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VOL. 11.
fFrom the N. 0. Picayune.]
The Shadow of Death.
Friends all kneeling,
To God appealing.
A dimness stealing
O’er the eyes,
A hand revealing
<rs
A glittering scythe—
Tell me, my soul, can this he death ?
Friends all weeping,
A night watch keeping,
A coldness creeping,
O’er the frame.
A scythe for reaping
The full ripe grain—
Tell me, my soul, can this he death ?
A tear fount welling,
A torn heart swelling,
To Heaven telling
Its agony,
An axe for felling
The full grown tree,
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?
A Christian dying!
A still form lying,
While friends are crying
To Christ for aid,
A voice replying,
The debt was paid—
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?
A life just closing,
A hue disclosing.
A corpse reposing,
In death’s embrace,
A glass inclosing
A cold white lace—
Tell me, my soul, can this be death 1
A chill sky clouded,
A cold room crowned,
A little form shrouded,
But the face is hid,
A white wreath mounted
On the coffin lid—
Tell me, iny soul, can this be death?
A Church bill swinging,
Its sad tones ringing,
For freed soul winging,
Its heavenly flight,
To mourners bringing
Affliction’s night—
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?
Two workmen spading,
A fresh grave grading,
The green leaves fading,
For harvest come,
A willow shading
A narrow home—
Ah ! yes, my soul, for this is death 1
Cyrilla.
———afigfrifr- 4k£Bw>***~-
[Written for the Banner of the Sowtia.]
Reaping the Whirlwmd.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BARNWELL, OF BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
CHAPTER V.
‘Has the lore you once bore to your conntrv trrown
cold ?
Has the fire on tne altar died out ? Do you hold,
Even love, than your freedom more dear ?”
John li. Thompson.
" D' ere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;
Up ; more than tears of blood can tell,
' hen wrong from guilt’s expiring eye,
Are m that word, farewell—farewell.”
By bon.
And while, throughout the glad, re
joicing houth, every heart thrilled with
thankfulness for this, our first, our blood
less victory, how fared it with those
children of South Carolina, who lingered
still in the land of the oppressor?
Gs Mrs. Austyn’s illness, I have al
ready spoken. Throughout that eventful
winter, she had continued in a state of
cental oblivion to all around her. In
I ehruary, her bodily health began to
improve, and the physicians hoped, that
R once she was roused from her apathy,
nhnd and memory, would be instantly
lestored, benefitted, rather than weak
ened, by their long rest.
Her children were all kept in complete
ignorance of her state. To Carroll,
Colonel Austyn bad written, briefly and
sternly, forbidding any intercourse, be
tween himself and his mother, and dis
owning him forever as a son. To Wal
lace, Ilarvey, and Irene, be wrote in a
different strain. He told them that the
doctors had advised complete quiet for
their mother, and that it was best they
should remain where they were until
Spring, without seeing her. It was
deemed advisable, also, that she should
not touch a pen, and although they
might write to her, as usual, they must
be content with such brief notes a; he
could spare time to write, for all their
information from home during the winter.
To Wallace and Ilarvey, he spoke most
kindly of their sympathy with the
South ; saying that Carroll’s course had
had a dreadful effect on their mother’s
health, and bogging them to remain
quiet until the Spring, when they should
all meet in New York, and, if the diffi
culties were not already amicably set
tled, decide upon the future course to be
pursued by each.
For various reasons, this plan was
most agreeable to them all, and they
readily acceeded to it. They were at
that age, when youth is most eager in
the pursuit of whatever happiness, or
ambition may, at the time, be the object
of their desire, and most thought 1 ess of
all besides. They lived on, dreamed on,
hoped on, from day to day, forgetting
that days grew into weeks, and weeks
into months, and the world around them
was whirling on, and great deeds were
being done, and great events—those
events, which make a nation’s history—
were shaping themselves, slowly, surely,
solidly, out of the talk, and excitement,
and self-seeking, and self-glorifying,
which seemed but the passing
forth on the great ocean of life.
