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XX.
In Memoriam.
RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS.
Died at Thibideaux, La., Jult 5, 1862, Aged 40.
BY D’ARCY M’GEE.
I.
The early mower, heart-deep in the corn,
Falls suddenly, to rise on earth no
more—
The lark he startled carols to the morn,
The field flowers blossom brightly as
before—
Gay laughs the milkmaid to the shouting
swain,
Who calls the dead afar, but calls in
vain.
It. :
Thus in the world’s wide harvest-field
doth life,
Unconscious of the stricken heart, re
joice—
Thus through the city’s thousand, tones
• of strife
The true friend misses but the single
voice—
Thus, while the tale of death fills every
mouth,
For us there is but one fallen in the
South !
111. '
One that amid far other scenes and years,
Leal mem’ry still recalls full to our
view,
Ere life as yet had reached the time of
tears
When many hopes were garner’d in a
few
Blithe was his jest in those fraternal days,
Before we reached the parting of the
ways.
IV.
They were a band of brothers, richly
graced
With all that most exalts the sons of
men —
Youth, courage, honor, genius, wit, well
placed—
When shall we see their parallels
again?
The very flower and fruitage of their age,
Destined for duty’s cross or glory’s page.
v.
And he, our latest lost among them all,
No rival had for strangely blended
powers—
All shapes of beauty waited at his call;
Soft Pity wept o’er Misery in showers,
Or honest laughter, leaping from the
heart,
Pealed her wild note beyond the reach of
Art.
VI.
Out of that sature, miDgled to the sun,
Sprang fount and flower, the saving
and the sweet;
The gleesome children to his knee would
run,
The helpless brute would twine about
his foot'
bur lie was Nature’s heir, and all her
host
Knew their liege lord in him—our latest
lost!
VII.
Meekly o’er all, the rare and priceless
crown
Oi gentie, silent Pity, he still wore—
Like some fair chapel iu the midmost
towu,
His busy heart was wholly at the core;
b'ci; there his virtues lay—no eye could
trace
Pharisee’s prospectus in his face.
VIII.
Sleep well, O Bard! too early from the
field
Os labor and of honor called away ;
01ee P, like a hero, on your own good
shield,
Beneath the Shamrock,* Wreathed
about the bay,
Not doubtful is thy place among the host
Whom fame and Erin love and mourn
the most.
IX.
While leap on high, Ben Heder, the wild
waves;
W hile sweep the winds through storied
Aherlow ;
While Sidney’s victims from their
troubled graves
O’er Mullaghmast, at rnignight come
and go ;
While Mercy’s sisters kneel by Mercy's
bed—
Thou art not dead, O Bard ! thou art
not dead!
X.
War’s ruffian blast for very shame must
eease,
And Nature, pitiful, will clothe its
graves—
And then, true lover of God’s blessed
peace,
When Earth has swallowed up her
vaunting braves,
Thy gentle star shall shine along
r I he path of ages, solaced by thy song.
Shamrock was the nom de plume of Williams in the
Dublin 'Ration.
[From the Belfast Observer,]
The Holly Branch and the Ivy
Leaf.
BY THE EDITOR.
CHAPTER I.
TARTLY INTRODUCTORY.
It was in the Summer of the year
185—when I took it into my head to
seek a little relaxation in one of those
quiet towns on the Western Coast,
which, with the true assumption of iso
lated importance, boasts of being the
“best” watering place in Ireland. I was
wearied and lagged with a hard half
year s work, and I longed for repose—
not repose of body so much as of mind
—and as the season promised to be unu
sually fine, I luxuriated in anticipations
of leisurely rambles over the sends and
pleasant day-dreams on the green turf
that commanded a limitless view of the
broad Atlantic. _ Nor was I disappointed
in my expectations. On my arrival in
I found suitable quarters enough
in the small but admirably conducted
hotel, where my few wants were more,
than sufficiently supplied, and where I
found that wonderful rarity, a hostess,
who, while attending with punctillious
accuracy to the business of her estab
lishment, always found a leisure mo
ment to inquire in the kindliest manner
after the comfort of her visitors. Wheth
er from not being much in the house
or from, when being in it, not-giving
much trouble, I became, somewhat to my
surprise, a favorite of landlady and ser
vants, and both joined in anticipating
my every want, and before the end of
the first week this attention assumed the
form of a generous tyranny. For as 1
was often late for dinner, the good hos
tess concluded I was not able to take
care of myself, so iu the exhuberance of
her pity she deemed it a duty to take
care of me. Accordingly she prescribed
with a very dictatorial, but a very mother
ly air, certain rules and regulations to
which, although they were a serious in
fringement on my personal liberty, I had
not the ungrateful heart to object. In
lact the arrangement rather pleased me,
for it saved me all the trouble of order
ing and counter-ordering, of apologising
and explaining, and left me to the leisure
I so much desired, exacting from me
only the petty price of a little punctual
ity. feo I rambled unconcernedly along
the shore, looked at the shells when i
had nothing else to look at, and watched
the ocean whenever the serious mood of
meditation came upon me. And bv the
wa )» that same ocean puzzled me won-
AUGUSTA, GA., JA.ZSTTTARY 29, 1870.
