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WILD WORK;
A Study of Western Life.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
She had promised rs sbly. She said so to her-
seJf as she stood at the window of her room and
looked obliquely across the moonlighted field
to the great pecan tree that guarded the entrance
of the lane. Should she go there to-night to
see this man for the last time—this man she had
been trying so long to put out of her heart ?
And after all she had promised to meet him
to night—the night before her marriage. She
had been very wrong. She hesitated to go in
spite of her promise. She lingered now, when
at last she could go unobserved. She had left
Kate asleep, her head with its wonder of golden
plaits and crimps lying on the laced pillow,
her eyes having closed while she was still talk
ing to Zoe of Winter Lareau. Royal and his
friend were taking their night-cap smoke at the
window below. The odor of the pu>-e bavannas
and the murmur of the men's talk floated up to
her where she sat. Presently, Royal threw his
half smoked cigar out among the bushes, hum
med a snatch from ‘La DucheFse’ and said: ‘Well,
‘get thee to bed' as my Lady Macbeth has it .
The place is awfully lonesome. I wonder
how Zoe has endured it so long. It is not
strange she looks a little sad. I shall take her
straight to Saratoga. The waters will do her
good, if the season is nearly over. She needs
brightening up; dear little girl.’
They moved away from the window, but di
rectly Zoe heard Roy’s mellow laugh.
‘How happy he is’ she thought ‘while I
well, when I am married, it will be better.
Snrely this restless aching feeliDg will leave me.
I will forget this man whom fate has strangely
mixed up with my life. It was wrong to promise
to meet him to-night. Bnt how could I help it?
He was looking at me so; I was afraid ha would
grow excited and Royal would hear him and
there might be a difficulty between them. He is
so reckless; he will certainly expose himself to
arrest, unites I see him and persuade him to go
away. I am afraid he has already been seen by
some of the negroes, who are always slipping
about, and that the Yankee troops will bo over
to-night after him.’
These thoughts ran through her mind as she
hastily put on a dark myrtle-green dress and
knotted a light veil of the same color about her
head.
She looked at her watch as she was leaving
the room; it was eleven o'clock. Noiselessly she
quitted the honse by the back door, opened the
ga'e of the rear yard and hurried down into the
little path that ran along ontside the paling that
divided the garden from the cotton field. This
path led past the stables to a gate in the fence
of the field. She stood here, hesitating, looking
down the lane, that led to the swamp—the lane
at whose foot was the pecan tree—a black blot
on the moon light. She dreaded that negroes
might be awakp, who would see and follow her
and discover Hirne. It was a time of suspicion
and danger, and the Yankees had their dusky
spies everywhere. Getting on the shadow-side
of the lane, she walked resolutely on. It was
not more than four hundred yards to the pecan
tree, but it seemed a full mile to the girl who
walked the distance with rapid steps and heart
that best wildly with conflicting feelings—fear
and self reproach, and agitation at meeting the
wild, gifted man who had such strong hold upon
her. She was too breathless to speak when at
last she stopped withiD the deep circle of shade
cast by the -wide, down-sv. eepmg limbs of the
pecan tree. From its great trunk Hirne stepped
out nu n taking Mr’hanct said: ' J l
‘You have come. It was kind of yon; I thank
yon.'
Then seeing her agitation he said hurriedly;
‘Have I asked too much ? Y*iu are trembling
like a lamb under the butcher's knife. Dj not
be afraid to be alone with me. I would not
barm one hair of yonr dear head. I will not even
hold this little hand; I will keep my tongne
from uttering one tender word—if I cati. But
you inns not be toe bard on me if I siy a word
that it is not right to addresi to another man’s
bride; I am not used to schooling mjself; I am
bat a barbarian yon know, and you must pardon
any lack of etiquette. God knows I mean
no lack of respect—of reverence even. Yon are
to me as a saint—ss the Virgin Mother herself,
looking flown pityingly from her shrine, I
could be content to think of you so, to look up
to yon in my thoughts and never ask you to
come down to me, but I am not content to see
another embrace my saint. The thought that yon
are going to marry fills me with gall and bitter
ness.’
There was no answer Zoe could make to this,
and presently he went on.
