Newspaper Page Text
1fcrj,...,;- , ' ’x'Wittw ?"■»* wvtfcfi nwrrw-" c *’ •«* u> - ,w,r **
■ • w 4 d Sd* t d ♦ d
■ a USI list
■' kcA
m James Gardner.
[Frvi’i the South Tn Field *nJ ] .
sov chkrn literature.
'.. .. ..U" ' '■ ' > '■ :;
ht ; , > ■ \ ;-i ihir> *. ’ ; ■■ ' vrt’.ng > '■>■' "'.•■■
d tea v< . ets, andgf v ' ■•' ■'■ B : ■ I
e> ,\ . K! j.'.ntuj sod tbo duMUsaud Htid-one H-ii 1
clc j .■ U H* i luxury w. i*eh we are not .■ 1
a'. < to pr.’Ju * “t- mirrclves. Aud truly ‘it .
K : , ...rLt::. :-. io-, dev. utly 10 I - wished’ th«t ;
ne-i-O'ld ■■' so far-as or is possible, render ,
q \ K .. j ,iig< r tributarv :,o those w io use ,
n-tt'h o die weak i thev acquire from their |
trade witl si sol < tnes tbai hi sos tl air •
*
e ruiu of that p< coliat < rga j
ii;Z.at:oi; v.. ;? makes us at once the most pros- ,
perous an- 1 , ba piest people on the. lace of the
however desirable it may be that we
should no '•>.ig.-r patronize Nortbern importers
and maiiui-iciiireis, bnt endeavor to build up
ottr own s «•'.•;• s by direct trade with Europe,
and foster industry by patronizing arti
cles of dem- - i pr'iductioti, and encouraging
; , ■ clll o >tber branches of manu
facture .. ■ - b not now in our B ;
y e t go long t ? we continue to patronize arid
read N : :n©r». Uera'iire in the shape of books,
tiiagaz i., s, :i-. i newspapers, only the lesser half
of Southern - epe:.d'.'ine will be achieved.
H >wevi : great ci ;y have been our state of
va-.-al .re to th North in our business rela
tio f. w*. v.-.-r:, lamentably more so in the mat
ter ( ' !i . rature. Did we ever dream ofprais
or v irh ,i Southern literary woik, until it
flac r- - "td : . approval—if it ever did —of
our N< .t trti masters ? Did we ever form, or.
if formed, dare to express an opinion of a native
work u; I .ve knew what the zoiluses of tn®
Xorth ‘ ..j rn say about it ? And if their fiat
was e-’.nr. -y to our judgment, did we ever
dream for a n enit-Dt ot questioning the : r infalli
bility, or hesitate about the surrender of our
opinion to theirs? Never! And such a state
of literary bondage is far more to be deplored
than any mercantile and mechanical vassalage
possibly can be; for, he who gives thoughts to
a people is their master; no outward and visi
ble sign of his royalty may exist ; he may
wear no crown, may have none of the para
phernalia oi kingly power surrounding him,
but his sceptre is none the less potent because
unseen. And that we have been in this condi
tion of vas.i.ito the North is unfortunately
too true : t'.e thousands of copies of Northern
bocks d which daily, weekly,and
mootion d i.'ieir way into Southern homes,
and furnisl).-i . e literary pabulum for South
ern mines - nr witness to it; whilst the re
peated tailiirc- r-f almost every attempt to es
tablish r. < i.rhern literary paper or magazine,
not fro.-j t 1 '•‘.-lit of tii’ent necessary t-> furn
:£!. m. .... ... -uch .uurpozes. bgljr.u ue
.uck ci p-j-I.suppoi i. ,‘roru Southern pur
ses, aiy.-t me suiu-uai apathy of our people in
this imn-itn'- matter.
For t- no : vul subject. Diterature is
n.e 0'.,., ; . at can give immortality to a
people. A nation may raise immense armies,
and su o. eurronnding countries until the
whole world acknowledge her supremacy, and
becom: s tributary to her power; but this su
premacy can be but short lived at the best;
toe vast empire ’nears within itselt the seeds of
its own d-sso'mtion; it is soon dismembered,
and crumoln into fragments, and in a little
while the st.-ry of her greatness becomes only
a tradition in the memories of a people, grow
ing more dim with each succeeding generation,
till at last it s ; nks into the vortex of oblivion.