derfully. It quite disabused my mind of
the poetic theories instilled into it by
Byron. With all due respect for that
great authority, it is not immutable. 1
have seen it in the morning smiling at
the rising sun, and detaining him full
half an hour on the horizon with its
witching charms of tranquility and re
pose. If it stirred at all, it was only to
heave a sigh of maidenly welcome to his
presence, after emitting which it sank
down with a heavy heave of its palpitating
heart, as if it would die of loving lan
gour. And then the tiny boats made
shame that I should say it,) of wattles,
covered with cow’s hides, trusting in the
benevolent aspect of the deep, would
go out joyously, and would be literally
rooked by the breathing waters, as an
infant would be rocked by a mother’s
hand to her humming tune. But just
as these frail things were carelessly dis
porting themselves, all at once the incon
stant ocean would give a mighty heave,
accompanied with a something between
a sigh, a groan, and an angry threat. A
dark frown would appear upon its sur
face, and the poor skiffs, frightened and
terrified, would make for shore with what
speed they could, and draw up upon the
dry and glittering sand. This was the
signal for rage. As if the ocean only
wanted an excuse for bad temper, it
would immediately put on its white war
plume, which was a signal for the winds
as well as for the- raves, and down
would come the storms from the clouds,
and up would come the billows from the
deep, and both would go rushing together
in mad fury, particularly against the
harmless and stubborn rocks, whom, by
repeated onslaughts, they would make
groan with pain in the inmost recesses
of their stony caverns, I could not un
derstand it; I tried abstract principles ;
I exhausted all the scientific lore I was
possessed of; I even invented theories,
and, at last, I was driven to comparison,
when I found only one satisfactory illus
tration of the phenomen, which, to my
inexperienced mind, seemed satisfactory,
and that was--matrimony. A full fort
night was spent in this half dreamy and
wholly purposeless manner, but as my
strength began to n turn, the incipient
indications of weariness of solitude
manifested themselves.- I felt the weak
ness, and became so disgusted with my
self for being amenable - to it, that one
day I soliloquised bitterly along the
beach against what I considered an un
pardonable constitutional frailty. While
thus personally engaged in the laudable
work of « ls-castigation, I bad a dim con
sciousness of a figure passing me at a
rather rapid pace, and the sensation, for
it was only that, had scarcely passed away,
when I. heard a voice, which though
strange, I thought familiar, exclaim
“Hallo, Fred, is that you ?”
Fred ceased to objurgate himself, and
turned round. There was advancing to
wards me a tall, really handsome man,
about thirty-three years of age, but with
a bronzed completion, and flowing
beard, which, to a casual observer, would
have made him* look much older. He
approached me wit a smile so peculiar,
that it delighted and confounded me ; for
it awoke memory while it baffled re
membrance.
“Why, Fred,” said he, holding out
his hand, “don’t you know me ?”
“I do, and I don’t,” was all I was
able to say.
“Am I so much changed?” he mut
tered to himself. Then assuming his
cheerful tone, he continued aloud—
“Dou,t you remember your old ‘chum,’
Harry Davenport ?” Simultaneously with
the mention of ids name the tone
of his voice brought recognition to more
thau my mind- brought it to my
heart. In a moi nt our hands were
clasped together, a for several minutes
neither of us spoke a word. In that
short space of time ,’hat ail od of memo
ries rolled over toe soul of each—of
mine, at least, S enes vanished fjrever;
companionship severed, never to be re
gained ; friendships seperated, not bro
ken, never to be reunited ; pleasure en
joyed, never to be renewed; the flowery
path of boyhood exchanged at last for the
hard rugged road of the world’s dusty,
dismal course! Davenport was the first
to break the silence.
“So you did not know me, Fred ?”
“It was hard, Harry, you are so much
changed.”
“Ah, my dear fellow, six years in In
dia make a sad invasion on a man’s com
plexion; and I have had more than the
climate to contend against in preserving
even the semblance of my original self.
But Come,” he added/taking my arm,
“it’s our lunch time; my wife (you must
know, old boy, I am married and happy,)
will be uneasy about my absence. I must
introduce you to her, and then we will
have a talk about old times and old
scenes.”
I assented, and we strolled along;
both rather surprised at the unexpected
meeting, and both, in spite of ourselves,
absorbed in the reflections to which the
meeting of old schoolfellows after the
lapse of many years not unnaturally give
rise. I confess I was the more taciturn
of the two ; but Davenport, who had an
inexhaustible fund of spirits, and who
had the happy knack, without ever being
frivolous, of shakiugoff all seriousness,
resumed the conversation by asking me—.
“How the deuce did you find your way
here ?*’
“I heard.” I nplied, “that this was a
spot where no one else—you know what
that means—was likelv to be; and, as I
wanted quiet, I sought it out. But how
did you come here ?”