‘Do yon know, though, that you gave me a
faint hope that you might pot marry him after
all—a faint half hope that you might care for—
me ? I know now it was not so, and it was noth
ing you said, but that night on the porch yon let
me say wild things, tender things, to you with
out rebnke. You let me hold your hand for a
sweet moment and sit near yon, and—yes, your
tones and yonr looks were kinder than yon
would have used my sweet, had you known
that yon were throwing out mocking straws to a
drowniDg man. It was a bitter disappointment
when I came back and found you gone, and not
a line, not a message for me.’
‘Did I think yon wonld have cared for line or
message when yon had shown such disregard
of my entreaties, my prayers?’
•Entreaiies? prayers ? what do yon mean?'
‘Did I not implore you to have nothing to do
■with the killing of those men ?’
‘Y’ou did. and your reqwst. was sacred; I had
nothing to do with the killing of the officers,’
‘You had not? You were not that Texas Cap
tain that headed the lynchers? 1
‘I was not. It was another man, resembling
me only in the long hair, and his beard, aud in
the horse he road. He was called Captain Dick;
who be really was I cannot find out. Doubtless
some fellow, thongh. who, like me has had
wrongs enough to make him desperate.’
‘And you had nothing to do with the killing
of the men ?’
‘I was not on the spot. I even did what I
could to prevent bloodshed. I had no idea of
taking a band in any violence when I crossed
the river that night, because you bad said what
yon did, though let me tell yon, Nolan denied
that what he told you was true. He said he on
ly told it to make himself important in yonr
eyes.’
‘He 6aid that to yon ? Why, he made the state
ment to me as a confession when he thought he
wonld die from the cat on his head.’
‘He says he was delirious when ho first declar
ed thut be Lad been hired to create a row,
and that af erwards he deceived you purpose
ly. I came buck to the bouse that night to tell
you this, and to see if it altered your views as to
what*should be dons to the Radicals, but yon
had retired. I did not see yon. I went on to
Cohatchie to pee what they were doing. On the
way I crosa-qnestioned the man Cobb. He was
drinking.f:eely and told more than he wonld
otherwise have done. I thonght from bis talk
there might be a plot to overthrow the Radicals,
and that if there was any dark work in it, he was
the worker, if not the planner as well. When the
officers were sent away under guard, I deter
mined to follow and if possible prevent violence.
I told my intention to several of my friends and
they said they were with me, and we started to
gether. A mile or so oat of town we came up
with a party who seemed to come together by
some preconcerted plan. Men rode up and
joined them from time to time, and no questions
were asked. Thev were, most of them, men I
! did not know. Cobb was among them. ne
! shunned me, and tried to muffle up his face.
He bad found out from my talk that I did not
favor lynching the men. We rode on till mv
horse, that had got a shoe loose and was going
fast down a hill, fell and hurt himself and me.
I was compelled to stop by the way, but two of
my friends went on and 1 charged them to keep
onr boys from having any hand in the killing
I was afraid was going to be.’
'Zie was silent. ‘Oh, if I had only known
this before,’ she was thinking. Presently she
said:
‘We heard that a man who had been prevent
ed from going on by a fall, sent a message to the
lynchers offering a thousand dollars for every
man that should be spared. Was it you who
made that offer?’
•It was, and I meant it. and was sorry it came
too late. I don’t think the life of any Ridical
carpet-bagger in the State is worth a thousand
dollars—nor a thousand cents, most cf them. I
offered the reward for your sake, because you
had begged to have these men spared.’
‘I thank you; yon did nobly. Oh, I might
have known you would never had a hand in so
bloody a deed.’
‘Yes, I might. I can’t take praise that is not
mine. There were men among those lynchers
as good as I am—better perhaps. They did
what they thought was right. I never did kill
a defenceless msn, but I might have felt and
done as they did bad I lived in this parish and
been saddled so long by a pack of corrupt aliens,
and had at last been led to believe I was about
to be victimized by them and their negro tools.
And that belief may turn out to be a true one
yet; there is no knowing. I have made this Co
hatchie affair a study for the last month; I have
talked with men who were concerned in it, and
it is a mystery to me yet. I knew that man Al-
ver slightly in the army. He was known as a
brave man there, and my theory is that a brave
man is not a mean man. If these officers were
victims of a plot, its bloody culmination mnst
have been planned and carried out by some one
else. It’s my belief Cobb is the man. Alver
may have plotted to free his parish from Radi
cal rule, and I can hardly blame him lor that.
