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_ 111 1 # 1 ’•'•'• JK >?
VOL. 11.
The Southland.
"\ Land without mins isa land without memories;
land without memories is a land without liberty.
A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see;
> p.j twine a few cypress loaves around the brow of
any land, and be that land barren, beautiless and
bleak it becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of
sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart and of
history. Crowns of roses fade—crowns of thorns en
dure. Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of
humanity— the triumphs of might are transient, they
pass and are forgotten—the sufferings of the Right
ire graven deepest on the chronicle of nations.”—A.
J. liVAN.
I
Yes, give us the land where the ruins are spread,
Where fields and each wood tell the tale of the dead;
Where bones of the martyred bleach white o’er the
land,
And the voice of the wood breathes of victory’s stand.
n.
Yes, give us the land that is blest by the dust
Os the patriot enshrin’d, the ill-fated just,
Whose deeds are instinct with the life of a land,
That lost her proud birth-right in Liberty’s stand.
111.
Yes, give us the land where the battle’s red blast
Hath on the South armies its cannon breath cast;
The laud where hath waved the proud banner of
Bight,
The star-cross of freedom, now sunken in night.
IV.
Oh, give us the land that hath legends and lays,
A glorious old epic of Freedom’s last days,
That tells of the victor on victory’s plain,
When banner met banner in direful death-rain.
V.
Yes, give us the land where the laurels are green,
And memories are living, like birds, in their sheen;
Where legends are crooning their rythmical chime,
To the dear dead hopes of this fair Southern clime.
VI.
Ah! dearer this land than the classical page,
Where History indites of the poet and sage;
And dearer than aught in the domain of earth,
Whether mind’s proud triumphs or science’ late birth.
VII.
Since to us there is naught but Liberty’s grave,
’-it ions are ween in <*. where nations may rave:
Since to us naught orightens the futiu-'q blank main.
We love the dear Southland, though Freedom is slain.
VIII.
Yes, give us the land where the wreck and the tomb,
Are still as old Fumpeir iu her cold lava womb;
A land where the ashes and dust of the dead
Will bloom round the same glory spots where they
Lied.
IX.
Yes, give us the land where the Right is laid low,
But where freemen are making a direful row
To redeem the lost Goddess of the South from the
dust;
Though by tears, and the blood of the ill-fated just,
x.
Yes, give us the land where the graves on each plain
Are telling their triumphs to the flowers again,
Whose incense, like purest remembrance for aye,
Exhales o’er their lifeless, but ever dear, clay.
XI.
For, dear is the land where the Southron hath bled,
A mi Glory with his dust rests iu the same bed;
And dear is each spot, where the graves without name,
bleep iu the cool niches of valor's own fame.
XII.
Then give us the land where tho cypress and thorn
Are wreathed round the brow of a nation just born;
Whose star-cross of battle hath trailed in the dust,
Torn from her proud Calvary, the sons of her trust.
XIII.
Then, give ns a land where a Jackson hath died,
Where a Lee hath led on the victorious tide,
Where a Gordon hath dashed like a lance to the fray,
Ami a .Stewart dealt death and defeat through the day.
xiv.
V* e love the bright land of the rose and the vine,
'A here sleep the dread battlers for Liberty’s shrine;
Each grave iu the field is a bivouac of death;
Each headstone is guarding a hero beneath.
XV.
1 es, give us the fields where the thousands have bled,
Aud the tide of their valor told the fate of the dead;
Lb, give us a land though its wealth may depart,
It has graves whose stories are wealth to the heart.
XVI.
An 4 what shall we say of tho numberless dead
1 hat wide o’er the cannon-torn ridges are spread ?
1 oiul nature is keeping her sentinels there—
Each pertuine that lingers around is a prayer.
XYIT.
Aid we, too, are watching their graves in the wood,
Ami decking with laurels their death-solitude;
///fingers are twining their wreaths and green bays,
''l :le memory is singing her proudest cl lays.
~n XVIII.
ai . heroes of glory, thy tents are wide spread,
bhere marshal the Southland’s victorious dead;
Guiil blast of trumpet is sounding the fray,
-'0 fierce cannonade, no foeman’s proud array.
/ut silence, death silence, is holding her state.
Aim w in is her palace, and wide is her gate;
r 'find her dim altars are sleeping the slain,
1 r °«d pilgrims from conflict to silence’ dark sane.
V ' i on in thy silence and hermitage lone,
;/ a list not thy lathi rs and stricken ones moan;
, ■ 'A'* on, for green laurels are twining in bloom,
“ v r ' fith round Secessia’s and Liberty’s tomb.