Harvey, pow rapidly approaching his
nineteenth birth-day, was the acknowl
edged favorite and leader, in the little
world of the Military Academy, where
he had spent the last three years of his
life. Handsome, brilliant, and accom
plished, full of enthusiasm, brave, warm
hearted. merry, and pleasure-loving, he
seemed born to figure in the Camp, as a
true soldier of that class, made famous in
the well-known and popular hero,
Charley O’Malley. Hi? was one of
those natures, which crave affection and
admiration to suc h a great degree, that
they are easily influenced by any, who
lavish flattery and kindness upon them.
The Professors ope nly spoke of him as
their most brilliant pupil, and the Ca
dets proudly acKnowledgod him as their
leader and favorite. At the first talk of
war, he spoke bravely and fearlessly for
the South; but the influence bearing
upon him was very strong, the more so,
that in his presence, no word of con
tempt for his country was ever uttered.
At a Northern Military institution, it
was not strange that the boy had, in
spite of himselt, learned to feel that pride
of country which belongs to every noble
creature, and which at the North was
telt for the United States, and at the
South lor each State, by her own chil
dren.
Harvey expected to graduate in June,
with th*- first honor of his cla*s and when
the news of the buttle of Sumter was
followed immediately by a letter from his
father, summoning him to New York, he
set lorth with a heart, which clung to
this, the arena of tiis triumphs, aud
whose first wish it was to return thither.
It had been determined that the g'raduat
iug das* should, alter their examination
in June, torm themselves into a company
of cavalry, and tender their services to
the Government. The giaduates num
bered ninety, and at least forty of the
next class declared their intention of
joining them. Those, whose parents
could afford it had promised to give;
their sons horse-, and a wealthy gentle-j
mau in the neighboihood had bound him
AUGUSTA, GA, NOVEMBER 0, 1869.
self to provide sfeedt for the rest. The
Professors had conseme 1 to instruct them
solely in the cavalry ta tics, from the first
of May, and they were, after the ex
amination, to go into camp near the Aca
demy, under the instruction of an old
and accomplished cavalry officer. Os
this company, to be called the Eagle
Guard, Harvey was offered the com
mand, and his answer had not been given
' G
when the summons home forced him to
start at once for New York.
With Wallace tin ease was widely
different. By nature, he was a student,
quiet, reserved, shy, but capable of de
votion, endurance, constancy and reso
lution, such as his light-hearted brother
never dreamed of. I * person, he was
small and slight, whikn -is brothers were
all tall, and possessed of man’s choicest
pride, strength. His health was delicate,
and he would have be Vv very plain, but
for the great, brown eyes, so soft and
lustrous, that they shone, like stars, in
his pale, thin face, and the smile, so
sweet, so tender, so rarely, winningly
beautiful.
He was a devoted Christian, and from
early youth, his dearest wish had been to
join that privileged number, upon whom
the Apostle's mantle has descended, and
whose sacred office it is to “preach unto
us Christ, and their rucificd.” To lit
himself for this high < fling he studied
night and day, and njg that the time for
his leaving Princeton approached, his
efforts were redoubled, as his natural
timidity and self-distrust made him fear
that he would win but a low place, on
the list us those who were like himself,
competitors for the highest honor.
There was yet another cause why
Wallace Austyn, faithful and devoted as
he was to the South, consented to spend
the winter quietly at Princeton, in accor
dance with his father’s decree. Among
the Professors was one, an aged man,
with silvery hair, who had taken a pecu
liar liking to the shy, soft-eyed student,
and had invited him to his home. Wal
lace accepted the kindly-given invitation,
and found a warm, and ever-ready wel
come to that quiet, little family circle of
devoted Christians. The Professor was,
himself, a Minister of God, the Rev.
