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VOL. 11.
The Land Where We Were
Dreaming.
BY DANIEL BEDINGEE LI'CAS.
Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand
As ever floated out of fancy land;
Children were we in simple faith,
But god-like children, whom nor
death,
Xor threat of danger drove from honor’s
path—
In the land where we were dreaming!
Proud were our men as pride of "birth could
render,
As violets our women pure and tender;
And when they spoke, their voices
thrill
At evening hushed the whip-poor-will,
At morn the mocking-bird was mute and
still,
And we had graves that covered more of
glory,
Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story ;
And in our dream we wove the thread
Os principles for which had bled,
And suflerred long our own immortal dead,
In the land where we were dreaming!
Tlio’ in our land we had both bond and free,
Both were content, and so God let them be;
Till Northern glances, slanting down,
With envy viewed our harvest sun—
But little recked we, for we still slept on.
In the land where we were dreaming!
Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams
grew' wild.
W 1 meteors flashed across our heaven's
flehl;
Crimson the Moon ; between the Twins
Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes
Os light; red Comets tossed their flery
manes
O’er the land where we were dreaming!
I town from her eagle height smiled Liberty,
And waved her hand in sign of victory ;
The world approved, and every where,
Except where growfled the Russian
hear,
The brave, the good and just gave us their
prayer,
For the land where we were dreaming!
High o'er our heads a starry flag was seen,
Whose field was blanched, and spotless in
its sheen;
Chivalry’s cross its union bears,
And by his scars each vet'ran swears
To bear it on in triumph through the wars,
In the land where we were dreaming!
B e fondly thought a Government was ours
—We challenged place among the world’s
great powers;
We talk’d in sleep of rank, commission.
Until so life-like grew the vision.
That he who dared to doubt but met de
rision,
!n the land where we were dreaming!
A figure came among us as w r e slept
At first he knelt, then slowly rose and
wept,
Then gathering up a thousand spears,!
lie swept across the fields of Mars,
then bowed farewell, and walked behind
the stars,
from the land where we were dream
ing!
e looked again, another figure still
(rave h °pe, and nerved each individual
will;
Li’ect lie stood, as clothed with power;
-elt-poised. he seemed to rule the Lour,
1 1 him, majestic sway—of strength a
tower,
In the land where we were dreaming!
xv bile great Jove, in bronze, a warder
r i So(3 ’
eastward from the Forum where he
stood,
Lome felt herself secure and free,
R i Richmond, we, on guard Ibr thee,
a bronzed hero, god-like Lee,
to the land where we were dreaming!
, -L 'vakes the soldier when the alarum
Vs .jails,-
"akes the mother when her infant
falls.—
As starts the traveler when around
s . hjs sleepy couch the fire-bells sound, —
U T ° , °’[ r nation with a single bound—
•n uie land where we were dreaming!
Woe! woe! is us, the startled cried,
While we have slept, our noble sons have
died!
Woe! woe! is ns, how strange and
sad,
That all our glorious visions fled,
Have left us nothing real but our dead,
In the land where we were dreaming!
And are they really dead, our martyred
slain ?
No, dreamers! Morn shall hid them rise
again;
From every plain,—from every height
—On which they seemed to die for
right,
Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight
In the land where we were dreaming !
Unconquered still in soul, tho’ now' o’errun,
In peace, in w r ar, the battle’s just begun!
Once this Thyestean banquet o’er,
Grow'n stong the few' who bide their
hour,
Shall rise and hurl its drunken guests from
pow'er,
In the land where w r e were dreaming !
Written for the Banner of the South.
ELEANOR STAUNTON.
BY A. SOUTHEPiNER.
DEDICATED TO MILES M. FARROW, ESQ., OF
CHARLESTON, S. C.
[continued.]
