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VOL. 11.
[ From the Home Journal*
An Anniversary.
BY PAUL TI. IIAYNE.
0, Love, it is our wedding day!
This morn—how swift the seasons flee—
A virgin morn of cloudless May,
You gave your loyal hand to me,
Your dainty hand, ciaspt sweet and sure
As Love's sweet self, forevermore!
0, Love, it is our wedding day,
And memory flies from now to then;
I mark the soft heat-lightning play
Os blushes o’er your cheek again,
And shy but fond foreshadowing rise
Os tranquil joy in tender eyes.
O, Love, it is our wedding day ;
The very rustling of your dress,
The trembling of your arm that lay
On mine, with timorous happiness,
Your fluttered breath and faint footfall
Ah, sweet, I hear, 1 see them all!
O, Love, it is our wedding day,
And backward Time’s strange current
rolls,
Till life’s and love’s auspicious May
Once more is blooming in our souls,
And lark-like, swell the songs of hope
Your blissful bridal horoscope.
0, Love, it is our wedding day—
Yet say, did those fair hopes but sing,
Lapped in the tuneful morn of May,
To die or droop on faltering wing,
When noontide heats and evening chills
Made pale the flowers and veiled the hills ?
0, Love, it is our wedding day,
And none of those glad hopes of youth,
Thrilled to its height, outpoured a lay
To match our future’s simple truth ;
Though deep the joy of vow and shrine,
Our wedded calm is more divine !
0, Love, it is our wedding day;
Life’s summer with slow-waning beam,
Tints the near autumn’s cloudland gray
To softness of a fairy dream,
Whence peace by musing pathos kissed,
Smiles through a veil of golden inist.
0, Love, it is our wedding day ;
The conscious winds are whispering low
Those passionate secrets of the May
Fraught with your kisses long ago,
Warm memories of our years remote
Are trembling in the mock-bird’s throat.
O, Love, it is our wedding day—
And not a thrush in woodland bowers,
And not a rivulet’s silvery lay,
Nor tiny bee-song ’mid the flowers,
Nor any voice of land or sea,
But deepens love to ecstacy!
Our wedding day! The soul’s noontide !
In these rare words at watchful rest
What sweet melodious meanings hide
Like birds within one balmy nest,
Each quivering with an impulse strong
To flood all heaven and earth with song?
[Written for the Banner of the South.]
Reaping the Whirlwind.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BARNWELL, OF BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
CHAPTER 11.
“There Ip » wound within thee, ’tie a wound
dhat lies too deep for tears, and many a while,
When all that is aronnd thee seems to smile,
Within thy heart of hearts, a kueil doth sound.
Isaac Williams.
Seven years have passed away, and
it isuow late in the autumn of 1844. In
an elegant house on Fifth Avenue, a
liiuy reclines on a couch drawn near to
tl ]e glowing fire. Everything around her
speaks of wealth and refinement, but
the lady is pale and wasted, and her face
bears the impress of deep and settled un
happiness. An infant, scarcely six
months old, is sleeping on her arm, while
three little boys, one aged four, and the
the others twins of two and a half, are
playing with a Noah’s ark on the floor
a t her feet. A fourth boy, of six sum
mers is seated beside her, reading aloud
Bom a volume of Miss Jane Taylor’s
dear old stories in verse. The mother’s
°)e rests with fond pride upon the fail
children clustered around her, and a
smile, which a remark from one of the
little fellows on the floor calls to her lips,
lights up the the thin, dark face into such
radiant brilliancy that it speaks her one
whose dower had once been rare and
sparkling beauty. She is just twenty
five, but she looks ten years older, and
retains few traces of the proud, flashing
beauty, which had been hers when she
left her father’s home, seven years before.
For this thin, sailow, faded woman;
this sad-faced, languid young mother,
was no other than bright Gertrude Car
roll. Theee years, beneath an unconge
nial Northern sky, had told sadly upon
her health; while the unsympathetic
natures around her, hating alike her
country and her principles, had told still
more sadly upon her spirits and her heart.
The fair Southern flower had faded daily
—the bright Southern bird had almost
ceased to sing.
