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VOL. I. [For tlic Banner of the South.] Mizpah. BY INGLESIDE. Watch, Father, watch between us when apart, Note (lay by day, The upward yearning of each human heart, To'find Thy way. While 'midst the billows of Life’s stormy sea, Show us the reef; And if we strike, teach us to look to Thee, For sure relief. Life is so up-hill. Here and there are rocks Our feet must tread; Let them not be, oh (Tod, rude stumbling blocks, But helps instead. Kind helps, tho’ rude, that makes us stop and think, How dear the prize Reserv’d for us, beyond this earthly brink, Iu Paradise. Make us true and strong that each shall find, Howe’er the day May break or wane, something so dear and kind, To do or say. Thus may the time of our brief pilgrimage— A few short years— Pass sweetly on, until Thy golden age At last appears. Selma. Ala., 18CS. ' From Putnam’s Magazine. Itiree Pictures and One Portrait. o The picture gallery of the Baron von P ,at Stuttgart, though small, is one of the choicest and most valuable of those private collections which, by the generosity and public spirit of their own ers, are thrown open to the general public in that charming little capital. Twice a week, namely, on Mondays and Thurs days, from the hour of ten in the morning til! six in the evening, visitors are ad nutted to feast their eyes upon its treas ures, which include a “Triumph of Venus’’ by Rubens, one of Paul Potter’s marvelous groups of cattle, several fine Rembrandts, and two or three portraits by Vandyke. One of the latter, a small but charming specimen of the great portrait painter’s skill, is considered the gem of the collection, and has been frequently copied and engraved. It is a half length portrait, considerably less than life, and represents a young and beautiful girl. By some whim of the sitter, or some fancy of the artist, she is portrayed with the customary attributes of the goddess Diana. A crescent-moon sparkles among her loosened chesnut curls, she holds a bow in her right hand, and her graceful form is simply attired in a flowing pale green robe. But the slender, girlish figure, the blooming countenance, and the mirthful curve of the rosy lips, seem scarcely fitted fur the representative of the cold celestial huntress. And in the brown eyes there lurks an expression, strange, attractive and indescribable, at once cold and fascinating, alluring and unsympathetic. The fair face is that of Hebe, but the wondrous eyes are those of t iree. Few have paused before that singular yet lovely portrait without ask jug, “Who was she? What was her history ' ’ But on that point tradition uud history are alike silent; the name aud the destiny of the beautiful original are unknown, and the picture is designa ted only by the title of the “ Vandyke Diana.” stormy afternoon in March, two persons were stationed before the paint llly Wo have just described. One was an man > with bent form, silvered locks, ai j e J es dimmed by years and sorrows, 10 stood with folded hands, gazing upon {]Q Poured lace with an expression of .'earning and sorrowful tenderness. The ':’ t ler - a young artist, sat at his easel, be 01e the hiana, and was employed in it. Handsome, but pale and \ i Jere£ d*looking, with large melancholy '■'te eyes, and masses of dark hair pushed ' d j bom his broad white brow, be re- s ' 4 , ! l ( ‘d nothing so much as the portraits t,,e youthful Schiller. His counte ‘j dIKv Wol ’c the same pensive sweetness, 1 11 wme impress of inspiration and ge- Mu \ the same look, too, of ■ health with which we are fainil -111 Ihe likenesses of Germany’s great* est and noblest poet, lfe was working at his copy with earnest diligence, but it differed greatly from the original. Be neath his pencil, the bright youthful face had been transformed to that of a woman more than thirty years of age. The large eyes wore a look of melancholy, the beautifully curved mouth, so smiling in the original, told of uneasiness and suffer ing in its every line, and a waxen oallor, indicative of failing health, replaced the roseate bloom that tinted the cheek of the Diana. It was the same face, but the brightness of youth had departed, and the shadow of pain and sorrow brooded there instead. It was as if the painter, in depicting some fair landscape, glow ing with the golden sunlight and rich hues of summer, had chosen to represent it with the gray clouded skies, the with ering foliage, and the faded flowers of au tumn. lie had altered, too, the costume. For the bow and crescent and woodland robe of the original, his pencil had sub stituted a cloud-like drapery of black lace, enveloping both head and figure, and whose semi-transparent folds formed a background for the pale, pensive coun tenance. One slender hand, on which sparkled a diamond, held the floating drapery over the bust; not the rosy, dim pled hand of the Vandyke huntress, but the fragile fingers of a suffering invalid. It was, as I have before said, a stormy day. No intruders had as yet distubed the fixed and sorrowful gaze of the old man, or the busy pencil of the artist.