Os course the door has never been un
locked ; I am r. wife only in name. A
month of this strange, new life, had
passed, when one morning Mr. Staunton,
informed me that he was compelled to
visit the continent for a few weeks, and
gave me my choice, whether I would ac
company him, or pay a visit to Leslie
Hall. I preferred to return home, and
a few days afterwards he carried me
there, and started abroad. I can scarce
ly picture my life while he was away. A
constant strain upon my mental powers
had produced a low, nervous state, that,
without actually being illness, completely
unfitted me for anything. My father
was very kind, and I often found him
looking at me with a deprecating glance.
Mr. Staunton wrote long, interesting
letters by every mail. But they might
as well have been written to a friend as
to his wife, always commencing “My
dear Eleanor,” and signed “Yours tru
ly.” Not one word of affection. Still
I have no reason to complaia. If he did
not love me, he did nut neglect me; and,
though it was a dreary, unreal sort of
life, it might have been far worse. After
an absence of many weeks Mr. Staunton
returned ; sineo then we have remained
quietly at home, except fur a few weeks
this Spring, when he carried me with
him to visit his estates in the North and
West.
I believe I have given an epitome of
my life during the past year, and that
brings me back to my original date. I
have grown reconciled to my life, in part,
aad tho’ I am not happy, still I an not
the reverse. Mr. Staunton is very, very
kind to me, and leaves no wish of mine
ungratified, if he even suspects it.
My father seems completely cured of
his speculating mania, and is fast paying
off the mortgages still held against his
estate.
To an outsider, my life would appear
one of the utmost felicity. My husband
is a man of the most unspotted public
and private character, and one of the
most honored and influential men in the
country. He is the wealthiest gentleman
Commoner in the kingdom; his estab
lishment is magnificent; he has the most
perfectly appointed house, and well
trained servants, the finest wines, and
horses, the costliest china, glass, and sil
ver; and, if he does not love his wife,
she alone knows it. I have much to be
thankful lor. And yet the insatiable hu
man heart, can never know content- j
menr; and at nineteen I cannot be per
fectly satisfied with such a cold, strange
nic as mine; but the mere husk of exist-!
ance !
AUGUSTA, GJI., AUGUST 7, 1869.
•
Ido not love my husband. I admire
and respect him, and am grateful for his
ever watchful care and kindness; but
nothing more. ITe is a very handsome
man, tall, large, and finely formed; very
dark hair; superb, hazle eyes; fine,
clear-cut features; a handsome mouth ;
beautiful teeth; a peculiarly haughty car
riage, and most elegant manners. So
polished and courteous! I try to be
perfectly contented; yet, I do not like to
think that, in all human probability, I
will live to be thirty.
Mr. Staunton speaks of invitiug some
friends to come down during the hunting
season. He thinks I mope, and need
society. Ido not need society ; I need
sympathy, and affection. Some warm
human ties, to melt the ice that seems
forming over what was once such a warm
loving heart.
One o’clock! how the hours have
flown ! I had no idea that it was so late.
Mr. Staunton requested me not to keep
late hours. So I will lay aside my pen
for to-night,
lam glad I have resumed my diary ;
it will be companionship and comfort, in
some of the long, weary hours, that, de
spite my efforts to be cheerful, sometime
oppress me.
Windemere, Park, June 4th.
My solitude was very pleasantly broken
yesterday by the arrival of Mrs. Lacy,
Mr. Staunton’s aunt, a very charming
lady, about forty, I suppose, and still
i quite handsome; medium height; rich
| brown hair; a smooth, clear skin; white
i teeth ; and the loveliest eyes—a dark
| gray, with lung, dark lashes, and such a
calm; truthful expression. Altogether
a very attractive looking woman, and
has delightful manners, so frank and
natural, a little quick and decided, may
be, but still fascinating to me, who has
been iso long accustomed to cold con
ventional elegance,
“I did not come to see you before, my
dear,” she said iu her clear musical
voice, while we sat at luncheon, “be
cause I think it alwa’ys best to leave a
married couple to themselves for the first
year ; until they become thoroughly ac
customed to their new relations, and to
each other, a third party, even with the
best intentions, is apt to meddle or bo in
the way.”
