Newspaper Page Text
1 ~ '' '‘ ~ - ———— —-’’ " 'im* -
*yOL. IT.
A New Poem by the Poet
Laureate.
THE MYSTIC.
liY ALFRED TENNYSON.
\no-els have talked with him, and showed
o
him thrones :
Ye knew him not: lie was not one of you:
Ye scorned him with an undiscerning
scorn ;
Ye could not read the marvel in his eye,
The still, serene abstraction; he had felt
The vanities of alter and befure :
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart
The stern experience of converse lives,
The linked woes of many a fiery charge
Had purified, and chastened, and made
free.
Always there stood before him night and
day,
Os wayward, vary-eolored circumstance,
The imperishable presence serene,
Colossal, without form, or sense, or
sound,
Dim shadows but unwautiDg presences,
Four-faced to lour corners of the sky;
And yet again, again and evermore,
For the two first were not, but only
seemed
One shadow in the midst of a great light,
One reflex from eternity or time,
One mighty countenance of perfect calm,
Awful with most invariable eyes.
For him the silent congregated hours,
Daughters of time, divinely tall, beneath
Severe and useful brows, with shining
eyes
Smiling a god-like smile (the innocent
light
Ofearliest youth, pierced through and
through with all
Keen knowledges of low-cinbowed old)
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud
Which droops, low-hung on either gate of
life,
Both birth and death; he is in the centre
fixt,
Saw far on each side through the grated
gates
Most pale and clear and lovely distances.
Ho often lying broad awake, and yet
Remaining trom the body, aud apart
In intellect and power and will, hath
heard
Time flowing in the middle of the night,
And all things creeping to a day of doom,
How could ye know him ? Ye were yet
within #
The narrower circle ; lie had well nigh
7 c J
reached
The last, which, with a region of white
flame,
Tore without heat, into a larger air
l nburning, and au ether of black blue,
luvesteth and iugirds all ether lives.
[Written for the Banner of the South.]
Reaping the Whirlwind.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BARNWELL, OF-BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
CHAP TEH VIII.
“ Ah ! many fall in this wild strife !
But Freedom holds their memories dear,
And makes a gem of every life—
For the crown she yet shall wear.”
[Col. W. s. Haw King.
“ mto a ward of the whitewashed walls,
"here the dead and the dying lay—
hounded by bayonets, shells and balls—
Somebody’s darling was borne one day.”
[Anon.
bright sunshine was flecking
Mih gold, the green woods and grassy
»pos, gay beneath their brilliant carpet
,j * many colored flowers, when last we
Juan Fernandez, as trie Carrolls
Ila med their plantation in South-
Georgia, because of the lonely
‘ le the v led there. Another May suu-
J ‘ ne was waking to new life birds and
UH>rs > again we gaze upon the
|! Ulet sceQ e. It is mourning now, and
1 e group of ladies are busily a{ work
Mr Smart Carrel! read) aloud
Tio" Tleat iX P ee^tion8 > ' one of the few
crept through to us
= Wur , amidst frequent bursts
£
AUGUSTA, GAI., NOVEMBER 27, 1869.
[of laughter. Tt is a year since the sad
1 day when Lester’s coffin passed out of
! the porch, and the great consoler, Time,
! guided by his and our Divine Master, had
| wrought his spell upon the hearts of that
bereaved household. Even Mrs. Carroll
had learned to smile again, and was her
old self, save that a tender sadness seemed,
at times, to sober and soften her lively,
buoyant, energetic nature. There was a
little stranger in the group, a tiny, three
months old Carroll, with bright blue eyes
like those of the young uncle for whom
he was pained. lie slept peacefully in
i his little cradle, between his grandmother
[ and his proud young mother, undisturbed
by the merry play of Lillie and Stuart
Holland, as they sat on the floor at their
mother’s feet, building pens with a heap
of corn cobs.
The gate swung slowly back, and an
elderly negro entered, and pausing at
the foot of the steps, hat in hand, said :
“ Please, Maussa, dey’s somebody out
in de road want to see you hasty.”
“ Who is it?” queried Mr. Carroll, as he
put on his broad-rimmed palmetto hat,
and took his stick from the corner.
“ One white man dey on horse, sur,”
was the vague answer, as he followed
O 7
his master down the path.