Nineveh and Babylon, and the forgotten na
tions that flourished in the early ages of the
world, Lave paused away, and left no record of
their greatness, Greece and Rome survive,
and will live forever; notin their conquests;
not in their stupendous works of Architecture,
nor in their creation of Sculpture and Painting ;
but in the songs of their poets, and tho reci
tals of tbeir historians.
I repeat it, this is no trivial subject; but one
whose iropori inc .' commends it to the earnest
thought and action of every patriot. Much
has been already written upon it, but little nas
been effected in the way of remedying ths evil.
Tne present t: ie seems propitious for the inau
guration of a ettc-r state of things in this re
gard than ha.s '-revailed in the past. We are
now, and shall ■ c whilst the war continues,cut
off f-' 'ii Northern books and periodicals, and
coicjn. Id. perforce-, if we would have any lit
erarv al’c ent at all. to take what is furnished
oy so.nt .-ru pens and Southern presses. But
the C'l.i'.ii'i' ti of th:: country is not favorable to
literature. Meo minds are absorbed in the
one engro.i-ing subj.-ct of the war in which
we are engaged, a i<f literature requires for its
full d--v. ’opement a time of peace, and there
fore it is hardly to bo expected that much will
be done io the matter at present. But a step
forward io the rigor direction may be taken,
and it may be well for us to enquire into the
reasons wry we have been heretofore so de
pendent upon the North in this respedt, and
to suggest ,mc course that will prevent our
return to the game literary bondage when com
munication ie again opened with that section.
For however violent may be our animosity
against the North now, tiie. possibility of our
again becoming subservient to Northern pens,
and Northern publications is not so unlikely as
one might at first imagine.
Why was it that the North had the almost
undisputed control of the literature of the
country? and I am speaking in this article ot
that class of literature, commonly called ‘light
literature.’ There is no use in the world to
blink tho matter, for I apprehend that no good
can ever result from shunning the truth —it
was simply because they furnished a better ar
ticle for the same money than could be furnish
ed at the South? Literature is like every oth
er commodity, and governed by the same inex
orable laws, and it is one of these laws that
men will purchase where they can buy the
cheaper!. But how was it that the North was
.able to- supply a better article for the same
money than the South? It was not because
the eostol ] reduction there was less than here ;
for although it may be true that paper and la
bor was .‘omewbat cheaper there, yet the dif
ference in ts is respect between the two sec
tions w;. -' so inc.' .siderable as to be ecnrcely
appreciable. Neither was it because the nec
essary talent •raw wanting here; that is what
no one will bars to assert; for many of the best
articles in Northern publications were written
by Southern anthors.
Among some of the reasons may be stated
that the North was our great commercial ceu-
tre, tho point from whence we derived nearly ,
all our necessaries, and all our luxuries of life. -
Sue was onr mauUfacture,, our carrier, our |
banker, ‘ ut f,.UM.r: we \v< re simply Lor C’JS ‘
bifr.-r, C'U'st'mer for t at w’nie: site produced, ;
or bror.ht from foreign l>.ds; amG by this,
loru-v -i tin it <1 s stem ol’ -paudence upon her, i
we h;-d come to regard it as a fact that noth- I
i’:g wenic-ded was worth having unless it
b;ui b-.'.'.i produced at the North, er hud passed ■
ihr nigl: Northern hands to us; an I being thus ,
dependent upon it for silks and cloth®, our !
shoes, hats, clothes, and ail the innnmefabie I
articles of use and luxury, it is not lobe won-I
dered at that onr literary wants were supplied ’
from the same source. We were a people with j
a vast variety of wants, and producer of bitt
one commodity : they were a people producing ;
a vast variety of commodities, and they had
but one want, and that, was to know what does
the South want. Does tiie South want shoes?
Certainty : we will make shoes for the South.
Does she want hats, clothes, silks, jewelry,
spices, coffee, tea, wines, brandy, medicines,
cutlery, hardware, anything, everything ? Cer
tainly, certainly, says the North • wo will
make them for you, Madam South, or if wo
don’t make them ourselves we will step tiver
io our neighbors across the water, and get them
for you; give yourself no uneasiness about
these* things : just devote yourself to the pro
duct -n of your one commodity, and wo will at
tend to, all "these matter*' for you.
Anti so it was, that with every natural ad
vantage necessary to make us the most inde
pendent, we were in tact the most depend< &i
people on the face of the earth.