Paul Arden, and had already passed the
three score years and ten, a'lotted to
man. 11 is wife was only a few years
his junior, and their family-circle was
completed by their widowed daughter,
and her little girl Seventeen years
before, Mr Arden had married his only
chdd to Hugeut Clyde, a young student
oi the University, and had, with bitter
tears, seen the sunshine of his home
borne away to her husband’s estate in
Louisiana, on the banks of the great
Father of Waters. For three years he
mourned her loss, and then she returned,
pale and crushed beneath the heavy
anguish of a wife, bereft of the truest
a.*d tenderest of husbands. Hagent
Clyde had died suddenly, and his heart
broken wife had gathered her babv-girl
in her arms, aud flown, like a wounded
bird, back to the warm love-sheltered
house Nest.
There, little Pauline had grown up,
the pet and darling of her mother and
grand-parents. When Wallace saw her
first, she had just reached her fifteenth
birth day ; and a fairer, sweeter, rosebud
never opened to the sunshine than the
Prolessor’s modest little flower. Look
ing into her calm, faithful blue eyes,
listening to the low tones of her gentle
voice, our shy, large-hearted student
learned his first and only lesson in the
lore of love.
When his father’s summons catne,
Wallace hastened to Mr. Arden’s, and
finding the old gentleman alone, he showed
him the letter, which necessited his im
mediate departure. An engagement had
been entered into between himself and
Pauline, about three months previously,
with the delighted sanction of her mother
and grandparents, and the full approval
of Colonel Austvn, who trusted this
would prove a link sufficiently powerful
to bind Wallace securely to the cause of
the Union.
As the old gentleman concluded the
epistle, he returned it to Wallace, say
ing, with a deep sigh, and a warm clasp
of his hand •
“Well, your time for action has come
now, my boy. May God guide you
aright.”
“Amen,” responded Wallace, fervent
ly. “It is a hard, hard trial, Sir, which
I am now cal led to bear, and I need a
double portion of His strength. You
know how I will decide. Perhaps, I
may now be saying farewell forever to
you, and to her.”
He turned away his pale, almost dis
pairing face, from the kind eyes, which
gazed upon him, with a father’s love and
sympathy, and walked hastily to the win
dow, struggling for composure. The
old gentleman followed him, and laying
his trembling hand upon his shoulder,
said solemnly :
“We have talked of this before, Wal
lace, but, in parting, I wish to tell you
again, what I and many other Christians
throughout the North, really think on
this great question. It will give you
pleasure to remember my words, when
we are so widely and fearfully seperated.
I can feel neither surprise, nor disap
proval of your decision. I have studied
this matter closely, and with earnest
prayer. I love this Union, I love this
country, and it almost breaks my heart
to think of tlie fraternal blood, which
must dye its soil—of the tears, aud an
guish, and desolation—of the. widows
aud orphans, whose cry must ascend to
Heaven—of the tierce passions which
must rage—of the cruel deeds which
must be done—ere this fearful difference
is settled. God has, in my opinion,
warned us, by the bloodless victory He
gave them at Sumter, to let our South
ern brothers go in peace. If we dare
to disregard that warning, I do believe,
sooner or later, a punishment will fall
upon the North, so terrible, so overwhel
ming, that every voice, which has been
raised in favor of war, will be forced to
cry out, “Lord, lam guilty, for I have
rebelled against Thee, and dipped my
hand in innocent blood—yea, in the
blood of these my brethern ;” and every
arm, which shall strike in this accursed
and murderous war shall be lifted to
hide a brow stamped with the dark
brand of the fratricide, Cain. It is false
to say that slavery is forbidden in the
Bible, and “If any man shall add unto
these things, God shall add unto him
the plagues that are write n in this book.”
It is the politicians of the North, who
have set at naught the glorious Constitu
tion formed by the wisdom of our com
mon ancestors, and who have infringed
upon and sought to take from their
Southern brethren, the freedom, which
is their dearest heritage. lam a North
erner. and I love my country, and this
my native State oi New Jersey, as truly
as any of her sous ; but Wallace, before
God, I believe that right, and truth, and
honor are with the South ; aud I would
not say one word to deter you from aid
ing in the defense of her sacred rights,
and her dearly-bought liberty. 1 cannot
pray for my unhappy country’s success.