“ How provoking !” cried Gerty shrug
ging her shoulders impatiently; “just in
such an interesting scene; and I know
its only some old cracker come to beg
fer help in his work. Why could not
Daddy Ben have said who it was ? lie
is always so mysterious.”
“And somebody else is always so curi
ous,” added Irene laughing.
“Well, it is not surprising, in this
dull place. lam even glad to see crackers,
by way of variety.”
They talked on, until Gerty exclaimed
that she saw her Uncle returning with a
man.
“No, a gentleman,” she added quickly.
“It is, yes, it is Mr* Graham, Aud they
both look so white and sad. Oh, what
can have happened ?”
They all crowded out into the piazza,
and waited breathlessly the gentleman’s
approach. r. Graham was Mr. Car
roll’s factor and most intimate friend, yet
no word of welcome was spoken as they
pressed around him. White faces and
terror-stricken eyes were the only lan
guage in which they had power to speak.”
“Dear ones,” Mr. Carroll said, in a
voice he vainly strove to render calm,
“there has been another dreadful battle
in Virginia, at Chancellorsville. Our
troops were victorious, but General Jack
son is dead, and our brave friend Cap
tain Cuthbert.”
He hesitated, but his sister's hand was
on his arm, her voice whispering hoarse
! ly :
“There is worse to be told. What is
it ?”
“Wallace is wounded, and in the ene
my’s hands. Harvey is also wounded,
and a prisoner in Richmond. Norman
is in Heaven. ”
One long, bitter cry went forth into
the bright May sunshine —a wail ot woe
aud desolation. He had been their pride,
their head, their fcarthly guide, and in a
moment, their stroDg ‘ .all was broken,
their pride laid low.
Mr. Graham was a wise friend,
spoke quickly.
“It is a terrible blow,” he said; “but
it comes from a Father’s hand, and we
dare not murmur. There is work to be
done. I had a telegram from Stuart,
begging that I would let you know, and
that you, Mrs. Austyn, should start for
Richmond, at once. Harvey is badly
wounded, and calls for you unceasingly.
I have arranged everything, aud will, my
self, take you to Richmond. We ought to
leave here in an hour, to catch the cars.
Can you be ready ?”
“In five minutes, if needful,” answered
Mrs. Austyn quickly.
“You will have an hour,” he replied;
“but we must start then. You had
better begin your preparations at once.”
“Oh, Auntie, take me with you ! Oh,
take me with you !” sobbed Gerty, cling
ing to her. “ Mr. Graham, may I not
I go ?” ,
; “ I see no objection, if your Aunt and
I Uncle are willing,” he replied very kind
i ly, looking down at the orphaned girl,
! and realizing how much harder her grief
[ would be to bear in that lonely place.
Mr. Carroll and his sister conseated
j gladly, and she went, with Alice and
; May, to make her preparations. Irene
' accompanied her mother, and commenced
' putting a few necessary articles for them
! both into two large traveling bags wifch
; out speaking.
Mrs. Austyn turned, and observing
her, exclaimed,
“ My daughter, I shall need but one
i bag of clothing. Two would only be iu
! the way, I am sure.”
“I am young, too,” replied Irene,
| quietly. “Dear Mother, do not attempt
ito stop me, I must go. I am getting
: wild here, for news of Algernon, and 1
I may be able to hear something there
! among the prisoners, or from Harvey.
Besides you will need me to help nurse
him. Y~ou won’t say I must not go,
| Mother ?”
• Mrs. Austyn only kissed her softly,
; and said :
“It will be a great comfort to have you
| with me, darling;” and the preparations
were resumed.
it was nightfall when they reached
[ Richmond, but Mr. Graham took them to
| the house of a friend, to whom he had
; telegraphed news of his coining. They
! found a hearty welcome, and their host
instantly went for Stuart. He came, ac
companied by his brother Edward, who
shared Lis tiny garret room, near the
hospital. Their tidings were cheering.
Edward was the surgeon in charge of the
| hospital, where Harvey had been carried,
; and reported him out of immediate dan
ger. His wound was in the breast, and
would keep him an invalid for sometime.