Desperate diseases require desperate remedies.
Th6 “Angel of Assassination,” say the French,
and there are cases where assassination ip an
angel. It was so when Brutas killed Cfetar, and
Caesar was a warrior it was no disgrace to be
ruled by, while these ! well, these poor
lellows that were killed might have been harm
less themselves, but they were obedient serv
ants of a corrupt master.’
‘You cannot tell me you wonld have killed
thorn
‘I? no, I could not have taken the life of an
unarmed man. As for one begging me to spare
him, kneeling, praying . But I don’t like
to remember that day—and it was not to listen
to such crabbed talk I asked you to come here
to-night. But I seem always doomed to say and
do things to make you think me a blood-thirsty
monster, while this moment, and for months —
ever since I knew you—the bettes spirit within
me has been longing for peace. I told you so once,
and I told you that only your love could save
me. That was a piece of mad presumption, bnt
I am better for having known you, and I want to
promise you, mv good angel, this night, that I
will renounce the wild, roving life you found
fault with. I will settle down in a quiet home I
have, with the two boys I told you I was educat
ing, and anotl>er orphan—the little daughter of
the brother officer's widow I also spoke to yon of.
The mother died last month, and the little girl,
ten, years old, is my ward. I\shall try to make
1- - - -rrt.j im tlB.jp* JilcUl' ggf —
py. Does this please you ?'
Tears were in Z )e’s eyts, emotion male her
voice husky.
‘It dots,’ she said. ‘It pleases me b'stofftll
because in trying to make those orphans happy,
yon will become happy yourself. Here is my
hand, yon have given me yonr promise, and
I pledge you my sympathy, my best wishes,
my prayers for your happiness ’
‘Happiness!' he echoed bitterly. ‘I hope for
no happiness.’ Then, recovering himself, he
thauked her gently.
‘And you;' he said ‘no need to wish yon hap
piness. The good and beautiful cannot but be
happy. Y r et griefs may come. I wish I could
bear all yours for you. He is blest who has the
privilege of sharing them. If Fate had given
me that privilege—Do not draw yonr hand
away sweetest. I only hold it, becanss we are
parting—saying goodbye forever. I have seen
yon, yon have spoken kindly to me, and now
it is time—’
•Hush !’ cried Zoe, starting. ‘Do yon hear
that no’S9?’
‘Where ! what noise ?’
‘The tramp of horses and a man’s voice call
ing. It came from the river. Oh ! what if the
cavalry, have crossed and are searching for
yon !'
They listened in breathless silence for a mo
ment, straining their eyes in the direction of
the river.
‘Don’t be frightened for me,’ he said low. ‘I
have my horse here ready to spring upon him,
at an instant's warning, and there is the swamp
behind ns. They would not have caught me
yesterday, had I been upon my good Mort. I
had dismounted to drink and they surprised
me.’
‘How was it that yon got away ?’
‘The soldiers were in a cane patch stealing
sugar cane, all but one who was guarding me.
When he was not looking. I gave him the slip
and was off in a flash. He shouted to his com
rades; bnt before they came and mounted, I
was in the woods. There Mort and I were at
home. They will not penetrate far in the swamp,
being afraid of anambusb.’
‘If they should arrest yon, you could prove
that you had no part in the murders. You
would be in no danger?’
‘Not if the trial was conducted with any fair
ness—unless something else came up, my old
Alabama scrape for instance. They might find
I never paid that debt. I took French leave of
the Dry Tortugas, remember. A trial would
unearth all those old offences against this de
lectable government.'
‘It would, I never thought of that. Oh ! how
! imprudent it was for you to come here, know
ing the troops were scouring th^ country.’
‘1 wanted to see you once more.'
‘Then go; go my iriend. Promise to leave
here this very night. Return to Texas. Prom
ise me.'
‘I will. Do not agitate yourself on my ac
count. If they tnrned that lane this mo„-
ment I could escape—But yon!' he broke off,
struck by a sudden and startling thought. 'You
are here ! If they came, they must not find
you here alone. And to find you with me.!
Ob ! if is yon who rna the worst risk to-night.