Those had not been happy years for
our poor Gertrude. The news of her
brother’s death, though she dreamed not
of its real cause, yet taught her heart
its first bitter lesson of pain. She plead
passionately to be taken home, but her
husband refused; and, when ske insisted,
he made her feel, for the first time, that
she had wilfully placed her proud young
neck beneath a galling yoke. With a
violence, for which she could not account,
he checked every attempt she made to
speak of Jher brother and win him to
share and soothe Iter great sorrow.
Weeks passed on, and thij first gulf be
tween their hearts seemed closed, when
it was re-opened, by his refusal to allow
her to spend the Winter in her longed
for home. She was bitterly disappoint
ed, and reproached him in tears of pas
sionate indignation. Poor home-sick
child! She was met by wrath so much
fiercer than her own, that she cowered
before it, and submitted to It is decree
without any struggle. Throughout that
weary Winter her husband continued
kind, though she could not blind herself
to his increasing coldness. In May her
baby came, and life seemed to smile for
her once more, since the tiny link drew
back to her the heart of her husband
But it was not for long. As the years
passed by,- and other babies came to
claim the young mother’s time, and wear
out her strength, spirits and beauty, lie
left her more and more alone, and treat
her with greater and greater indifference.
The severe Winters tried her strength
terribly, but Captain Austyn would
never listen to any proposition that she
should spend them at the South. He
had left the army and gone into busi
ness with his brother, and had the repu
tation of being a most successful mer
chant. He had begun, too, to take a
part in public affairs, and was an openly
avowed abolitionist of the most rabid
class. His family were mostly of his
sentimeuts, and they often wounded poor
Gertrude’s feelings deeply by their open
ly expressed scorn and censure of her be
loved country and its institutions. This
seived but to deepen Gertrude’s love for
them, particularly that she was forced to
cherish that love in secret. Her longing
for the sunny home of her childhood, aud
the dear faces which had never worn a
frown for her, gathered added intensity
until she felt that she must indeed go
home or die.
The reading was interrupted by the
sound of a heavy footstep upon the
stair, and Gertrude said, quickly:
“there is your father, Theo. Put up
your book, for the present, and call
nurse ; quickly, dear.”
The child sprang to obey, and Ger
trude, holding the infant in one arm.
stooped forward aud with the hand left
free, gathered up the toys scattered
on the floor, and replaced them hastily
in the box. The children made no mur
mur, but rose at once, with a readiness
which showed they were accustomed to
be sent away at the sound of that heavy
step.
Ihe nurse entered by one door as
AUGUSTA, OCTOBER 16, 1869.
Captain Austyn opened the other, and
he approached the fire, saying, crossly :
“The children here! Take them away
at once, Juno. It really seems to me your
mistress minds them more than you do.
Clear off little boys!”
Juno and her charges disappeared in
silence, leaving the husband and wife
alone. Gertrude rose and wheeled for
ward a large armchair, into which Cap
tain Austyn threw himself, saying:
“Well, Gertrude, I suppose there is no
use inquiring after your health ; you
never arc well now.”
No,” she answered sadly, “I never am ;
particularly as the cold weather ap
proaches; I fear it so much and she
drew her shawl close around her, with a
shiver.
“How would you like to spend this
Winter at Spotsylvania ?” he asked care
lessly.
“Oh, Theodore !” She half raised her
self from her pillows, looking eagerly at
him. “Are you in earnest?”
“Do you think the old gentleman would
take you in, with the addition of your
five babies ?”
“Take me in she cried. “Why it is
my home.”
“Not exactly,” he retorted shortly.
“However, I have a piece of news for
you. The firm is rather ricketty just
now, and needs the presence of one of
its partners in Liverpool. I have a no
tion of going myself, provided your
father will take you and the children
during my absence, and support you.
This will enable me to retreive my for
tunes. and will only be justice on the
old gentleman’s part, considering he has
never given you any property. What do
think of the plan ?”
“It is life to me ! ” she cried passion
ately. “I should have died here this
winter. As t > father, I have no fear that
he will not consent gladly. Wallace,
too, is so delicate, and the warm climate
will give him health. But”—and her
tone changed—“does the plan suit you,
Theodore ?”
“Admirably,” he replied, adding, with
a sneering laugh; “we are not such a pair
of turtle-doves we can’t stand a separtion,
even though, as far as I can see, it is
likely to iast for years.”
She rose and came to his side.