I say that having become so dependent upon
the North for all our supplies of a material
character, it is not strange that in onr literary
wants we looked to the same source. VVhsre
tore, we patronized Northern papers and maga
zines, trashy, worthless, and poisonous as, with
a few exceptions, they were, to the utter neg
! lect of our own; the money we paid them en
abling them to furnish a more- showy and at
tractive article than we could get at home, and
the publishers made fortunes besides. For ace
how it works: It requires a certain number ot
subscribers, say a few thousand, to pay the ex
pense of type-setting, press-work, wear and
tear of press and type, &c., to issue a paper,
and allow no profit to the publishers, and no
pay to the authors; but after that necessafy
number every additional subscriber may be
counted as profit, for the gpst of paper and
press work is merely nominal—l mean of course
in ordinary times—and when tiie subscription
list swells over the requisite number by thou
sands and tens of thousands, then the publish
er is enabled to add to the attractions of his
paper, to pay authors of ability for first-rate
articles; to increase the size, and add to the
appearance of Li.- publication, and so by its in
creased attractiveness gain new tliousands ot
I subscribers. This is why it was that the Norm
: was able to turuish a better article for tiie same
i money than the Smith. It was because *we
I pursued the suicidal pokey of supporting
■ Northern publications, and leaving pur own to
perish. When asked to subscribe to a South-
I ern work we have said : No, th-re is Harper’s,
jor the Atlantic,'or Godey’s, or some other North
ern magazine, or paper, much larger, more at
tractive in appearance, and better, articles for
the same or less money than the Southern
work, so we shall subscribe to that. We com
-1 plained that our native works were not equal
to the Northern, and pursued a course in regard
to them which made n impossible for them to
be so without ruining the publisher. For it is
nut reasonable to suppose that any man, how
ever patriotic he may be. will continue for any
great length of time to bear, nearly alone, the
enormous expenditure necessary to carry on a
i first-class paper or magazine. To build up a
i Southern literature, then, to have works worthy
of the South, depends not so much upon the
enterprize and talent of a publisher as upon
the Southern people themselves ; let them only
patronize such efforts and there will be no diffi
culty in getting up works that the nation may
be proud of.
If any one undertakes to publish a paper or
magazine, although a prime object may be the
very laudable one todevelope and foster native
talent, yet be is also actuated to some extent by
another motive, the same which induces the
merchant, lawyer, and doctor to pursue bis
business, and that is to make money. To be
successful it his interest to make bis work as
attractive and valuable aS possible, and to do
this he must incur considerable expense, and
i considerable risk : he must get up a work that
shall in size and appearance at least approach
other woras already in the field ; he must get
the best articles he can, and to get the best
the market affords he must pay for them. It
I is not to be expected that writers of ability
will continue to write for nothing for a home
journal, when they can get good pay for tbeir
articles from Northern publishers. Authors, like
other men, must live, and I have heard too,
that even poets, spiritual and etherial beings
as they are supposed to be, do actually eat
bread and meat like other mortals, and that
these great material articles are as necessary
to their continued existence as they are to
that of mankind in general.
Northern publications have been able here
tofore to compete successfully against South
ern in the Southern market, because Southern
patronage enabled them to do so, and all that
is required to put an end to this state of
things, and to have first-rate literary works
here, is for our people to bestow tbeir patro
urge where every motive ought to prompt
them to, and that is, at home
' As I have already remarked, the present
time is auspicious. We are, thank God, cut
off from Northern publications; let us make
use of the time, let us support liberally those
literary journals which we have now’in our
midst. lam happy to learn that the increased
patronage of The Southern Field and Fire
side —the editor of which I hope will publish
this article—gives cheering evidence that our
people are beginning to do their duty; let
them not grow slack in it ; let thousands and
tens of thousands of others come up to help
the good work, assured that the greater the
number of subscribers the better will the pub
lisher be able to increase the size,attractiveness,
and value of tiie publication. There is good
reason to hope that the paper will so haVe es
tablished itself in the homes and hearts of our
people before the war ends, that it need fear
no competition from Northern publications
when that event happens, even if our people
should be so unwise and unpatriotic as to
think of Supporting them. A brighter day is
1 dawning for Southern literature. God speed it!
AUGUSTA, GA., WEDNESD.AY MORNfNQ, APRILS. 1863.
WORDS OF LOVE.
BY WILLIE WAKE.