And I have exposed yon to it! I thonght only
of seeing you once again. I did not think once
of the danger to yon. I was selfishly thonht-
less. Forgive me, and go at once. Goodbye
my deartsi; my good angel; God bless you.’
He dropped tbe hand he had pressed in bis,
and she turned to leave him.
Suddenly, before she conld get beyond the
circle of deep shadow, he canght bar and drew
her back.
•Look r he whispered hoarsely. ‘The cavalry !
They are coming.
Taere in the moonlight at the head of the
lane, she saw a party of horsemen riding down
npon them. She jered a faint cry of dismay.
Then she said firqi
‘Lose no time; n»nt yonr horse; go, go.’
‘And leave you¥ever.’
‘They will not a»st me ’
*Yoi> will be e^fed to their insults, their
coarse jests, theivngh questions and com
ments. Curses q|ay selfishness for having
brought this upo^ou.’
‘Think of your#- Never mind me. I am
not afraid to face qu; or I can hide.’
‘Yon cannot, 'ife will search everywhere.’
Indeed there v*i little plnee for conceal
ment. The strip ^anfl bad once been partial
ly cleared. The lspo lues were gone. There
wero clumps of bfees here and there. The
fence of either fieliwas very high, and within,
the corn, stripped t it leaf-blades, afforded
little concealment. Xi<i, the moon was shin*
ing brilliantly and defence and fields were
in full view ot the broaching soldiers. A
noise to the right tf'nl. Hirne’s eye in that
direction. There, j usK ning into sight around
a curve in the rear feni, was another party of
soldiers, aud it was pitiable that yet another
detachment was approhing around the lower
field. They had dividl to make more sure of
finding their prey. Hie turned quickly to
the trembling bnt qnietjirl.
•There is but one wuyhe said in a firm whis
per. T cannot leave jthere alone; they mnst
not find yon here wishne; they will not fol
low us far in the swamp Come.’
His horse —a fine, bl4, that had answered
his whistle a moment go with a low neigh,
stood waiting for him, s ears quivering with
eagerness. As Hirns-tftke he lifted Z ie tc a
seat upon the powerful dwal. He sprang into
the saddle before her, al.at a word and a touch
of the spur, the horsernshed away like the
wind. It was but a few’ >unds to the deep shad-
dow of the swamp, hi the horsemen on the
right saw him, and vh a loud shout they
gave cha«e. He felt a emor run through the
arm of the girl who olu; to him; he dreaded
that she wonld swoon.
‘Don’t be frightened, te said, as they flew on.
‘They will soon qnitthe pursuit; they are
afraid of an ambnsb,, And your head, that the
limbs may not strike yc.’
On they dashed, thrtgh the silent woods.
There was no nnderbnh, only the great trees
and their clasping vinf The horse, well used
to the woods, avoidedf-tsse without slackening
the long, sweeping gall) which kept the pur
suers out of sight. The came to a low, marshy
place—the bed of a drie-np bayou, now a mass
of mnd, mantled with cbepiive green mould.
‘Here’s something tit will stop them if I
don’t mistake,’ cried Irne. ‘This will bog a
bird—I found out to-da—every where but at one
spot.’
He turned bis bors'suddenly to the right,
rode down the boggy r.ine a few rods and then
crossed it on a kind if causeway formed of
“chunks” and logs, It so hidden by water-
grass that it was not tsily perceived, even in
the light of day. He k*t on in bis changed di
rection, the horse h oldig a steady course, as if
he had a certain goal i view. Presently they
beard cries behind tho. Hirne checked his
horse and listened. L:d exclamations, oaths,
expressive of anger a;- ,.disgust, came to their
ears.
‘They are flounderingn a bog equal to that
of Killarney,’ Hirne sabwith his low langb.
‘They wont pass tha Rubicon to-night, but-
we will ride on farther ) make sure. I know
of a biding place they’lnot be apt to find.’
On they went; an owning in the woods ap
peared before them; waste field, its fence
nearly gone, a desertq log cabin, half hid by
weeds, standing loneijand black looking upon
the bank of the bay uifbieh formed the farther
boundary of the field? Alibiing sorcss the fi fid,
riirli’t. urew o* ilici.sv.lTt,
'1 Kntinri Vinnan
night I won Vincent’s money, not knowing he
was yonr brother-that night when I bore yon
from the bnrning boat, and held yon, chilled,
fainting form in my arms. I shall never forget
that day. It was the turning point in my life.