- But suddenly the great door at the other extremity of the gallery was thrown open, a step resounded on the floor, and a tall, dark, handsome man came towards the spot where hung the Diana. “ Good heavens! what a likeness,” he he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon the picture. The old man started, the artist looked up from his work. The new-comer gazed long and in si lence on the Vandyke. At length, draw ing a long sigh, he turned, and seemed about to depart; but pausing before the young painter’s easel instead, he examined the nearly completed copy with great interest. “ May I ask, sir,” he said, “ why, in copying this picture, you have altered the expression and hues of the counte nance and the fashion of the dress ?” “Certainly, sir,” replied the artist, courteously, “I have copied this picture, not on account of its great intrinsic mer its, but because it bears a strong acci dental likeness to a person I once loved, and who is no longer living. I never knew her in her days of youth and health; when first we met she was a delicate suf fering invalid, already sinking under tiie ravages of the malady which was des tined soon to deprive her of life. It was her face that I wished to reproduce, not the blooming beauty of Vandyke’s lovely huntress.” “ Strange! the original picture is marvelously like a lady who was once very dear to me.” The old man turned eagerly towards the speaker. “ Oh, sir!” he cried with clasped hands and kindling eyes, “this picture is like Roschen, my lost Roschen. Did she whom you know bear that name ? Was she a young village girl, with large brown eyes and dark hair ? Oh, tell me, sir, in heaven’s name, where is she? where can 1 find her ?” In his excitement the old man grasped the stranger’s hand convulsively. “Did you, indeed, know the Countess Orlanoff!” asked the young artist. The new comer looked from one to the other in astonishment. “The person of whom I spoke, he an swered, “was neither a village maiden nor a noble countess. Years ago, I knew and loved Ida Rosen, a ballet dancer at the Imperial House at Prague; and when I look upon that picture, l behold her again.” -A-TTGrUSTA., GA., JAJVTJA-RY 23, 1869. The old man extended his trembling hand towards the portrait. “So looked my Roschen when last she stood before me.” “And so looked Madame Orlanoff the night I last beheld her,’’ said the young painter, pointing to the canvass on his easel as lie spoke. A short silence ensued. Each of the three men was absorbed in the sorrowful memories of the past. The wind howled more wildly without, and a fine sharp rain dashed noisily against the windows. Hie last comer was the first to speak. “Gentlemen,” he said, “our adventure is a curious one. By a strange coinci dence we have all three met at this spot, led by a common purpose, and united, it may be, by a common sorrow. I confess I am curious to learn the histories you both doubtless have to relate; and, in re turn for your confidence, if you will gratify me so far, I will give you my own. I will tell you how I first met Ida Rosen, how I woed her, and how I lost her. What say you to adjourning to my rooms at the Hotel Marquadt ? There, over a glass of fine old Marcobrunner, we can converse sociably and at our ease; and, perchance, the very act of telling our troubles may cause them to seem some what lighter. But, ere you answer, let me introduce myself. My name is Theo dore Halm, and I am the leading tenor of the Royal Opera House at Dresden.” “And I am Franz Meissner, artist, at your service,” said the young painter, rising and shaking Halm’s proffered hand with cordiality. “ I am Johann Keller, organist,” said the old man, bowing as he spoke. “ Well, friends, what say you? Will you accept my oiler and become my guests?” “ With great pleasure,” said Meissner, preparing to put aside his palette and brushes. “ Certainly, sir, if you wish it,” sighed old Keller. Half an hour later, the three compan ions sat around a small table in one of the pleasantest rooms