How sweetly fid low wools of love
I r...n lips of those wo i-lieriob,
Their meui’ry lingers in our mini!,'
And can never never perish ;
When lire roaming-fir fi-ein home,
From friends and all that's dear,
The words of love we’ve heard so oft
Seem ringing in the ear.
And as we sail o’er life’s dark sea,
And c o uds obscure our sky,
How cheering to the lonely heart
A word of love—a gentle
ft cheers us on, it lights our path,
And gilds the clouds with silver o’er;
O, cherish words of love and truth
Until this life shall be no more !
O, words of love cheer lonely hearts.
Hearts tilled with grief and sorrow,
And bi,! the soul depressed to hope
A brighter dawn to morrow.
Then let us whisper words of love
To weary vauderers here below,
Until the flowers of hope shall bloom,
And sorrow’s waters cease to flow.
[From tho Southern Field and Fireside.]
ISABEL MORTIMER,
OR
A. 3VE B Id I ON ’ S ’VIC T I M .
In the large and splendid apartments of a
yioble mansisn, ornamented with all the taste
and elegance that luxury and wealth could be
stow, might be seen a motley group of charac
ters, arrayed in the varied costume of almost
every nation, from the magnificent robes of the
luxurious Amalie, to the humble, though pic
turesque garb of the European peasant. Eve
ry art and decoration that power and wealth
could' procure had been exhausted to give
brilliancy to the masquerade ball of the Geun
t'-ss of Burlington. The halls of the apart
ments were hung with cloth of blue and sil
ver, whilst the glittering light of a thousand
transparent lamps, festooned with the rarest
exotics, dazzled the eye and charmed the sens
es of the beholder. Superb alabaster vases,
filled with the jnost delicate perfumes, and ar
tificial groves, composed of the choicest plants,
the produce of every clime, and whose fra
grance filled the air, added to the delusion of
the gorgeous scene, and made the spectator
almost believe in the existence of fairy splen
dor. But even in those halls of almost regal
magnificence, and beneath the alluring but de
ceitful garb of pleasure, might, be seen more
than one .aching h-.art that ip-''iirned the loss of
departed
ed from the tn in group of masquers by an
artificial grove us lemon and citron, seated on a
splendid ottoman, was a beautiful female fig
ure, arrayed tn the robes of an Eastern Sul
tana. Her arms and wrists presented almost
one unbroken sheet of diamonds and rubies,
whilst the light and transparent drapery of
her dress was studded with all die gems and
brilliants of tne East. Her mask was thrown
aside, and the dark and clustering locks bad
escaped and nestled upon her snowy bosom.
Her face was pale as marble, and the small
and tiny hand placed upon her brow could
scarcely restrain the tears that trickled be
tween her fingers. It was the lovely Isabel
Mortimer, now Countess of Burlington. Placed
aj, the summit ot her ambition, and in the pos
session of that rank and splendor she bad cov
eted so dearly, Isabel felt the utter insufficien
cy of greatness to confer happiness. It vzas
the anniversary of her birth, and it brought
with it recollections and feelings that would
not be forgotten. On that day, five years be
fore, in a casual encounter, she had first met
her present Lord, the Earl of Burlington. How
many agonizing thoughts were crowded in the
events of that meeting; her heartless cruelty
and desertion of her lover, Arthur Travers—
his exile and unknown fate, her own blighted
happiness, the consequence of her ambition, all
pressed with sickening power and effect upon
the soul of Isabel. As the sad and fatal view
of her conduct rose before her in all their bit
terness, burying her face in her hands she
burst into-tears.
Isabel Moi timer was the only child of an af
fectionate widowed parent. The victim of ex
cessite partiality and tenderness, she had
grown up the mere creature of impulse and
self-indulgence. Endowed by nature with
striking beauty and accomplishments, and with
a sprightliness and bewitching naivete of man
ner rarely equaled; but accustom d to the de
basing voice of flattery and devotion from her
childhood, she had become not only a coquette
and a trifler but naturally vain and fond of
show and splendor. The passion of ambition
had wholly taken possession of her bosom, and
dreams of future greatness flitted before her
youthful imagination.