Stuart had procured leave for him to re
turn home with his mother, on parole;
and Edward thought he would be re
moved to the house of Mr. Graham’s
| friend, Mr. Temple, in a few days, and,
jif lie bore the removal well, they could
i take him home in a month.
No news had been heard of Wallace,
save that a Yankee prisoner said he had
seen him in an ambulance, and heard a
sirgeon pronounce his wound not danger
ous. Os Mr. Norman Carroll, there was
nothing to tell, save that his remains
had been laid in Mr. Temple’s vault,
whence they could be removed at any
time to Charleston.
Edward had administered an opiate to
j Harvey and lef. him for the night; so
j it was decided his mother should not see
I him until morning. The sweet sunrise
| hour had come, when, leaning upon Stu-
I art’s arm, she entered the hospital. It
j was a pitilui sight, that met her eye—
j those rows of narrow beds, on each of
which lay a human form in its agony.
Here, the ghastly while bandage round
the forehead told that the ball had enter
ed there; while yonder lay a shattered
form, with death-dews gathering thickly
on the palid, pain-drawn features. There
were several rooms opening into each
other, and it was to the last and smallest
of all, that Stuart Carroll led his Aunt.
Only four beds were there, and on one
of them lay Harvey ; but, oh ! how
changed. She had left him two years
before, a bright, innocent boy, standing,
with eager eyes, in the threshold of life.
She found him a pallid, hollow-eyed,
bearded man, with lines drawn around
the sweet, inviting mouth, and the boy
ish purity gone, alas, from the fair grow
ing brow, across which was bound a
ghastly, white cloth, to conceal the gaping
sword cut that would forever mar its
beauty. But it was her boy’s old heart,
that spoke in his close, clinging clasp,
and oft-whispered,
“ Mother 1 Oh, Mother! Mother !”
That tirsi hour pased, with his head
upon her breast, was one of mingled joy
and pain Into ; her ear he poured the
sad story of those years. Left to himself,
in the midst of sore temptation, the weak
nature had yielded itself up to the thou
sand snares, with which the path of plea- j
sure is filled for the feet of the young.
He had been among scenes which it
wrung his Mother’s heart to hear of; he j
had lavished the gold his father gave
him, freely upon sinful pursuits ; he had
taught his lips to utter oaths, without a
blush upon his cheek ; he had even j
learned to repeat his father’s words, and ;
to mock and deny the God of Heaven.
But a sick bed, and being brought face
to face with death, had awakened into
keen remorse hissleeping conscience; and
Stuart’s tender teachings had aided in
effecting a change in his reckless, sinful
heart. God mercifully permitted a moth
er’s hand to complete the work.
On the second day, they allowed Irene
to visit him. Their meeting over, she
was standing near the open window, be
side the bed, when suddenly voices
reached her ear. Half unconsciously she
leaned out and listened. They came
through the open window of the room
just above that in which her brother lay.
A pleasant voice was saying, cheer
fully •
“ Wei), worse might have happened, :
liawdon. Suppose we had been killed,
or wounded in the face. Instead of
which, our hurts are very moderate, the
weather is delightful, Dr. Carroll an ad
mirable surgeon, and kind as he can be,
and the Rebs treat us as well as they pos
sibly can. Now I think we have a great
deal to be thankful for.”
“It does very well for you to say so,”
grumbled the loud, rough tones which had
first arrested Irene’s attention. “ But I
have a confounded bullet in your leg,
while you only got a flesh wound in her
arm, and that sword cut on your knee.
You were always a lucky fellow Stuvey
sunt.”
Irene gave a sudden start. In another
moment, she had calmed herself, and
tuiling to Stuart, who was just approach
ing them, she drew her veil over her
lace, and laying her hand en his arm,
said, eagerly :
“ Take me out into the entry a moment,
I wish to speak to you.”
Stuart complied instantly 7 . When
they were alone, she lifted her veil, and
showed him a face pale with excitement,
and lips, which all tier efforts could not
keep from quivering.
“ Cousin Stuart, you know I told you
the secret of my engagement, which no
else, but Mother, knows of. You prom
ised to help me, if it ever lay in your
power, and you can do so now. I never
told you his name before. It is Alger
non Stuveysaut.”
He started.
