M A—, and
went down with his picked hands, to
carry out a contract he had taken in
Canada. W iiilc there, I fell in love
with the prettiest girl I hau seen in
Canada, and that is saying a <v ood deal.
lor a time I fancied she like me, and
that L was getting on very well with my
love-making, but I soon found my
mistake, for an old lover of hers joined
our men, and Mary gave me the cold
shoulder directly. You believe this
sweetheart of hers (who was called Ron
Lord) and J were not the best of friends
in the world; bull am not the sort of
fellow to harbor malice, and when the
biddings to the wedding went round, and
i knew that my chance was gone, I made
the best of it; I kept my sore heart to
myself, and determined to beat down
jealousy, by being great chums with
Ben.
I went to the wedding; and there were
not many days when I did not s l eal half
an horn to si; by too fireside, winch was
as bright and cosy and homelike, as you’d
wDh to see—Mary being the soul of order,
ami industry. It is not, perhaps, the
u.-uai way oi driving out envy, to go and
look at the happiness another man has
Time you out of, but you know the
proverb says, “What is one man's
meat is another man’s poison,” and so it
ISTo. 44.