I do not think Aunt Margaret could
ever have been “in the way.” She is
charming. I am delighted that she is
with me ; my solitude had begun to
pall upon me. She has been a widow
twelve years, and has no children. She
was Mr. Staunton’s only aunt on
his father side, and perfectly idolizes
him. I wonder what she sees to love in
him ? He has always appeared to me
as one more to be feared than loved.
But, perhaps I judge too harshly.
Windsmere Park. June Bth.
Aunt Margaret promised last night to
to instruct me in the traditionary history
of the Staunton family; and after break
fast we went iuto the picture galler}'. It
is sud of paintings, some of them dating
before the Crusades, and with many of
their histories Aunt Margaret is familiar.
We had passed down the whole length
of the gallery, when we came suddenly
before a blank niche. Aunt Margaret
looked first at the empty place and then
at me. Finally, she said:
“My dear, where is the portrait that
belongs here ?”
“I do not know; the niche has been
vacant ever since I first came here,” I
replied.
We walked on, and a few turns brought
us to the extreme western termination of
the gallery. When Aunt Margaret’s
keen eyes spied, in the dark shadow of
a large marble pillar, a painting with
the face reversed, and only a blank sheet
of canvass turned towards us.
“Come, my love,” she said; “let us see
who this is that has so guominiously
been hid in a corner.”
I threw open a window, and a rich
flow of sunlight streamed in, and I turned
to catch a glimpse of the most exquisite
face I have ever seen.
“Oh, Aunt Margaret, who is it V ’ I
exclaimed, eagerly.
“A plague on my meddlesome fingers,”
said aunt, pettishly, without answering
me.
“Auntie, please tell me who it is ?” I
asked again.
“Well, the mischief is done, now,”
she replied, “and I suppose I might as
well tell you. Did you ever hear of
Miss Augusta Percival ?”
“Never that I remember.”
“Well, she was the orignal of this
picture, and, as you see, a very beautiful
woman.”
“Most beautiful, indeed, Aunt Mar
garet. Do you you know her history ?”
“Yes, my dear, I should think I did ?”
“Will you tell it to me ?”
“Yes, if you insist upon it.”
I turned towards the picture again, all
curiosity absorbed in admiration. The
figures were life size, representing a wo
man of about twenty, I suppose, dressed
in an emerald green riding habit, stand
ing beside a superb horse, with one tiny
white hand resting on his neck. Her
figure and attitude were the perfection of
grace and elegance. A profusion of
wavy dark hair was drawn back from
her face, and gathered in a large, grace
ful knot, on her slender white neck.
And the face ! how can I describe it ?”
So brilliantly and, so bewitchingly beau
tiful ; a clear, brunette complexion,
flushed with a vivid crimson on the
cheeks and lips; abroad, white forehead;
slender, yet strongly marked, black brows;
large, dark, unfathomable eyes, so soft
and brilliant that one could gaze forever
into their liquid depth ; a small, clear
cut nose, whose thin, arching nostril be
trayed patrician blood; a mouth of melt
ing sweetness, the full, crimson lips
slightly parted, and the round dimpled
chin. I write each separate beauty, and
yet no words, however glowing, can do
justice to the matchless whole.
I stood before the almost breathing
canvass, lost in admiration, until Aunt
Margaret said
“My dear Eleanor, you gaze at that
portrait with as fresh an admiration as
tho’ you had never seen such a face be
fore.”
“I never did,” I answered, with a sigh
of delight.”
“Why, my dear niece, you see the sac
simile of that picture every time you
gaze at yourself in the glass. I never
saw such a wonderful likeness between
two strangers in my life.”
“1 seated myself beside Aunt Mar
garet and said:
“Now, Aunt, tell me the history of
that lovely creature.”
And she began as follows:
“Augusta Percival was the the only
daughter of a gentleman of aristrocratic
descent, but very limited fortune. There
were four sons, also, all the consequences
of an imprudent love match with an
Italian lady. The mother died at the
birth of the youngest son. Mr. Perci
val never married again, but devoted
himself to the care of his children. By
strict economy he educated them all
handsomely—Augusta at a French board
ing school, and the boys at Oxford
Marvin Percival, the oldest sou, was at
College with Edward, and carried him
home at Easter to spend a fortnight.