I have been a different being since then. My
old pursuits give me no pleasure. To rove here
and there seeking chances to revenge my wrongs
npon onr oppressors—this guerilla life has lost
the feverish charm it had. Instead, I have a
thirst to be loved. Oh, what a thirst ! like a fire
consuming my heart; and it will never be satis
fied.’
‘It will, l'ou will love some good woman,
and be loved by her.’
‘No. I shall never love any woman but yon;
never, my dearest. I must try to make that
little child love me as a father and be satisfied.
I am glad her eyes are dark like yours. Sbe
says her prayres at night. I will ask her to pray
for you my guardian angel; if only that I may
hear yonr name.’
Z >e made no answer. They sat near
each other, the moonlight was on her lace,
aud one hand, lily white, drooped at her
side. It tempted him, but he did not touch it.
The Indian summer night was about them, w itli
its faint fragrance and mystical beauty. The
moon rode high; the shadows hardly stirred,
the cypress trees stood tall and solemn upon
the baDks between which the bayou flowed and
eddyed with low gurgling. That sound and the
chirp of the night insects in the dewy grass
kept the silence of the night, here in the swamp,
from being oppressive.
la spite of her anxiety and self reproach, the
situation held a spell for Zoe. To sit here in the
depth of the Autumn wood with the man she
loved and who loved her so well Lad a charm of
wild sweetness like that of a flower gathered
form the brink of a precipice. Sbe had no fear
in being alone with Hirne. Impetuous, pas-
siouate as he was, she knew she could trust
perfectly in his honor, in his love, that with all
its unconventional fervor, was of that fine,
poetic quality that would not sully its object
even in thought. He wonld have died rattier
than sturtle the modesty of the woman he loved.
And in this he stands for no uncommon type of
manhood in the chivalrous West and South.
This moment was sweet to him, but he put aside
tho temptation.
‘I think we will be safe now in going back’
he said.
He would put her in the saddle and walk be
side her. ‘I like it better’ he said. ‘I am tired
of riding. I am a capital walkist. Few horses
can beat me.’ Which was no vain boast.
Cautiously and with little noise, they retraced
their way through the silent woods, Hirne in
low tones, talked cheerfully to keep up Zee’s
spirits. Walking at her side, his tall figure, his
careless hair, his free step, giving, him a Robin
Hood look; watchful of her comfort, careful the
boughs should not incommode her, making
merry over small misshape aud saying pictnr-
e.sque things in his quaint way, half jocular,
half earnest, he made the way seetn so short that
she looked around amazed when they came out
into the open strip of woods and saw the pecan
tree and the fields beyond and the house in its
tree shadows, all lying quiet and silent under
the moonlight.
‘No sight or sound of the troops’ Hirne said.
‘Will you not ride to the end of tbe lane before
dismounting? Mort will come back to me.’
Bat this she would not do. It might draw
notice to him. She prefered to walk from the
pecan tree. So under the shadow he helped her
from the horse. Her hands were cold for the lat
ter hours of the October night were touched
with chill, and the malarial night air, the anxiety
and 'fatigue sent premonitory shivers through
her frame. . Her qniek-sighted lover noted it as
he helped her to Might.
■ ‘i’r.flr As .iVCitiiritisli (is coitf'a.-T’!j^ey
dawn. She must marry him; she conld not do
otherwise and retain the regard of her friends,
or her own self-respect. She must marry him,
and crush out of her heart the haunting thonght
of that lonely man in the woods yonder, whose
sad, dark eyes had such power to make her
pnlses throb and thrill
So she thought,,so she resolved, as she sat for
an hour after sbe had softly entered her room.
Day was streaking the E;st when she at last un
dressed and lay down upon her bed. She drew
tbe coverlid about her. Sbe was hot and shiver
ing by turns; wild thrills ran through her brain
and body—symptoms premonitory of malignant
disease. That hour of miserable watching had
completed the work half done by the anxiety
and terro* of the night, and the malarial breath
of the beautiful bnt baleful swamp.
(TO BE CONTINUED.
