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_ '— = — —=^s===— VOL. 11. ■ For the Banner of the South.] At Arlington. JJV JAMES K P.AXDALL. The broken column, reared in air To him who made our country great, Can almost cast its shadow where The victims of a grand despair, Jn long, long ranks of death await The last, loud trump, the Judgment Sun, Which come for all, and, soon or late, Will come for those at Arlington. In that vast sepulchre repose The thousands reaped from every fray, The Men in Blue who once uprose In battle-front to smite their foes — The Spartan Bands who wore the Grey. The combat o’er, the death-hug done, In Summer blaze or Winter snows, They keep the truce at Arlington. And, almost lost in myriad graves Os those who gained th’ unequal fight, Are mounds that hide Confederate braves Who reck not how the North wind raves, In dazzling day or dimmest night, o'er those who lost and those who won, Death holds no parley which was right— Jehovah judges Arlington! The dead had rest; the dove of peace Brooded o’er both with equal wings. To both bad come that great surcease, The last omnipotent release From all the world’s delirious stings. To bugle deaf and signal gun, t They slept like heroes of old Greece Beneath the glebe at Arlington. And in the Spring’s benignant reign, The sweet May woke her harp of pines. Teaching her choir a thrilling strain Os jubilee to land and main, She danced in emerald down the lines. Denying largess bright to none. She saw no difference in the signs That told who slept at Arlington. gave her grasses and her showers To all alike who dreamed in dust; Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers Amid the jasmine buds and flowers, And piped with an impartial trust.— bait's of the air and liberal sun ! Their guileless glees were kind and just To frienc and foe at Arlington. Aiul mid the generous Spring, there came Some women of the land who strove To make this funeral field of fame Bricht as the May-god’s altar flame, With rosy wreaths of mutual love. ! nmindful who had lost or won, Ihey scorned the jargon of a name— -No North, no South at Arlington. Between their pious thought and God Stood tiles of men with brutal steel; be garlands placed on “Rebel sod' 1 , re ‘tripled in the common clod T° die beneath the hireling’s heel, baeing this triumph of the Hun, 1 'or Smoky Caesar gave no nod 0 keep the peace at Arlington. •'vliovah judged, abashing man; Bor, in the vigils of the night, • o.' mighty storm-avengers ran l, 'gether in one choral clan, Pi ‘jerking wrong, rewarding right. 1 ‘' Ul g the wreaths from those who won, ‘ 'e tempest heaped them dewy-bright - 1 hebel graves at Arlington ! A*d. w lien the morn came young and fair, " I! ] !u °j Blushes ripe and red, ■u-oeep in sky-sent roses there, lil Began her earliest prayer So" ; n ° f V , e trium pßant Southern Dead. (V.. I' e uai 'B and in the sun, u. (. ause surv j ves t j ie tyrant’s tread to wake at Arlington ! marisheal ax IIUSH LOVE STORY. BY W. S. TRENCH. J. one evening in my I | ate Pleasure grounds, after a day Pv - ie '|V V T lab ° r in ie °® ce > when I 1 Perceived a pair of bright A ,*j n ß' me through the leaves ' Lc 10 'N bushes with which the wood abounds. I stopped immediately, and asked who was there. “Oh, indeed, your honor, it’s only me; and I know it’s against the rules of the office to come here. But shure wasn’t I waiting at the office door all day, and they wouldn’t let me in, because they said I was well able to hold out still, and wasn’t nigh so weak as many of the creatures that was there. And that was true enough; but then they didn’t know I had ten miles to go home before night; and so, as some said your honor was a good man though some said not, I thought I would just chance it for once, and may be your honor would find time to speak to a poor desolate orphan like me, even though it is against the rules.” ‘‘The desolate orphan.” who now came forward and exhibited not merely her bright eyes, but her full form to my view, was somewhat singular in her ap pearance. She had but little of the origi nal Celt in her features. Her beauty was purely Spanish, of which I have seen many perfect specimens in Tuosist and around Kenmare: large, soft eyes, with beautiful downy eyelashes, the mouth well formed, and cheek of classic mould, while the figure, perfect in its symmetry, is erect and active, and exhibits a light ness of step and grace of motion which can rarely be attained but by constant practice in walking over the