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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.