William Cullen Bryant.
As Poet, Editor, and Man.
deep bayou, Vmcey. I that night I held them to my breast to warm
‘ They would never venture to cross this fierce I them,’ he said. ‘ If yon should be ill from this
current,’ he said. ‘I snould not like to swim it ! night’s experience, I will never forgive myself.
myself, bnt if ih*-y come here, they will think I
have crossed, for see-, here underneath the bank,
where these two great trees have fallen into the
bayon and their torn-up roots are overrun by a
mass of wild vines, there is a natural hiding
place—a kind of c.-tve hollowed out in the bank
by tha current at high water and Tooled over by
tfie tree roots, the matted vines and the dirt to
gether. • A man and a borse can ride in under
those hanging vines and be securely hid. I will
ride a little way down the bank so that the horse
cannot bt seen by any one coming, and we will
wait and listen. If they come, we will conceal
ourselves under the ledge, but I imagine they
will have enough to do to get ont- of the bog,
and will be glad to go back empty banded.’
Moments passed while they waited anxiously,
bnt no sound broke the silence save the ripple
of the bayou and the swish of the willows that
dipped in the stream.
Hirne tnrned his horse and rode np the bank
again, saying:
‘ I am sure they have given up the chase and
gone back, but I think it is safer to wait awhile
yet before we return and give them time to cross
the river.’
He rode up to the deserted cabin. It was
overgrown with gourd vines and wild morning
glories; a single old ash tree stood guard over
it in the yard, stray marigolds and bunches of
catnip struggled with weeds and wild growth.
‘I stayed here last night,’ said Hirne. ‘The
owls booted me to sleep. As I broiled my dried
beef supper on the monldy hearth, the lizards
woke and peeped at me curiously from the
cracks, and the bats whizzed around' me like in
sulted witches.’
Zie knew the place well. She had gathered
dewberries in the waste field last spring. It
was a place cleared and cultivated, but deserted
when the overflow of back lands of a year or two
ago had driven the settlers in the swamps from
their inundated homes.
Hirne had spoken gaily to reassure Zoe; it
had pained him so to hear the loud beating of
her heart, and to feel how she trembled.
‘Will you let me help you down and rest
here a moment on the porch ?’ he asked.
She faintly assented, and he lifted her gently
to the floor, and seated her npon a bench that
was on the porch. At the same instant, a low,
harsh cry made her start with a scream. A
great owl flow out of the big ash tree and sailed
over across the bayou. The tright, slight com
pared to what she had passed through, was the
final experience needed to overthrow her totter
ing self-control. She had borne up well; now
she gave way. She covered her face with her
hands and soboed uncontrollably.
H’rne threw himself at her feet.
‘For God’s sake don’t distress yourself, Miss
Zie. All will be well. No ham shall come*to
you. It cannot be an hour past midnight. In
an hour more, you sLall be safe in yonr own
room. I wish to heaven yon had not left it. It
was selfish, crnel in me to put this trial upon
you. I see it now. I did not then. I fought
with the mad craving to see you aud have you
near me for the last time. My dearest, do not
fret yourself so. You will be ill. Forgive me,
say you forgive me.’
The sight of his distress quieted her.
‘ I have nothing to forgive,’ she said. ‘We
conld not foresee that the soldiers would come.’
•And yoH will not hate me for this ?’
‘ I conld never hate on,’ she said, and then
looking up and smiling, though her wet cheeks
and her long lashes glistened in the moon-rays,
‘never, unless yon do some wicked, revengeful
thing, and that you have promise.; never to do.’
‘ Never. That is a little thing to do tor you.
Ooly to restrain my own wild will that never
was curbed enough. Do you know I have nev
er thrown a card, or tasted liquor since that
I shall forever think with bitter self-rebnke of
the.trial 1 have brought on yon to-night. Yonr
tender heart, your divine pity made you listen
to my selfish prayer. Then, I was mean enough
to play upon yonr fears for me.’
‘ You must not talk so. I do not regret hav
ing seen you. My only regret is the danger you
exposed yonrselt to.’
•That is nothing—nothing to having made
you pale and unhappy, and on the night before
yonr wedding. I have come like a death’s head
at yonr feast of joy to make your sweet cheeks
shed their roses. Don’t think too hard of me.