in the Hotel Mar quadt. The stove glowed with a genial heat, the Marcobrunner sparkled like molten topaz in flask and glasses; and, under the cheering influences of the wine and warmth and pleasant companionship, old Johan Keller visibly revived. A faint red tinged his withered cheek, his sunk en blue eyes gained something of anima tion and sparkle, and, without hesitation, though in a faltering voice, he commenced his narrative. THE ORGANIST’S STORY. I was born, gentlemen, in the little town of Heldensfeld, in Saxony. My father was the organist of the Marien Kirche, and, at his death, I succeeded him in his post. I inherited from him, too, a small house near the church, where we had always lived; and after his death I continued to reside there. I led but a lonely life; my only companion was an old woman who lived with me, and who took charge of all household matters. But iny church duties kept me constantly oc cupied ; and so my days passed away peacefully enough. Nearly thirty years ago, however, an incident occurred which disturbed the tranquility of my life. I was coining home, late at night, from a lonely even ing’s practice with the choir. We had been trying to get up Leopold Hillberg’s Graud Mass in li Minor for an approach ing church festival; and, as it is very difficult, we were forced to have a great many rehearsals and very loug ones. So it chanced that, on this very particular night, I was coming home very late, which was far from being my usual habit. Just before 1 reached my own door, 1 stumbled over something lying in the pathway, which looked like a large bun dle. Judge of my astonishment, when, on stooping to remove the obstruction, a faint cry was heard, and I discovered that the seeming bundle was a little child, about eighteen months old, wrapped in a dirty blanket, and nearly lifeless. To pick it up, to carry it into the house, and to call Dame Bertha, was but the work of a moment. The poor little crea ture was almost dead, but a warm bath, some bread and milk, and the tender cares of old Bertha soon restored life and animation to her limbs. Ah! how pretty she was, the little brown-eyed creature, when Dame Bertha brought her to me, wrapped in an old shawl, and sitting erect and saucily upon her arm, that I might see how strong and lively 7 she looked. I have always thought that she had been left behind by a party of wandering Bohemians, who, tho day before, had passed through our town, on their way to one of the great annual fairs, where they go to sell trumpery bits of garnet jewelry and glassware, and to pick up what money they can by dancing and sing ing. Certain it is that no one ever claimed my little foundling, and she bore no marks by which her parentage could be traced. 1 called her Roschen, she was so fresh and rosy 7 and sweet, and she speedily became the idol of both Dame Bertha and myself. Many persons ad vised me to send her to some charitable institution for the care of orphans or foundlings; but I eould not bear to part with her. My means were small, it is true; but I knew that, by care and in creased economy, I could contrive to meet the extra expense. The years went on, and the pretty babe changed to a merry child, and then to a wild, romping girl, and at last a fair maiden of sixteen stood before me. I had taught her reading and writing and music, and old Bertha had instructed her in all housewifely art; and all who knew her praised her beauty and intelligence. But as she outgrew her childhood she seemed to leave content behind. The calm monotony of our life seemed to tret and fever her; she wearied of all occupations, and passed long hours in walking up and down our little strip of garden, with clenched hands and hurried steps. And I, too, had lost the calm contentment which had filled my life with peace. I realized that, old as I was, I loved—loved for the first time, and madly—the fair young creature who had been to me as a daughter. And though I tried to stifle this insane passion, I felt that all my efforts were in vain. I loved Roschen, and I even hoped (how wildly and vainly I now realize) that she might return my love. One day our quaint little town was startled by the announcement that a travelling dramatic troupe of great excel lence was about to give a representation at our public hall. Roschen at once ex pressed a strong desire to witness the per formances; and I, always anxious to call up one of her rare and fitful smiles, at or.ce consented. Never shall I forget that evening. The entertainment con sisted of the usual medley of