Her father, one of the most humble and con
tented of human beings, was wholly uncon
scious of this feeling in the breast of his
daughter. Had Isabel found one single friend
to have given her aspiring character a more
worthy direction, hers might have been a hap
pier, though perhaps less brilliant destiny. Be
trothed in early youth to her cousin, Arthur
Travers, one possessed of every manly grace
and accomplishment, but destitute of rank and
riches, Isabel in. an accidental meeting had
been seen and admired by the Earl of Burling
ton. Forgetting her plighted troth to her
lover, who was far away, an exile in a foreign
land, in pursui of riches, coveted for her sake,
and dazz’ed by the glittering splendor of such
a position, she yielded to the ambitious feel
ings of her nature, and gave her hand to the
Earl. From that hour, peace and happiness
had fled her bosom. United to a faithless and
unprincipled husband she could not love; one
who was wholly destitute of virtue and moral
integrity—separated from the early sssociates
of her youth by the cold dictates of rank and
the proud nature of the Earl, who hated all
that reminded him of her plain but honest pa
rentage, Isabel felt in the midst of the splen
dor that surrounded her more isolated and de
serted than the lonely traveller of the desert.
On this night, overcome by the agony of her
remorseless feelings she had retired from the
scene of heartless merriment to give vent to
her sorrow in solitude.
Buried in thought, she heeded not that she
was observed ; but suddenly raising her eyes I
she beheld standing at the entrance of the i‘e- i
cess a mask in the gar’> of a -lil irii l Hastily ■
resuming her (ibgiiij-c, she w.v -..a the point of ’
leaving the pine-- i-ut tne wor Is of the strnn- I
ger arrested her tops; bunding low be ex-j
claimed:
1 Gap it be possible that I see the lady Bur- ,
lington in tears, and she in possession of all ,
she once fondly covoted T
Isabel started ; was it fancy or the tones O' i
the speaker that sounded to her tortured ear j
like the echo of departed happiness? But soon ;
recovering herself she turned t:> the intruder, j
and enquired with .dignity :
1 Who are you, sir stranger, who thus pre-i
sutnes to pry into the secrets of another ?'
‘ A pilgrim, lady, in more senses than this :
disguise betokens; a weary pilgrim—one tired i
of the world, its vanity and hollowness, and |
who sighs tu yield up this heavy burthen of j
existence.’
* You speak sorrowfully, stranger,’ said 1s t- I
bel; * lias the world dealt so unkindly with <
you that you are thus anxious to leave it?’
‘Lady,’ he replied, ‘once, life presented one j
unclouded scene of happiness. I possessed nil -
that could make being desirable—the friend
ship and esteem ot kindred and friends—:rmi,
oh 1 I fondly thought, the love of a bejni® or
almosi angelic loveliness; bull was humble
and obscure, lady, and I found her smiles were i
false, her promises deceitful.’
The pilgrim paused—whilst Isabel remained
silent, listening with painful intensity'to the
words of the stranger, whose voice, 1»- in
creased in energy,sounded more and mors famil
iar to her ear, and reminded her ot the well
remembered accents of her childhood. Alter
awhile he again ispoke :
‘ For her sake I sacrificed r 11—borne, friends,
country—and beneatl? the scorching suns of
India, and amidst lbw barrep sands of Africa I
sought the glittering dross of riches; at
length I found it, but too late; to ma it was
become useless, for oh. lady, I returned to the
laud of my birth, to the home of my youth,
and found that she for whose sake I had covet
ed wealth had sold herself to splendid mis
ery.’
Tears choked tho utterance of the pilgrim,
whilst Isabel’s foreboding heart chained her
spell-bound tongue. *he endeavored to speak,
but the faltering words died upon her lips;
and a sudden movement of his mask, giving
her a glimpse of the well-remembered features
of the speaker, uttering a groan she fell life
less on the floor.
The pilgrim raised her in his arms, and borc
her to a window; the noise made by her fall
soon brought more than ©ne straggling reveller
to his aid; for an instant the stranger gazed
with agony on the pale and lifeless features of
the beautiful being in his arms—-the only wo
man he had ever loved ; then resigning her to
the care of the assistants, ho hurried from the
scene.
Years rolled ou. and Isabel ei'il lived iu lie
midst of rank and gre.-m--s, admired for her
beauty, and courted and envied for th© splen
dor that surrounded her; but the cankering
worm of secret grief and remorse preyed Upon
her bosom ; neglected more and more by her
unworthy husband, who abandoned himself to
low and guilty pleasures, without one soothing
friend to speak a word of consolation to her
aching bosom, Isabel still dragged on the
weary load of secret grief and suffering; for
ob, life may long be borne ere sorrow and re
morse snap the withered heart-strings of a
miserable existence.