Augusta was at home and Edward fell
deeply in love with her. I was living in
town then, and Edward came hack to
me full of Miss Augusta’s perfections.
“I had known Mr. Percival all my
life : so, to gratify Edward, I wrote to
him and otlered to introduce Augusta to
society the next season. My offer was
gratefully accepted; and early in Hie
season, Augusta came up. Edward and
Maurice were always in the house, and i
the result was Augusta’s return home j
betrothed to my poor hoy. I did not
» “
like the match, but had no real grounds
on which to oppose it. She seemed to
love him, and he worshipped her. He
5 had a very warm trusting nature ; and
no knight during the days of chivalry
ever invested womanhood with purer or
nobler attributes. A woman was to him
the embodiment of all that was pure,
faithful and tender. So, you can fancy
how he regarded Augusta with her brilliant
beauty and winning manners. As soon
as he graduated, he determined to return
here and keep open house until he was
married. Edward had been living with
me ever since he was sixteen, the age at
which he lost his father. My husband
was dead, and I bad no children to keep
my own house open for. So I came to
live with him; and we soon had a crowd
ed house. Edward was very differant
in them days from what he is now. He
was as gay and lighthearted as a boy, and
a very general favorite.
“Miss Percival and her brother came
to spend some time here. As their en
gagement was openly known, they were
devoted to each other. They were to be
married the ensuing Spring. Edward
was constantly making her the most splen
did presents. Once I ventured to say that
Miss Percival ought not to . receive such
costly gifts from him. But the haughty
tone in which he said “Augusta cannot
be in error,” warned me not to repeat
the experiment.
Early in September Edward sent up to
town and got a very distinguished por
trait painter to come down and paint
Augusta’s portrait, the very one you
have just been admiring. He was a
Frenchman. Very handsome, but dis
solute looking. I never could abide
him. The painting was a very large
one, and took a long time ; and I noticed
that Augusta was growing rather more
intimate with the artist, than became her
as a lady; to say nothing of her being en
gaged. Edward was frequently absent.
When he was at home, Miss Percival’s
conduct was all that ’t ought to be; hut
I, noticing her closely, could see her
shrink from him sometimes with an ex
pression almost of loathing in her face.
“Early in December, the picture was
finished, and the painter prepared to
leave. Edward, with his usual liberality,
paid him double the sum he demanded
for his work. Miss Percival was sitting
with me in the library when Edward
came in after dispatching his business,
and the conversation turned on money
matters, banking, accounts, and cheque
writing. Augusta said, laughingly, that
their slender fortune had made all such
things ‘blank letter lore’ to her; that
she would not know how to write a
cheque.
“ ‘Let me show you my love’ ” said
Edward, affectionately; and, taking up
a banking book, he wrote off a cheque for
four thousand pounds and handed it over
for her to examine, She admired the
beauty of his handwriting, and after
turning the paper carelessly about in her
fingers for a few minutes, she laid it in
her work basket.
That evening all the company went to
a ball at Castle Mortimer, except Augus
ta, who plead a severe headache, and 1 re
mained with her. The distance between
Castle Mortimer and Windemere was so
great that our party was to remain all
night. Directly after ten Augusta went
to her room; and soon the house was
wrapped in profound stillness.
“When 1 came down to breakfast next
morning, I found Edward, who, not liking
to stay away from Miss Percival while
she was suffering, had left the ball early,
and ridden hard to breakfast with us. 1
sent a servant to ask it Augusta would
prefer to breakfast in her room. The
servant returned and said that Miss Per
eival was not in her room. I sent lor
her maid, who was likewise invisible;
and a short search revealed the fact that
Miss Percival had eloped with the French
artist.
“A letter lay on her dressing table
ISTo. 21. ™