XXI.
ir t! ’ a)v ‘‘ the war veterans, their names area charm,
//filet of safety, a shield from alarm;
I ' trisU their ashes and glories among
sproudest mementoes, her herces of song.
XXII.
Yes, give us the land where the mountains are grand
As those of the Orient or Italy’s land;
Where rivers roll down from the gates of the North,
Freighted with argosies, a nation’s great worth.
XXIII.
Though the day-star of hope has left in the gloom
Os its beautiless track a proud nation’s tomb,
Y’et, give us the land, though enveloped in night,
Day-stars will yet rise in their triumph of might
xxiv,
Then, in her proud armor, the South will be free,
F'rom her gold-vein’d hills to the pines of the sea;
The legends of her graves, the songs of her causa,
Will live in the epic of a nation s applause.
XXV.
The long night of sorrow will vanish away,
And usher the sun-burst of freedom’s own day:
O’er land and o’er river, from mountain to main,
Will burst the glad pwu of Freedom again!
Ossxan D. Gobman.
Talbotton, Ga., May 20, 1869.
TIIKTifEASIRE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF
EMILE SOUVESTRE, FOR THE BANNER
OF THE SOUTH. BY R. D. TANARUS.,
OF SOUTH CAROLINA.
In an attic chamber of a poor looking
mansion sat a young girl and an old
soldier.
The furniture of their modest apart
ment, while it bore witness to the pover
ty of the occupants, testified also to the
self-respect which sustained them under
its trials. Order, taste, and neatness
gave an air almost of elegance to the
simple arrangement of the few articles
of comfort thnt still surrounded them.
F.very thing was just in the right place;
the fire burnt brightly in the nicely
swept hearth, the carpet, though- faded,
was stainless and free of dust, while the
snowy muslin curtain which shaded the
little garret window, seemed almost em
broidered by th« numberless darns that
kept it together. Some few jars of sim
ple flowers ornamented the half-raised
window, scattering their sweet perfume
through the little chamber.
The sun was just setting One ling
ering ray still illumined the lowly dwell
ing, giving an added charm to the glow
ing cheek of the young girl, and seeming
to revel in the long silvery locks of the
old veteran. He was half reclining in
an old arm-chair, which the thoughtful
love of his young nurse had made most
comfortable to him by the many soft
cushions she had manufactured, and cov
ered with patch-work of bright colored
chintz. An old footstool had been con
verted into a resting place for his wound
ed foot, and the only arm left to him by
the fortunes of war, rested on a small
round table on which stood his meer
schaum and the little tobacco bag, em
broidered with pearls.
The old soldier had a strongly marked
and deeply furrowed face. But the
harsh outlines were softened by an ex
pression of perfect candor, and most win
ning frankness. An immense grey
moustache hid the half smile which play
ed about his lips, as his gaze rested al
most unconsciously on the young girl.
While he is looking at her, we will try
and sec her as he did.
She was about twenty years of age—a
perfect brunette, with tender and expres
sive features, whose every emotion reveal
ed itself in rapid and sudden changes.
To look into her full dark eyes was like
gazing into the depths of some clear lim
pid stream, whose beautiful treasures are
seen at a glance She held a paper in
her hand, and w%s reading aloud to the
old invalid. Suddenly she stopped, and
seemed to listen eagerly.
“What is the matter ?” asked the old
man.
“Nothing !” she replied, and her
countenance expressed her disappoint
ment.
“You thought you heard Charles ?”
asked the soldier.
“Yes, it was that/’ replied the young
reader, “Ins day’s work must now be.
over, and it is about his usual hour for
coining in.”
AUGUSTA, GkA., APRIL 3, 1869.
“When lie does come in, you mean,”
replied Vincent in an irritated tone.
Lucille’s lips parted quickly as though
she would wish to speak and justify her
cousin. But her better judgment pre
vailed, for she checked herself instantly,
and then seemed to fall into a reverie.
Old Vincent took hold of his moustache
with his only remaining hand, and began
twisting it violently. This was his usual
manner of expressing his indignation
against his nephew.
“Our young soldier is marching on
the wrong road, Lucille. He often
comes into us at night in most uncivil
moods, neglects his work to go and amuse
himself at fetes and public houses,
squanders all that he earns; and mark
you child, all this is goingjto end badly
for him, and for us.” t
“Oh, do not speak so dearest Uncle !
It comes like a prediction of evil for him,”
said Lucille, in a sweet, pleading tone.
“He is passing through a fiery trial, but
will come out unscathed I feel sure. For
some time past my cousin has seemed
entirely changed. He no longer works
with his old energy and ambition.”