songs, dances, and detached scenes from plays; but it was the first performance of the kind which Roschen had ever witnessed, and she was nearly wild with excitement and delight. The soft-rose line of her cheek deepened to a vivid scarlet, her eyes flashed and sparkled like ii\ ing gems, and under the influence of the hour, her beauty seemed to have acquired a more dazzling radiance. That evening, after we returned home, my carefully-guarded secret escaped me. I forgot that I was fifty-five years old, and that she was but sixteen; and I told her that I loved her. 1 pictured to her how peacefully and happily our lives might pass together, and how my love would ever encircle and protect her. And then I tried to tell her how well I loved her, but I could not; I could only fall at her feet and implore her to say that she would become my wife. She drew away the small hands which I had clasped in my eagerness, and only answered, smiling upon me as she did so, “It is late, and lam so tired. Let us talk about it to-morrow.” I would fain have detained her, but she vanished up the stair-case, calling’ in a laughing tone, “Tomorrow, to morrow !” The next day she did not leave her room at the usual hour. Old Bertha went to call her; but she was gone. She had left me—had fled from me—whither I did not know, I have never known, for I have never heard any tidings of her since. The old man paused. lie bowed his head upou his hands, and for several mo ments he remained silent. At length he continued : My story is ended, gentlemen. I sought long and vaiuly for my lost dar ling, but I was poor, and my heart was broken, and I lacked the means and en ergy necessary 7 to make my search suc cessful. Some years ago I received a letter from a lawyer in Vienna, telling me that a distant relative, whose name even I had never before heard, had died, and left me a small annuity. I sold my little property; and, having been told by a friend that there was a picture in the Baron von P s collection that resem bled my Roschen, I came to Stuttgart to see it. The resemblance was so striking, and I found such deep though mournful satisfaction in gazing on it, that 1 felt, to leave Stuttgart and that painting would be to lose my Roschen a second time. So I remained here. I have a little room in the house of an old friend who lives at Cannstadt, and two days in each week I can delight my eyes by gazing upon the pictured face that so vividly recalls to me the fresh, bright beauty of my lost Roschen. The old man ceased. Halm and Meissner leaned forward, and each clasped one of his hands. No word was spoken, but the simple action was eloquent of kindly sympathy and friendliness. After a short pause, Halm refilled the glasses, and laying aside his cigar, said : “As the eldest of us three has com menced the series of our recitals, I presume that mine should be the next in order.” THE SINGER’S STORY. About ten years ago I was engaged to sing, for the winter season, at Prague. I arrived there one cold November even ing, and after a hurried meal in the cheerless dining-room of the Hotel d’An gleterre, I strolled to the theatre to pass away there the hours of an evening which seemed else to threaten to be in terminable. The performance had al ready commenced when I entered. The piece was a ballet, entitled, 1 believe, “ The Four Elements,” and stupid and senseless as ballets usually are. I re mained for some time, but growing heartily weary of the uninteresting evo lutions of the corpx de ballet, I was about to retire, when suddenly the music changed to anew and lively strain, and an outburst of applause from the audience greeted the entrance of the representa tive of Fire. At once I resumed my seat, fascinated by the first glimpse which I obtained of the brilliant face and exqui site form of the dancer. I need not de scribe her beauty, for you have but late ly beheld the picture whose loveliness is a faithful though feeble transcript of that which I then looked upon. Her dancing was a perfect representation of the flame whose characteristics she sought to repro duce—as light, as graceful, as sudden in its changeful movements. But in her large brown eyes there sparkled a more fatal lire than that she sought to repre sent. When her dance was over, 1 re tired, strangely agitated, and with my heart throbbing with anew and powerful emotion. Connected as I was with the theatre, I soon learned all that was known about Ida Rosen; for such was the name of the beautiful dcinseuse. 1 was told that she appeared to lead an irreproachable life, No. 41.