mountains. Tha.lh.an which, now stood before me was a beautiful specimen of this perfect Spanish type. She was clean and neat in her person, though her clothes were of the coarsest kind. Her gown, made of the light gray flannel or l’reize manu factured in the mountains where she lived, was ciossed upon her bosom and extended up to her neck. Her hair, as black as jet, was neatly parted on her forehead, and hung in careless folds dewn her back. She had neither shoes nor stockings, and her dress did not come down to within seven or eight inches of her feet. She wore no shawl, which is common in the district, about her neck. She held her head as erect as a startled fawn. Her hands were clasped in an attitude of wild supplication, and the symmetry of her form was enhanced by the unusual addition of a leather strap buckled around her waist, which, though neither new nor ornamental in itself, had the effect of showing off’ h r naturally beautiful figure to the best advantage. The moment she appeared from behind the holly bush she commenced her ora tion. And talking with a volubility and amount’of action which it would be im possible to describe, her features became animated, and the blood mounted to her cheeks. In truth, I have rarely seen so beautiful and so natural a girl. I think she knew’ she was a beauty, and had “chanced” a little of the success of her visit upon that score, as well as upon my goodness; bint there was no vanity or coquetry in her manner —she was per fectly natural and simple, and, as re gards beauty, so intelligent a girl as she was, could not possibly look at her reflec tion in one of her own dark mountain lakes, and not see that she was different from her neighbors. She had watched my countenance with the quickness of an Irish peasant during the whole time she was speaking; and, in fact, I felt sure she had prolonged her statement for that sole purpose, in order to form an estimate of her success, or vary her line of advance according as circumstances revealed themselves. I saw this perfectly at the time; but my interest in her viva cious courage was so great, and my ad miration of her beauty so impossible to to conceal, that she saw in a moment, though I had not yet spoken a word, that she had won her point. “Ah ! well I knew your honor had a good and kind heart within you,” said she, coming forward with graceful ani mation, and under cover of her well turned flattery. “And now, maybe, I'd never have another opportunity, and oh ! just listen to me till I tell you wiiat 1 AUGUSTA, (LA., JULY 10, 1869. have to say, for mine is a sore, sore sorrow.” In a moment her whole countenance— almost her form, had changed. Her courage—some of which she had evident ly derived from her beauty—seemed to have departed. Tears filled her eyes as she looked down upon the ground and even her form seemed to loose many inches of its height. I could scarcely have thought that the same human being was before me as she now stood about to tell her tale of sorrow. “What is your name?” I asked, “and where do you live ?” “Mary Shea is my name,” said she, “that is, my maiden name, and indeed for that matter I am not married yet.” “Married !” I exclaimed, “why you seem scarcely seventeen years of age,” “True for you,” replied she, “you guessed it very right, as I’ll only be seventeen next Shrovetide.” ‘And what is your ease ? what do you want me to do ?’ “I’ll tell your honor that.” replied she. resuming a moment a portion of her previous animation. “What I want your honor to do, is to put down Eugene’s name in the books as tenant for the little place I have up in the mountain.” “And who is Eugene? and how came you to have a litlc place of your own, and you so young as you are ?” “I’ll tell your honor al! about it,” she replied: “the way of it all was this;” and again, in a moment, her countenance changed, her eyelids drooped, her form seemed to lose its height, and with a little hesitation as to where she should begin, she commenced her tale of woe. “The way of it all was this: Your honor was not here in the “hungry year’ (a term frequently used among the Irish peasantry to describe the famine), ‘but them was terrible times.’ I was only a little slip of a girl then—and sure for that matter I’m not much more this minute. But my father had a little place upon the mountains, the same as what I was now talking about. Well, you see, he was an ould man, and my mother was sick, and they had no other child but me, and the place was very small, and when the potatoes blackened, sure they had none but God to look to. “Father’ says I, “I fear ye’ll die, and mother too, if ye don’t get something to ate.” “True for ye, child,” says father “but where are we to get it ? The great God has rotted the potatoes in the ground, and what other support had we all; and sure the neighbors are bad off as we are.” Mother said nothing, she, looked at father and me, she kissed me once or twice, as if to wish me good-by; and when I got up in the morning, I found her sitting in her clothes beside the fire, quite dead and stiff'—not a month after the potatoes had blackened. Well, ye see we lived far up iu the mountains, and no meal or anything could be got there, except what I brought myself, and it was ten long miles from Kenmare. “But still, said 1, “I won’t let father die if I can help it !” So we had a few hives of honey which the gentlemen liked, because the bees made it all on the heather; and I used to slip over to Kenmare now and then, with a hive, and bring back a little meal to father —we had no cow, as the place was too small to rear one. And I won’t tell your honor a lie when I say that sorra ha’porth we had to live on, except just the few hives of honey; and I knew when they were out, and I had no money to buy meal, we might just lie down and die. However, I said nothing to father about this, for I was only a slip of a girl, but I thought it for all that Woll, sure enough after a time the honey was all sold, and I smothered the last be I had, though in troth I was sorry to do so, as I had reared them all myself, and I think they knew me, as they never once stung me, though I used to sit close to the hive watching them. However 1 knew it was better for them to die than father; so [ had to smother them; and I went down to Kenmare with a sorrowful heart, and got 15s for the hive. Well, with that I fed father and myself for another weary month, and when the meal was out, father says to me: ‘Mary, dear, I it’s no use striving any longer against the hunger. I can’t stand it. I’m weak and faint, and not able to go out to pub lic works, and I might as well Hie in the house as on the roads; and now mind, Mary dear, when I die, bary me beside your mother in the-garden, and don’t be making any noise about it—calling a wake or a funeral, for all has enough to do these hard times for themselves.” “Oil, father, dear, don’t talk that way,” says I. “11l just go out and see if I can’t get something that will keep the life in ye yet.” So father said nothing, but just lay down on the bed, as if to .wait till I came home. Weli, I had some strength in me yet. And as Eugene and I had known each other since we were little children, I thought I would just go to him and see if he could help me. But when I went to his house he was far away on the public works. So I had no more heart nor strength to go any farther, and I had enough to do to get home But oh ! sorrow came heavy on them; for as I called on father as I came in to ask him if God had sent him any food, he did not answer; and when I came to his bed, and put my hand upon his forehead, I found that lie was dead and cold, and I was left alone in the world.” Here the poor girl's voice failed; and commencing to weep bitterly, she turned her head away. I found the tears rising in my own eyes too, but endeavoring to turn her thoughts from this sad scene, 1 said: “You have mentioned Eugene once or twice—who is Eugene?” She dried her eyes in a moment; and, resuming the natural vivacity of her manner, she called aloud to someone who was evidently near at hand: “Eugene! where are you, Eugene? I wouldn’t wander if he was here this minu e 1” And, truly enough, lie was; for slowly emtrging from the same holly bush where I had observed the young dam sel’s eyes in the first instance, came a tall, good-looking youth, clean and fair, with a cheek as smooth and free from beard as a woman's. He was about nine teen or twenty years of age, and as bash ful as a youth detected under such cir cumstances —though she bad evidently hid him there herself—could be. “Don’t be afeared, Eugene,” cried the damsel —“don’t be afeared. The gentle man isn't angry. Come and spake to him this minute—he is shy, your honor,” said she, turning to me in a conciliatory voice, as if excusing and patronizing her lover, over whom she evidently consider ed she had great advantage in facility of speech and general knowledge of the world—-“he is shy and doesn’t know how to spake to a gentleman; and 1 hope you’ll excuse him; but he is a good kind boy for all