“But what has caused this sudden
change ?”
“Well Uncle, he says he has nothing
to look forward to, and thinks that a
workingman has so little prospects for
the future, that it is wisest to live on
from day to day, enjoying what the pass
ing hour gives, without one thought be
yond it.”
“Ah ! ha ! This is his idea then,” said
the old man frowning, ami twirling his
moustache fiercely. “Well! it has not
even the merit of originality. We had
in our old regiment, certain wise-acres
like this cousin of your’s, who excused
themselves frcni matching with us be
cause they thought the road too long and
tedious, consequently they remained in
active, and inglorious in the depot, while
their companies were entering in triumph
Madrid, and Berlin, and Vienna. Your
cousin docs not seem to remember that
by resolutely putting one foot before
another, the shortest steps will at last
take one to Rome !”
“Ah Uncle ! If you could only make
him think so,” said Lucille eagerly. “I
tried to influence him, by counting up
what so good a mechanic as lie is, could,
with proper economy, realize. But when
I had finished the calculation, lie merely
shrugged his shoulder, saying in a short,
impatient manner, that women knew
nothing ofsuch things !”
“And then straightway you fell into
despair, j’ou poor foolish child,” continu
ed Vincent with a tender smile. “I
know now why my little nurse’s eyes are
so often red of late.”
“Oh no! no! Uncle—l assure you”—
“1 know too wlij- those poor lillv flow
ers so often droop now for want of fresh
water in their jars; why my birdie no
longer sings as she waits on her old
Uncle!»
“Uncle! Uncle! for pity sake !”
Here poor Lucille broke down—and
casting down her cj r es, nervously twist
ed the corner of the newspaper.
The old soldier rested his hand tender
ly upon her head. “Do you think petite
that I am going to scold you?” he asked in
a quick, friendly tone. “After all, it is
oiilj* natural you should feel an interest
in Charles. He is now your cousin, and
at some future day I hope—"
Here the young girl moved quickly.
“Well—no then. We won’t speak of
it anj r more,” said the old soldier stop
ping suddenly. “I always forget in
speaking to you women, that one must
pretend ignorance. We will not mention
the subject again. But let me return to
that worthless good-for-11 aught, for whom
you cherish such friendly feelings—that
is the right word ma petite, is it not ?
and who in turn is equally friendly in
his sentiments towards you !”
“Lucille shook her head. “That is to
say, Uncle, he once felt them,” she ad
ded sadly, But for some time past he
has changed entirely’; he is so cold in his
manner, and seems absent and worried
when with me.”
“Yes,” replied Vincent, thoughtfully.
“When one has tasted the feverish and
intoxicating pleasures of the world, the
simple joys of home become insipid. It
is like drinking unripe wine, after in
dulging in strong liquors. I know this
malady well child; most of us have pass
ed through it.”
“But all have survived the trial, Un
cle, so why may 7 we not have hope for
Charles’ recovery to more healthful feel
ing also ? Perhaps if you were to speak
seriously to him,” she added hesitatingly.
The old man shrugged his shoulders
incredulously. “Such maladies are not
to be cured by words, but by deeds,” re
plied he. “One can no more manufac
ture a reasonable man all of a sudden,
than he can improvise a good soldier.
Experience is necessary child—the ordeal
of discipline and fatigue, and the bap
tism of the canon- Your cousin fails in
energy and perseverance, because he
has no definite aim in view. We must
try and find one for him. But this will
be no easy matter. I will think of it.”
“Ah! here he conies! lam sure of it
this time,” interrupted the young girl,
who had quickly recognized his rapid
step on the stairs.
“Hush! silence in the ranks!' 5 ex
claimed the old soldier. “Go on with
your reading, and do not look so conscious
and confused.”
Lucille obeyed. But her trembling
voice would soon have betrajed her agi
tat ion to a more attentive observer.
Whilst her eyes followed the printed
words which she mechanically read
aloud, her ears and thoughts were intent
ly occupied with her cousin, who had
just entered the room, and thrown his
hat and gloves upon the table.
Finding his Uncle and cousin thus
engaged, Charles did not salute either of
them, but crossing the room, leaned
upon the window sill in an abstracted,
absent kind of manner.
Lucille continued reading aloud,
though she did not take in the meaning
of a single word she uttered.