At length, one dark and gloomy morning, a
long train of mourning coaches might be seeu
winding their way towards the burial vault of
the Earl of Burlington. One single horseman,
who lingered in the rear, appeared to be the
only mourner iu this mock scene of sorrow.—
When the procession entered the church-yard
he alighted, aud at some distance from the rest
of the group awaited the conclusion of the
mournful ceremony. As the coffin was lower
ing into the vault, he stretched forth his arms
as if still anxious to save the remains of a
being so beloved, from the dark silence of the
grave. His emotion excited the notice of the
bystanders, and on approaching him they found
him leaning for support against a tree, with his
eyes still fixed upon the vault, but his features
bad settled into the cold stillness of death.—
Every means were used for his restoration but
in vain, for life had departed.
His face was wholly unknown to all around
him, and his thin and hollow, cheeks bore the
traces of long and continued suffering A
small locket of hair suspended around his neck,
and bearing the initials, ' J. M.,’ alone furnished
the slightest clue to his name or history. His
remains were interred in a corner of the coun
try church-yard, and a plain marble slab mark
ed the spot that contained the ashes of the un
fortunate stranger.
I Have no Time to Read.—The idea about
the want of time is a mere phantom. Frank
lin found time in the midst of all his labors to
dive into the hidden recesses of philosophy,
and to explore the untrodden paths of science.
The great Frederics, with an empire at his
direction, in the midst of war, on the eve of
battles, which were to decide the fate of his
kingdom, found time to revel in the charms of
philosophy and intellectual pleasures. Bona
parte, with all Europe at his disposal, with
kings in his antechamber begging for vacant
thrones, with thousands of men whose desti- .
nies were suspended by the brittle thread of ,
arbitrary pleasure, had time to converse with
books. Ciesar, when he had curbed the spir- I
its of the Roman people, arid was thronged
with visitors from the remot-'St kingdoms.found
time for an intellectual conversation. Every
man has time ; if he is careful to improve it as
well as he might, he can reap a threefold re- /
ward. Let all make use of the hours at their
disposal, if they want to obtain a proper influ
ence in society. They can if they please, hold
in their hands the destinies of onr Republic.
Cautious Men.—Some men use words as ri
flemen do bullets. They say little. The few
words used go right to the mark. They let
you talk, aud guide with their eye aud face,
on and on, till what you say can be answered
iu a word or two, and then they lance out a
sentence, pierce the matter to the quick, aud
are done. You never know where you stand
with them. Your conversation fails into their
mind, as rivers fall into deep chasms, and are
lost from sight by its depth and darkness.—
They will sometimes surprise you with a few
words, that go right to tbqmark like a gunshot-,
and then they are silent again, as if they were
re-loading.
VOL J 6 No 14,
f From the Southern Field and Fireside.l
NOTHING UNUSUAL.
‘And have yc-u never seen him since ?
1 Yes, once.’
1 Does be know you ?’
‘Ahl’ I could not say more, but a great
burden was lilted from my heart. After :?
while I went ou :
‘lt is Letter thus, Mildred, better thus. Why
should you continue to cherish this vain dream ?
Why should you waste your youth iu the bit
termemory of one'who is now but a stranger
to you ? He can never ’
‘Stop!’ Mildred raised her thin Land aud
laid it gently upon mine; ‘I know what you
I would say, but before you speak come with
me.’
There was no resisting that entreaty—poor
child I it would be cruel to say no to her, even
though I knew this to be but a hazard, with no
certain result of good. So we went.
It was an April day. The stream
ed around us, and even the narrow old street
down which we passed, brightened as if. with
the memory of o her April days long past.—
But as we emerged from its dark preciuc.s,and
i a soft breeze from the Bay lifted the green
i bong us of an oak standing in solitary majesty
al tiie ci rn.-r, my companion slackened her
i rapid paie, and drew a long, gasping hreaih:
I 'ltis a Spring day, Ellen,’ she said, looking
I eagerly up the wide, busy street; ‘a sweet
1 Spring-clay, lie wiil bo apt to walk out I
I think, down B street perhaps ; it is on the
j way Irom his home—yes. we shall meet him be
fore we reach the Cathedral.’
She drew her veil down, and walked on
rapidly —I couid but follow. Three squares'
lurcher, aud sue stopped suddenly.