I did not mean it. I meaDt to have looked at
you unseen and gone away, but when I saw him
sitting by yon, so proud and happy, and yon
smiling in his face, I thought bitterly: ‘She
might spare me one hour to have her near me,
to look at and listen to her for the last time—
one hour from that man who is going to have
her all her sweet life.’ It seemed a small thing
then for you. I feel now that it was a sacrifice
I ought never to have asked.’
‘I do not feel it so since I have received yonr
promise to quit a life of roving and violenoe, and
live in peace. And you have promised too, to
leave here, and not to come back till the troops
have left Cohatchie, Have yon not?’
‘Yes, I will go, I will not try to see you again,
until 1 have become resigned to thinking
of yon as another man’s wife. Now, I am not re
signed. Don’t she 1 a tear over me my sweetest,
I will get the better of this madness, and some
day I will bring my little ward to see the fair
woman she has heard me call my good angel.
Good bye.’
He pressed her hands between his own, re
pressing the passion whose thrill she could feel
in that lingering clasp, while a tear fell from
his eyes upon her hand. She too was weeping
as she tnrned away.
He leaned his arm on his faithful horse and
watched her until her dark-robed form was lost
in the silvery dusk of the night. Then, sighing
heavily, he mounted and rode back into the
woods. He was f ill of regret lor the danger he
had exposed her to, the pain of sympathy he
had cost her. He did not dream the full extent
of her trial to-Digbt; he did not dream that she
loved him. Pity for him, the sympathy of a
kind, womanly heart, this was all he thought
she felt for him. He could net know that she
too had straggled to preserve her self-control —
that dnty and honor had fought- with the wild
longing to speak words that wonld have made
him happy; to say, ‘I love yon. Yon are more
to me than the man I was going to marry. I will
fly with yon to the wilds of Texas—anywhere
to be with yon.’
She thanked God that strength had been giv
en her to keep back this revelation; and yet how
happy it would have made him! She could
fancy what a light would leap into his face, how
passionately he would press her in his arms,
and what fervid kisses would rain upon her lips.
He loved her so welfc. She knew so well what
a happy and useful man she conld make him.
All those strong energies of his that eircum-
stances had changed from their rigat
conrse, and sent in wild currents to over
leap the barriers of law, she conld turn into
worthy channels Her love would satisfy him
fnlly. He would be oameiit in that quiet home
he spoke of. And she—she felt that one year of
life there with Hirne would be richer in happi
ness than an existance in tbe gay Southern me
tropolis, as the wif ■ of Royal West. Yet she had
promised to marry Royal West. He had waited
for her a long time. He had borne with her
seeming caprice in postponing the marriage
from time to lime. He was true and loving; he
was her father's and brother’s choice. He was
here to marry her; his sister, her dearly loved
friend, was here; her marriage day was near its
BY AMEICUS.
After a laborious career of more than four-score
years the poet-jonrnalist ‘fell asleep’ on the
morning of Jane 12f-b. He was born at Ciun-
miDgton, Mass. Nov 3rd, 1704, his father being
Dr. Bryant, an eminent physician of his day.
Whether we view the life of Mr. Bryant in
private or in public, as a poet or a journalist, it
presents an interesting picture and discovers
many characteristics worthy of imitation.
As a poet at the age of nine he began to write
poetical effusions, at ten one of his compositions
was published, and at fourteen his satirical
sketch, ‘The Embargo’ was given to the world.
So very decided was the merit of some of these
youthful productions that it was necessary to
accompany their publication with the personal
assurance of a friend that they were genuine.
Thus the world demands genius, and receives
it, receives it and distrusts it. He was intended
bv his parents for the bar and was admitted in
1815. His sonl was already pregnant with ce
lestial fire, and the dry details of legal work
were not enough to quench the poetic flame.
In the next year ‘Thanatopsis’ was published.
This poem has been justly and universally ad
mired. Mr. Bryant himself cherished it as one
of the best emanations from his pen. There is
found in it possibly one solution of his preemi
nent excellence as a poet. It discovers a famil
iar acquaintance with nature and a deep sym
pathy with her. He kDew not her face alone,
but had read her heart and had accurately inter
preted the voiceless dialect of her various lan
guages.’ We can hardly estimate the value of
this fact in the literary success of any great
man. Indeed so potent is it that it may well be
questioned whether aDy nation can hope for a
wealthy literature withont a favorable scenery.