She had reached that column of the
newspaper which is formed of a kind of
mozaic work of odds and ends, grouped
together under the head of “clippings
Charles, who had at first seemed ab
solutely unconcerned, b\’ degrees seemed
interested in spite of himself. After the
announcement of divers robberies, fires,
accidents, deaths, etc., the young girl
read aloud tho following communication;
“xV poor peddlar of Besancon, named
Pierre Lefevre, desirous to accumulate
wealth at any cost, suddenly determined
to go to India, which country lie had
heard spoken of as the Eldorado of the
world. He disposed of the little proper
ty he possessed, went to Bordeaux, and
sailed as cook’s mate, on board of an
American vessel. After an absence of
eighteen years, during which time noth
ing had been heard of him, his relations
suddenly received a letter announcing
his immediate return. The latter also
said, that after untold labor and fatigue,
and unheard of freaks of fortune, the for
mer pedlar was returning to his old
home with but one arm and one eye, but
owner of a fortune valued at two million
of francs.”
Charles, who had listened with grow
ing interest and attention, could no long
er repress an exclamation.
“Two million !” he repeated in a tone
ol amazement.
“That would do to buy him a false
arm and a glass eye !” said the old sold
ier ironically.
“Ah what good luck !” said the young
man with enthusiasm, not seeming to
have heard the sarcastic remark of his
Uncle.
“Yes, great good luck,” continued
the soldier, “and it cost him so little .
Only eighteen years of his life, and an
eye, and an arm !”
“Eighteen years of unheard of fa
tigue and disappoi?itment” repeated
Lucille slowljq dwelling upon and em
phasizing the words of the journal.
“Who would mind that!” exclaimed
Charles, “to gain such a fortune at last!
The difficulty does not lie in entering
upon an unknown and fatigueing journey,
nor even in bearing all the inconveniences
of the route. But the real trial is to
march steadily on, without some sure
prospect at the end of it.”
“And so,” said the j’oung girl timidly
raising her eyes to her cousin, “and so,
Charles, you could envy the fate of this
pedlar? You would be willing to give
eighteen of the best years of your life—
one eye—one arm ?”
‘.‘For two million?” interrupted Charles
“most assuredly I would! Find me only
a purchaser at that price, Lucille, and I
promise you a fine marriage portion for
your pin money.”
The young girl turned away without
answering. Her heart was filled with
sadness, and a great tear trembled on
her eye-lids. Vincent was silent also,
but he twisted his moustache fiercely.
There was a long silence. Each act
or in the little scene seemed absorbed in
thought.
The clock striking eight roused Lu
cille from her reverie. She rose quick
ly, and busied herself in preparing the
table for their supper.
The meal, which was taken in abso
lute silence, did not occupy many mo
ments. Charles had spent the greater
part of the day iu frolicking with his
young and riotous companions, conse
quently he could eat nothing now. Lu
cille had lost her appetite—Vincent
alone did justice to the simple repast.
His habits as a soldier had taught and
trained him to make all other feelings
or emotions subservient to the necessity of
recruiting his bodily strength. But his
hunger was soon appeased, and he re
turned promptly to his cushions and his
arm-chair near the window.
After arranging every thing again in
order, Lucille, felt the necessity of being
alone. She took up the light, and after
tenderly embracing her Uncle, retired
to the little room she occupied up stairs.
Vincent and the young man being then
left alone, Charles wished to bid his
| Uncle good night, and retire also, but
! the old soldier told him to lock the door
and come back to him, adding. “I wish
to speak very seriously to you, Charles.”
xVs he anticipated nothing but reproach,
his nephew remained standing; but Vin
cent made a sign for him to sit down.
“Have you weighed well the words
you gave utterance to just now, young
man ? Are j-ou really capable of mak
ing a great and prolonged effort to gain
a fortune at last ?’’
“I ? Can you doubt it, Uncle?” re
plied Charles surprised even at the doubt
implied by the question.
“And you are willing to be patient;
to work unceasingly, to change your
habits of life ?”
“Yes, certainly, if I were to gain any
thing hv it. But Uncle what do you
mean by asking these questions ?”
“You shall soon know,” said the in
valid, who opened the drawer of a little
secretary near him, and taking out
several newspapers, turned them carefully’
over. Finally he selected one, handed
it to Charles, and pointed out the follow
ing naranuaph which he read in a sub
dued tone :
“Overtures have lately been made to
the Spanish Government with regard to
certain caissons buried somewhere on
the banks of the Qucro after the battle
of Salamanca. It seems that during
that memorable retreat, a Company—be
longing to the first bivision of the army,
which had these caissons in charge be
came separated from the general army,
and so entirely surrounded by a large
party of the enemy, as to make resist
ance useless. The officer who com
manded them seeing how impossible ii
No. 12.