that, and well able to become a teuant for the little place, if you wili only put his name in the book.” “Well, but,” I urged, “if I put his name down in the book he will be the tenant, and not you; and how would that answer your purpose?” “Oh sure, your honor, that would be all the same; we would get married at once, and we would have the little place between us, as I feel lonesome in it all by myself.” “And so you and Eugene really want to mary, and set up house upon a place only worth 7s. Gd. a year—cabin, moun tain land, garden and all?” “Well, indeed, your honor, I don’t see what better we could do. You see Eugene and I have known each other a long time now, and all the the neigh bors know we love each other very much —and why wouldn’t 11 ve, him, poor boy, when it was himself that saved my life ?” j “How did he save your life?” I asked, j “Well, you see, I was telling you all about it,’ she resumed, “when you asked for Eugene, and I had to present him to | your honor. But, sure enough, it was ; Eugene, and no one else, that saved my life, that night I was telling you of when father died. I found him cold and stiff in the bed when I came home; and I had nothing in the house myself-—no meat, nor bread, nor potatoes, nor a ha’porth; so I just sat down on the beside near him, and—God forgive me !—I prayed that he would take me, too; for I was helpless and sorrowful, and weak and downhearted with hunger. And then I began to cry; and I thought of mother, how she had died, and how father was dead, and no one bury him. ‘And,’ thinks I,‘ if I die too, the cabin will make a decant little grave over us all, and no one will know anything about it.’ So I was crying on, thinking of all these things, and wandering how it all came about, when I heard a footstep at the door, and guessed at once it was Eugene’s. So he never said a word to me at first, but he sat himself down beside me. And after a little he says, ‘What is it, Mary dear?” ‘Oh, Eugene,’ says I, ‘mother is dead, and now father is dead; there he is before jou, and I am going to die too, for I’m broken-hearted, and have nothing to eat.’ ‘Eat this,’ said Eugene, and he pulled an elegant loaf out of his pocket—‘l guessed ye came up to look for me to-day; and when I came home from the works and mother gave me my supper, I just put it in my pocket as I wasn’t hungry myself, and came off with it to you. So cat it, Mary dear ; for I could not eat it if a basket full of bread was before me ! Well, I knew the poor boy had stinted himself to give it to me; but I was well nigh gone, so I just gave him a loving look, and says I: ‘Eugene, dear, I know well how it is; but I’ll eat it for all that for your sake, and for fear I'd die before your face.’ And so I did ‘and now, Mary,’ says he, ‘come home with me, and mother will take care of you for a bit; and in the morning I’ll come out myself and bury father for you.’ And so he did —the brave boy that he is shy as he looks before you honor now. And we dug the grave between us, and put father into it just as he was —for we had no coffin--where would we get one that year? and we laid him beside mother. And when the great day comes, sure they’ll both rise together as well as if they were in a coffin of gold !” Again she began to weep; but it was of short continuance this time. “And now, won’t you put Eugene’s name in the book? and we’ll go live there again, for it’s hard to keep him away, and he is always pressing me to go with him to the priest. And we have put anew coat of thatch upon the little cabin, and maybe God would be good to us, and the bees would thrivs, ami the hungry year may never come on us again” “Weil, Mary, I have heard ail you had to say, and I would gladly do any thing in my power to serve you and Eugene, but I cannot bear the thought of a handsome girl like you, and a fine, manly boy like him, settling down for life on this miserable patch on the side of a barren mountain. lam thinking it would be far better to try yoar fortune in America together, anil go out like the other emigrants, so many of whom were pressing to get their names down to-day.” Mary was silent for a little. At last she said : “Well, your honor, I often thought it would be better, shure enough, to try our fortune in America, than to marry and settle on that small patch of barren land, where my little place is—but I couldn't bear to think of going' out on charity as a pauper. I never g t poor relief IT m the workhouse, and I wouldn t wish to go to America with the likes of No. 17.