Certainly a writer is shorn of ons of the most in
spiring assistants when he has never known
the country with its valleys and hills, its birds
and brooks. It has been well said, 'There is
not a giimpes of a brook, a whisper of a leaf, a
habit of an animal, a sweep of a storm’s wing, a
blush of a flower, an uprising of a morning, a
sparkle of a sea, or a sob of a wave that is not
eloquent, or may not be made eloquent in the
exposition of intellectual and spiritual truth;
and he whose soul is fullest of these will have
the most and the best to say to the humanity
that comes to him for instruction and inspira
tion.’ Such opportunities and companionships
were Mr. Bryant’s. Nature, with its fields and
woods and brooks, with its skies and silvery
stars, was an open and favorite book wir.h him.
Jn ‘Thanatopsis’ he discovers his intimate ac
quaintance with her in his youth, and his later
writings and his tender care of Cedftr-uiere at
test taeconssstenoy of his regard la old age
He continued the practice of law until 1.821
whin, after delivering a poem entitled ‘Agnes’
before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge
he determined to enter npon a literary career.
Coming to Now York his firsL editorial service
was perfomed upon the Now York Review, a
publication which remained under his charge
long after it was merged in the United S'ates
Review and Literary Gazette. A few years later
he became attached to the Evening Post whioh
is the beginning proper of bis journalistic la
bors. Before going into that department cf his
life it is proper that we make some attempt to
measure his parallax and define his position as
a poet. His style is elegant, easy, and flowing.
He has the elegance and pnritv of Tennyson
without his stiffness and stilting, the fluency of
Byron without his misanthropic gloominess;
the heart of Burns, withont his roughness. Per
haps this last quality of heart-power will b9 the
one. npon which of all his excellencies, his pos
thumous fame will mostly depend. He loved
the world and the people in it. He has spoken
so sweetly and so kindly to all people that he
will go singing down the ages making music for
the reading universe. He had a heart for life;
he loved mankind, he loved nature, he entered
sympathetically into hnman trial and trouble;
he hated oppression, he revered Christian good
ness, and in the heart of future generations he
will be a living and abiding presence.
It may not be an unjust or false classification ho
say Poe is America’s Byron, Whittier is her
Campbell, Longfellow is her Gray and Bryant is
her Montgomery.
AS A JOUKNAEIST.
As we mentioned above, in 1826 he became
connected with the Evening Post, under the
editorship of William Coleman, and upon the
death of that gentleman Mr. Bryant was placed
in control of the paper.
His conscientious independence soon caused
him to change the policy of the paper. It had
been federalists in its political faith np to that
time, but though a Northern man he at once es-'
poused and disseminated the republican theory
of our government. His fearlessness was furth
er especially manifest in his utterances on free
trade. Whatever might have been his party af
filiations he was a genuine democrat in his con
victions.
Parties with him were bnt means to ends,
and he retained his alliance with no party only
so long as that party seemed to him to be the
most efficient instrument in accomplishing the
best ends. He was never guilty of that consum
mate inconsistency, cf being consistent with
a party name rather than with a correct system
of political trnth.
He was a democrat, and hence believed in the
republicanism of Jf-fferson, was opposed to tar
iffs and favored hard money. These are old
ilemscratic principles which he felt were immu
table by party names and unaffected by party
lines. To them he was devoted with an enthu
siasm only surpassed by the accuracy of his per
ception and the dispassionateness of his decis
ions.
In this particular he deserves imitation by
the political press of every time and eonntry.
But there was another characteristic of him
which is even more important than this.
I refer to his utter refusal to be guilty of what
is known as ‘writing down to the masses.’ He
will stand in history as a perpetual rebnke to
the sensationalists who for sufficient pay will
put anything in their columns, however cor
rupting or however false. He carried his con
science in his heart and not in his pocket, and
its ebbs and flews were not influenced by the
tides in the money market. Yet he made mon
ey by his writing, and the fact stands as an
abiding refntation of that slander npon tbe peo
ple that a pure paper cannot be made a paying
paper. He sang and wrote not for money but
(Continued ob the seventh page.)