“Faith, your explanation of your r wn
case has answered the question. We
came here for precisely the same reason
as yourself. The truth is, my wife has
been rather delicate, and her physician
—a prudent, experienced man—recom
mended this secluded spot to* us. We
have been here nearly two months, and
Annie has so far recovered that we pur
pose returning home next week,”
After this the conversation flowed
on freely until we reached Davenport’s
residence, a beautiful little cottage, near
enough the sea to command the advan
tages of sight and sound, and far enough
from it t.a be safe from the inconveni
ence of idle curiosity or intrusion. The
door was open, but no sooner did Daven
port’s step sound on the gravel walk
leading to it, than a lithe, graceful figure,
with a face half hidden in auburn ring
lets, came bounding through the hall, and
playfully . catching hold of his fkrvrsjg
beard, said in accents of musical sweet
ness:
“You truant, as usual, you are late.”
Davenport burst out into one of his old
loud, boisterous, hearty laughs. I had
already turned to inspect a miniature
flower-bed, thinking it impolite to be a
spectator of even such a happy domestic
scene. I had, however to face right about
immediately; for Devenport still chuch
ling, and whilst his wife’s soft hand was
set tenderly entwined in that appanage of
our sex which we so highly esteem, cried
out:
“Fred, come here ; rescue me. See
to what, vile usages an unfortunate hus
band is subjected by a tyrannical
spouse.”
As I turned I could see Mrs. Daven
port’s eyes opening to the full extent of
their large and beautiful orbs (she had
not before noticed my presence,) in ex
treme amazement. Her hand suddenly
relaxed its playful hold, and, like a flash
of sunshine through parting clouds, a
deep blush overspread her features, and
she hastily retired, casting, as she went,
a look of mild reproach at her husband,
and uttering the exclamatiou:
“Oh, Harry, how could you ?”
Davenport cominued to laugh as heart
ily as before. I was rather contused,
and, iu my perplexity, I stammered out
something to the effect that I was afraid
Mrs. Davenport was annoyed, and that I
would not visit now, but would call
another time. I then prepared to
go. Davenport looked at me with
that peculiar expression which always
makes one feel sheepish when he has the
instinct of having failed to be adequate
to the occasion. He saw my embarrass
ment, and seizing me by the hand, said—
“ Why, you goose, what do you mean ?
Do you think my wife’s a simpleton \
Walk in there, or”—
Here he burst out laughing again, and
before [ knew where I was he thrust me
into the neat little dining-room, where
an exquisite little cold lunch was taste
fully laid out. Mirth is sympathetic,
even although cause l at one’s own ex
pense, aud I soon fouud myself disposed
to be as light-hearted and unconcerned
as Davenport himself.
“But,” said I, alter some little badi
nage, “will you not go aud explain to
Mrs.”—
“Not a word—not a word; that would
spoil the joke. Beside Annie has too
much good sense not to enjoy it more
than I do myself.”
At that moment Mrs. Davenport enter
ed the room. The traces ot the blush
were visible on her cheek, but there was
a dancing light in her bright eye that
buried in lustre the faintest suspicion of
annoyance or embarrassment. She came
me with a charming frankness thatj I
never saw equalled, and, bolding out
her hand, said:
“An old friend of liar y’s, I am sure,
for he would never have allowed me to
play the fool before one who was ready a
stranger. I am only sorry,” here she
glanced at her husband, “that I did not
give him a good pull when I had the op
portunity.”
Then, as if moved by a sense of the
ridiculous, Mrs. Davenport laughed her
merriest laugh, which sounded like the
tinkling of silver bells. Hbr husband
chimed in with her, and what could I do
but join the chorus, amidst which we sat
down to lunch. As we took our scats,
Davenport said :
“Harry, what did I tell you ? Was an
explanation necessary ?”
I made no reply ; but I looked from
one to the other, and, from the depths of
my soul came forth .the unuttered
prayer: “God bless such good and losing
hearts.”
There is no need to describe the happy
week I spent with Davenport and his
amiable and accomplished wife. Both
were remarkably intelligent and well
educated, had kindred tastes in literature,
and were ardently devoted to study
Davenport joined to his natural ability
and acquired knowledge, a vast amount
of experience of wen and manners, ac
quiiel in foreign countries, v\h h ren
dered his conversation peculiarly instruc'-
tive and interesting. With India he was
thoroughly acquainted. He had traveled
through the Peninsula from sea to sea,
and more than unce bivouacked in the
snows of the Himaylas. He had visited
the vale of Cashmere, and his desciip
tion of that romantic spot was tinged
with all the poet’s fervor. No wonder
the days flew with swift wings in such
company. Our parting was marked by
mutual regrt t, but it did not take place
until a promise was exacted from me by
Mrs. Davenport, to spend the ensuing
Christmas wit i my old schoolfellow, at
his residence, Oastledale, in the Cotiuty
G —, a promise which I cheerfullv
gave, a id faithfully fulfilled;
CHAPTER 11.
TIIE CHRISTMAS.
Three days before Christ ins I was
duly in la'ied a hvored guest iu Custie
dale The company then in the Louse
trier' iy consis'e ; of Mr. and Mrs. Daven
port, and a sister of the firmer: Put
some visitors were expected, aud aci ive
preparations were being made tor their
reception. The household duties so occu
pied the ladies that Davenport and my-
No. 46