“Dear Theodore,” she said, passing her
arm timidly around his neck, “I am
ready to do whatever you wish. If you
would rather we should go with you to
England, I am willing. Consult your
own convenience alone, dear.”
He gave a short laugh.
“What in the world would I do with a
sick wife and a house-full of babies, in
England ? No; it will be far better for
you to go to your father. So we will
consider the matter settled, as far as we
are concerned. Write to-day, and find
out if the old gentleman is willing; aud
tell him, if he consents to my proposal,
the children, Juno, and yourself, will
leave by the first boat that starts after
you get his letter.”
Colouel Carroll was only too glad to
have his daughter and her children at any
price; and he readily agreed to the pro
posal. The first of December found
Gertrude and her little flock safely in her
old home. She was welcomed with a
lavish wealth of love, which warmed her
at ouce into something distantly approach
ing to her old bright self. They‘found
her so sadly changed, that she seemed
to them one not long for this world; and
they rejoiced over her, with such trem
bling, that it increased their demonstra
tions of love, and added depth to their
tenderness.
Stic, too, found many changes. Her
mother had grown very feeble, and her
father’s tall form was beginning to bow
beneath the weight of years- Their
eldest son, Stuart, with his wife, three
sous and two daughters, lived ou the
plantation adjoining Spotsylvania. Ed
ward, the second sou now living, was
still in the army, with the rank of Cap
tain. Norman, the youngest, had mar
ried soon after the birth of Gertrude’s
first child, and had lost his wife two years
previously. She left him with two chil
dren ; Wallace, the eldest, now a bright
boy of four, and littie Gerty, aged two
and a half. Ilis mother had charge of
the motherless babies, and Norman lived
with his parents.
Gertrude’s little ones woke to new life
and strength beneath the bright Southern
sun ; and it filled their mother’s heart
with a keen delight to see them the ob
jects of love and interest to others beside
herself and the faithful Juno. Theo’s
low, sweet voice learned to break out
into loud shouts and merry laughter,
while his beautiful face, so like his
mother’s, lost much of the sadness which
had been fast growing into into its ha
bitual expresssion. Carroll had his
father’s deep blue eyes, sunny curls, and
straight, regular features, without father’s
imperious temper. He was amiable, af
fectionate, impulsive, and winning; but
he was, also, headstrong, wilful, and pe
culiarly thoughtless. This wonderful fa
culty of getting into mischief, had given
his mother many anxious moments; and
it was, perhaps, her highest pleasure to
note how his faults were corrected, and
his many virtues cultivated, under the
firm, yet loving management of his
grandfather and uncle. His cousin Wal
lace possessed, also, a passionate, self
willed temper, and it was wonderful to
see the influence for good which so
sober, thoughtful, gentle Theo exercised
over his two wild young juniors.
The twins were, as is generally the
ease, inseperable. Wallace was quiet,
earnest, and gentle, like the pure young
uncle for whom he had been named. He
was very like him in appearance, too, the
only one of his newphews and nieces,
who resembled him, and this made him
the peculiar darling of the whole family.
When- he was, for the first time, laid in
his mother's arms, and she gazed into
his large, clear brown eyes, she hud
kissed him with a feeling of grateful,
loving sadness, whispering: “My little
Wallace ” Her husband had objected
at first, but had finally consented that
he should receive his uncle’s name.
Harvcy was iu every respect his op
posite. Except Carroll he was the hand
somest of the boys, with a bright, sweet
face, and merry winning manners; but
he was, unlike the rest, yielding, amia
ble, weak and irresolute. Little Irene
was a beautiful child, very like what her
mother had been, ere the chilling storms
of life had passed over her.
Years sped on, and still Captain Aus
tyn spoke no word of a return to his na
tive land ; and his wife and children re
mained in South Carolina. Changes
came to the household at Spotsylvania.
Edward, the brave soldier brother, filled
a bloody grave in Mexico. The gentle
mother had passed calmly and peace
fully to her rest; followed in a few short
years by her husband. Norman was now
the master of Spotsylvania. He had
never married again, and his sister
lived wiih him, filling a mother’s place
to his children, while he was in return a
father to hers.