“ Yes, I see,” she went on hurriedly,
you know there is a person here of that
name. I heard it this moment spoken
in the room just above Harvey’s: and I
heard his voice in reply. The tones are
like, aud yet changed. It may, but it
may not bo Algernon.” She stopped,
with a quick sobbing gasp.
Stuart Carroll’s face was as pale as her
own, but lie held her trembling hands
firmly in his, as he answered :
“ I know the prisoner. lie is a Ma
jor, tall, dark, handsome, and brave. He
gave only his initials. They were A. G.
Stuveysaut.”
“ They are his,” she answered. “Oh,
Cousin Stuart, take me into that room
at once.”
He drew her hand into his arm, and
led her up in silence. The room opened,
bv a side door, on the entry, and to this
he conducted her, without passing through
the sick wards. As he opened the door,
she drew her veil more closely round her
lace, and saying :
“Wait for me here, please,” stepped
into the room.
There were four men within, all lying
on their cots. Towards the two by the
window, she directed her eager gaze, as
she slowly advanced. Her thick veil con
cealed the keen disappointment, which
swept over her face, succeeded instantly
by a flash of proud joy. For a brief mo
ment, the intense craving to see his face,
to hear his voice, had banished from her
mind the remembrance that to see him
thus, as a prisoner, must be the signal of
their parting. But in that glance the
memory returned, and a deep joy entered
her soul, that he had not proved false,
and now she would hear of him.
Approaching the two officers in the
window, she said :
“ One of you is Major Stuveysant. It
is him I wish to see.”
A dark, handsome, pleasant looking
man raised himself from his pillow and
replied courteously :
“I am Major Stuveysant, and very
much at your service, Madam. I deeply
regret that my wound prevents me from
rising.”
She came and stood beside his cot,
without lifting her veil.
“ I hope you are not badly hurt,” she
said very kindly.
“ Thank you, my wounds are not se
vere, and I have been most kindly and
skilfully treated.”
“ I am so glad,” she said; then added
hurriedly. “Do you know Algernon
Stuveysant, Mr. Harvey Auityn's ward?”
“ lie is my first Cousin and most inti
mate friend, Madame. I am Arthur
Stuveysant.”
“ I know who you are, then,” she went
on eagerly. Can you not tell me some
thing about him ? Is he well? Where
is he ? What is he doing ? We are
friends, and I have not heard of him for
two whole years.”
Major Stuveysant noted the eager
longing in her voice, and knowing his
Cousin’s character as a desperate flirt, a
suspicion of the truth flashed upon his
mind. He answered gently :
“ I saw him the day before the battle.
He was well, aud full of courage. Our
commands were in different parts of the
field, so we did not meet afterwards.”
“Heis in the army then ?” The voice
was dry and forced.
“ Oh, yes. He joined a year ago. He
is General Sedgwick’s special aid,, and a
very brave and popular officer,”
She would have questioned farther,
but her voice refused to obey her will.
The Major, interpreting her silence as a
wish to hear more, went on.
“ General Sedgewick is his wife’s un
cle, and is devoted to him. By his influ
ence, Algernon could get almost any
posiiion, but he prefers the one he now
holds to any that would entail greater
responsibility. He is dreadfully lazy;
and hates responsibility above every
thing.”
“ His wife, you said. Is he married?”
Oh ! the anguish that spoke in that hol
low tone, creeping through the young,
fresh voice.
“ Oh, yes. In his youth lie was on
gaged to Louise Charlton, General Sedg
wick’s neice, and the most beautiful
woman I oversaw. She jilted him for
the gold and title of a Frenchman, Count
D’Arnoille. After she became a widow,
she returned to her uncle, met Algernon,
and they were married iu three months,
i They had loved eacli other all along, it
seems, and are perfectly devoted. He
was strangely averse to entering the
j army, but she insisted, and, of course,
i gained her point.”
Ho had talked on partly from a wish to
spare her all questions, and partly from
a natural love of hearing his own very
pleasant voice. It was a very sweet
i voice, and its tones reminded Irene for
cibly of his cousin's musical accents As
he paused, she only said :
“When were they married?”
“In August, 1861. It was a quiet
wedding, as she had just completed her
first year of widowhood.”
“Thank you,” she said then. “ <’an
1 1 do anything to add to your comfort ?”
No. 37.