‘I s-e Ada Greyson, I think. She has a
package for me. We will wait here for her if
you please, Ellen.’ We were still standing
there. I remember Ada had a merry story to
tell about Madame H, when Mildred's
lying upon ray arm, tightened convulsively. I
looked around, and there, through the long
vista of shade trees, the golden sunshine fleck
ing the pavement, I saw him coming towards
us with his slow, haughty step— him who had
shadowed my darling's young life—who stood
! between her and Heaven. 'He was a hand
! some man, one that, having once seen yoU
1 would long to see again, but whose lineaments
; you would as Soon attempt to describe as -to
i relate coherently a strange, half-forgotten
dream—the only word*you can recall, that
weird-like German —' Zaviber-licht’
I did not wonder now that Mildred remem
bered him. As he came nearer he raised his
eyes and looked at us —a careless glance, such
as one bestows upon strangers, lie did not
know her: how should he ; He did net kziow
' that tor bun a passionate uiirest—a wild ago
ny. heaved tumultuously under that calm exte
riorr-iLai for him that life was forever dark
, enej.
- She stood quite still: none but I, li.-r friend
: anti sister, saw the slight shudder which pass
ed ever her frame, aud a strange contraction of
the pupil in her large dark eye, as if a fearfully
i brilliant light had flashed over it. She looked
full upon him, aud her calm, fixed features
' wore no expression fsave passing curiosi'y.—,
; It was but a few moments, but they were
■ hours to me, so swift were the thousand ideas
j thronging to my mind. I looked from one to
, the other ; the paie, quiet w’oman —the proud,
i handsome man; but in neither could I road.
■ one act of Mildred’s life-tragedy.
i He passed on—he was gone. Ada Greyson
I too bad disappeared, and we walked on, Mil
! dred and I, over those same flecks of shade
' and sunshine where lie had stepped but a few
j minutes before. * We went towards the Cathe
dral, and it wns not lill'we passed it some dis
tance that Mildred turned abruptly to the left,
into a retired, home-like strest. She stopped
before a house with a small, but carefully-cul
tivated flower-garden, and the entrance as
psual, at the aide. It was . not an imposing
mansion, but there was a certain air of com
fort and antiquity about it which was irresisti
ble. The street-door was open, but up a few
steps, another—a green Venetian door—was
shut: we could see no'further; but a silver
I plate glittered upon the panel, and-1 knew the
j name inscribed thereon.
‘His home,’ I said, half-ma singly.
I ‘His Lome!’ repeated Mildred, in a low
i whisper; ‘these flowers see him every day;
j even this cold, hard granite step is pressed be
neath bis foot, and I ’
! She paused. ’
‘ Mildred,’ I said, ‘we must not slay here—
| cornel’ and 1 led her away.
I That night she told me all her sto.y. I still
i recall tbe scene—the last Mildred ever looked
I upon. The bay lay shimmering in this quiet
j moonlight, and we two, arm in arm, walked up
and down the gravelled walks of White Point
Garden. In the distance rose Fort Sumter,
with frowning parapet and waving flag. Ah I
could she have but foreseen—but she knows
I all now. Yes. she told me her story—bow she
bad written to him once, enclosing-a souvenir
which could not-fail to plead for her; but he
had never answered it. I need not tell the
rest. Perhaps lis eyes may fall upon these
wsrds, and why recall tbe past to him ?
There is but one clue—the name, ‘ Barlow!’
It eased my darling's burdened heart to pour
all these things into my bosom, and I—oh. I
was but too thankful to receive the trust.—
Would to God. Mildred, my sister, I could have
taken the whole of that weary burden upon
my own willing shoulders! Poor broken
heart, in the grave alone ' there is rest for the
weary.’ Thou hast found it at last 1
Jizcfeon, Miss. ’ E L. B. '
New Paop.isiTioN to Put Down the Rebellion.
G efly is beccm iug less bloodthirsty, and is now
the most cliiinorous of ail for putting an end to
t'm* war. In discussing the war recently, he went
s > far as to sap-;
If ihe Southern States would return t-. their
al leg ance, tbe President would be perfect y jus
tifia]il.; in witbdiawitig tbe emancipaiion proela
rnatiun for their benefit, and restoring 1 ; tlmn
the guarantees of s aveiy contained iu the Uon
stituuon.
We frequently pass from love to ambition,
but. one seldom returns from ambition to love.
liochefaucmild.
There are several remedies which will cure
love, but there are no infallible ones—Roche
foucauld.