I can but cry, with bitter ihame and
agony,” Spare us, Good Lord ! In the
midst of the just wrath we have pro
voked, Oh! remember mercy ! “Your
decision is right, my brave boy. May
God shield you in the hour of danger,
from lues both temporal and spiritual,
and restore you, ere ioug, unscathed to
our love. And, now, I will send Pauline
to you. Farewell, my son.”
And the faithful servant, who spoke
so fearlessly, what he believed to he the
right, turned away, leaving hi* young
brother cheered and strengthened for the
trial, which awaited him.
It was a pleasant room, that little,
shaded parlor, with the Spring sunshine
streaming in at the low windows, through
vines growing in graceful hanging
baskets, and brightening radiantly Spring
flowers, tastfully arranged on the table.
A cage of canaries hung in the southern
window, above a stand of brightly-bloom
ing' plants, and their sweet voices trilled
cheerily through the appartment. A
light step, a softly-opened door—and
there, in the brightest stream of sun
light, stood a young girl, the fitting
spirit of that sweet home nook.
Pauline Clyde was not yet eighteen ,
small and slight, with tender blue eyes,
soft, light hair, fair cheeks, where the
roses bloomed brightly, and a dimpled,
child-like mouth. As she stood there, in
the bright, sunny little room, clad in her
simple, blue merino dress, and coquetish
white apron, with a glad, shy welcome,
beaming from her happy, tender face,
she formed a picture of quiet loveliness,
which lived in Wallace Austyn’a heart,
to cheer and strengthen him, in hours of
pain, and darkness, and dread.
Another moment, and she was in his
arms, whispering her fond questions :
“Is anything the matter, Wallace ?
You look so pale and troubled Are
you ill ? What can Ido for you?”
It was soou told ; and tears dimmed
the blue eyes, as she sobbed uncontrola
bly upon his breast. She was a true
woman, however, this tender, petted girl,
and the tears were quickly checked, that
she might whisper in a voice, broken
sometimes by sobs, words of hopo pmd
comfort to her lover. She knew what
this parting meant. She know that a
sea of blood must, for a time, roll betwetn
them, and that its tide might be swelled
by the life-blood of him, to whose breast
she nestled so closely. She knew that,
lor her, there was much to hear—the
parting, the lonely anxious days, the long
weary nights, the fearful ignorance of
his fate—yet, she said no word to bid
him prove false to the sunny land, which
was her birth-place, and had been her
dead, young father’s home. Brave,
faithful hearts. Her last words were
sobbed out amid streaming tears, but
they spoke only of truth, and hope, and
courage, joined with a simple trust that
God would prosper the right.
“1 know you will be brave and true to
me, Wallace,” she said. “Wiien God
has let you free onr country, come back,
and you will find o»e waiting, and long
mg, aud praying lor you.”
Aud how fared it with Irene ? What
destiny had met her in that eventful
winter, and stamped its impress on her
heart and life ?
She had gone to her Grandfather’s
luxurious home in Albany, a bright,
careless girl ; she left it a beautiful, true
hearted woman. It had been a gay'
winter, and Irene entered into the con
stant round of pleasure, with the zest
and ardor of a novice. Her beauty, her
Southern grace aud brilliancy, the charm
of her frank, winning manners, and
keen enjoyment of every pleasure, made
her a favorite with all, and the reigumg
belle of the season. She was reputed
wealthy’, too, and her proud grandfather
openly declared his intention of dower
ing her nobly, should she marry to please
him. No wonder, lovers thronged at her
feet, sighing for the possession ot this
petted favorite of fortune, with her
dower of youth and beauty, wit and
grace, high birth, and, last best to lnanv
far from least, wealth.
Few guessed the depth and strength
of Irene Austyn’s character ; and when
they saw lover after lover rejected, not
ono, even in her home circle, surmised
that the heart, so frequently and eagerly
craved, was no longer hers to give. She
laughed and jested, when they called her
heartless, but she kept her secret well,
aud hid successfully every sign of love ;
for while all others sought her favor, he
alone, was cool and friendly, in whose
power it lay to win the coveted prize.
But beauty is all powerful ; a. and, at
length, lie too, learned to love the bright
jSTo. 34.