It is now April, 1858, that we again
invite our reader to visit fair Spotsyl
vania. The night was unusually warm,
for the season, and the whole household,
with the addition of Stuart’s family,
were gathered on the piazza, enjoying
the bright moonlight. Comfortable arm
chairs had been wheeled out for the
elders, while the young people preferred
to sit in tiers upon the high, broad front
steps. There was Mr. Stuart Carroll,
portly and merry, with a joke or caress
for every one who approached him; and
beside him, little Mrs. Stuart, energetic
aud lively, seeming far too young to be
the mother of such tall sons. It is plain
that their lives have been free from the
heavy shadows which have left their
rimples on the two other members of the
group. There is Norman Carroll very
tall and thin, his pale, intellectual face
stamped with the power of one born to
rule over the, minds and wills of those
around him; and his sister, our Ger
trude, slight and fragile, with the lan
guid, weary gentleness of one in whom
passion and will had been subdued by a
fierce and relentless discipline. Yet she,
did not look unhappy, and there was a
touching beauty in her pale, sweet face,
that spoke eloquently to every heart.
The young people formed a merry
group. There was dark haired Ruth
Ruth Carroll, grave, and a little'stately,
as became her twenty-two years and dig
nified position, as a fiancee ; and her
blue-eyed sister, Mary, sweet seventeen
merry and fancy-free. And there is tiny
Gerty Carroll, Norman’s fairy-like daugh
ter, with her flashing face, saucy tongue,
and free, bird-like grace. She is just
sixteen, but the little creature is already
a thorough coquette, and the cause of
many a jealous feeling between her
young cousins, almost all of whom are
more or less in love with her. Then
there is little fourteen year old Irene
Austyn, with the dark, brilliant, passion
ate beauty, which had been her mother's
in girlhood, but softened aud calmed by
a watchful and tender, yet strictly exer
cised control. The remaining maiden is
a stranger to us, yet something in. the
sweet, tender grey eyes, and calm, Stead
fast, though far trom beautiful, face, re
calls to our memory an old friend. She
is the only child of Richard Lomax. He
had grieved deeply for the loss of Ger
trude, but years had soothed the pain,
and he had married a gojd and gentle
woman. Alice was their only child, and
when he resolved to take up the heavy
work of a missionary, his wife sharing
the bueden, the delicate little girl was
left to the care of Norman and Gertrude.
Richard and his wife both found a grave
in the land of the heathen, and the little
orphan was adopted as another child in
the household at Spotsylvania. She was
the plainest of the girls, and by far the
quietest; yet, she had, perhaps, a larger
portion of love than fell to the lot of any.
Most conspicuous among the “the
boys,” as they were always termed,
though most of them had passed the
season of boyhood, is a tall, grave, fine
looking young man of twenty-six, close
to whose side Irene nestles. That is the
Rev. Stuart Carroll, who has been for
three months a Deacon of the Episcopal
Church. That slight, fashionable looking
youth, two years his junior, is his brother
Edward, a young doctor, lately returned
from Germany; and the short, merry
faced, noisy midshipman, lying at Ger
trude’s feet, is the third brother, Lester,
aged twenty. The bright-faced, mis
chevious boy of twelve, is their young
est brother, Hugh.
The Austyns are scattered about
among the rest. There is quiet, gentle
Then, with his soft, dark eyes and intel
lectual brow, speaking in low tones to
Alice Lomax, as they sit together, a lit
tle apart. And Carroll, the handsomest
of the group, with great blue eyes, and
sunny curls. Hear how he rattles oil' his
merry jests, in a rich, clear voice, and amid
peals of musical laughter, as he balances
his tall, graceful form on the balustrade
of the steps. And there are the twins,
Wallace, brown-eyed, fair-haired, quiet
and sh} 7 —Harvey, bright, handsome,
merry and noisy. Theo.is at College,
in the Senior class, studying hard for the
the first honor, and will, in a few days
celebrate his twentieth birthday. Car
roll, two years younger, is a Sophomore at
the same college, old Columbia, of course.
Ihe twins, not being quite sixteen, are
still school-boys. Only one of ’the
group remains unnoticed. Wallace Car
roll, Norman’s sou. lie is the same age
as Carroll Austyn, and is, like him, iu
the Sophomore class at Columbia. They
are devoted friends, though not iu the
least alike ; Car 1 oil being energetic, tall.
handsome, a little noisy, and a bit of
dandy, while Wallace is small, p \
No. 31