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Southern Field and Fireside.
VOL. 1.
[For the Soathcrn Field and Firetddo.]
k THE SAXON MAYD.
> 1 Fayro Kdith Ethtvald, so winsome and gale,
j f From lleven one mornefledde softlie await-.
[ The moone and snnne sent sent each a ehasynge r.iie
J J, To stop the swecte starre from flevnge awaie.
J \ y Hut both fell in love with the iieotynge starre,
i Kj And joined her flightc in the distannee afar.
[ i J The raie of the moone around her neck sprodde,
j The raie of the sunnc encircled her heath
' j o This is the why Edith's nceke was so white—
‘, \J Why her silke hair had so goldcnne a lighte.
JT Were the woruld ransacked for a may d, I wcene
| / Ne’er could so fayre one as Edith be scene.
X Grammercle for the Saxon mayd 1
V) n ’
?: Y Sir Alwynnc de Warryn was a Norman knight,
II A Oonrtlio in lore aspuissauntin fighte.
a I’itie it is that the brave can deceive,
The leal be false, the trusted bereave.
Xj The high-borne knight wooed the low lie-bom mayd—
j T The sweet flowrc drooped in the deadly shade.
; j Mocke was the faithe Sir Alywnne did plight—
w Woe to the maiden!—shame on the knight!
s ' Her eies drilled teares like the dropping dewe.
?! Y But assiulde as the mould on the mourneyngeyewe.
i IA. Her heart e was gtilphed under woefulle billowe:
r s} She layd on her bedde, then ’ncath tho willow*.
I 9 Grammercle for the Saxon mayd 1
w Indamirp.
j r Savannah, Ga.
Y [For the Soathcrn Field and Fireside.]
r RECOLLECTIONS OF A CONTENTED PHILOS-
V OTHER.
PHOEBK’H WEDDING NIGHT.
W BV JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OP VIRGINIA.
Y Again in tho autumn woods!—tho woods of
y our honest old Virginia!
K Years seem to have passed since I wandered
over thedry leav es beneath the lordly oaks and the
haughty pines—but after all, ’tis but a twelve
a month. How the flying years glide away—how
7 wondrous arc tho changes of this human life 1
Y I think I have seen those truths expressed before,
/ hut why not repeat them ? Everything that is
Y true is trite. I shall evon add, at the risk of
y . saying what has been often uttered, that it is good
Kto leave tho “ dinsomo town’’at times, and wan
der far away into tho silent depths of autumn
woods dreaming again the rosy dreams of
youth, and summoning from tho misty shadow
,7 land of memory the gracious figures and supreme
Y delights of earlier years. Youth! youth!—how
/ far away it seems! Boyhood flits so rapidly by;
Y manhood comes so soon; ere long old age will
y beckon with its thin finger, weighing down our
j vj shoulders with the burden of years, and drifting
its chill snows upon our hair. But what mat
j 4. ter, friend ? Let us take all seasons as they
j 4 come. If the days of spring and summer aro
. 7 instinct with glorious romance, and alive with
i Y laughter, do the pensive autumn and the bracing
/ winter want for consolations ? I doubt if tho
Y joys of youth were half so tender and serenely
y happy as the thoughts which como to me, here
x . in tho beautiful fall woods, which whisper, as I
ramble on, a thousand secrets and recall the hap
-4 py scenes of other days.
Y Ah!—hero? I thought it was deeper in the
7 forest. So here in the little rustic graveyard,
! Y lies tho fairest form which dwells in my memory,
j / Let mo look back, llow the grass lias grown
j Y around tho crumbling gate—and those roots aro
j w slowly cracking the brick wall. So—the gate
1 opens on rusty hinges; I enter—l pass to the
mound on which somo pale sweet autumn prim
j % roses grow—slender and graceful like the figure
i (A of the maiden: golden, like her sunny auburn
j J hair.
I Y “ —died May 20, 18 ”
i / That is the material part of the inscription.
1 Y Yes, I remember perfectly. It was on a beauti
fy ful day of May, in the youth of tho glad fresh
Nj year, as in her own tender maidenhood, that the
only woman whom I ever loved fell asleep. I
-4 never told her that I loved her —I saw that my
o' suit was hopeless; but I loved her, and shall love
7 her always. Sho always seemed an angel almost
Y when she lived—now tis a holy spirit truly
/ which I feel beside me, as I lean on the marble,
Y and smile, without a trace of pain. Shall I re
* call the past, and return as it were in memory to
\j a brighter day—to the jovial time of my youth ?
| Why not? There is no unhappiness in the ro
-4 collection:—what then was the nature of those
o' events which sent this poor dear child to sleep
J here, under the primroses ?
Y Phoebe Hunter was the darling of tho county.
/ I have never seen any one else half so beautiful.
Y I said that she resembled the primroses growing
y on her grave—and tho comparison is, I think, a
Nj just one. Her figure was slender, but exquisite-
Y ly graceful—her hair of the color of gold—her
4 countenance the mirror of loveliness and a sort
4 of tender, pensive delicacy which made children
'IT come to her, and old men smile and caress her.
'IY She was a favorite with all the youths.who seem-
I / ed subdued in her presence—and if you had
lIY known them, you would have duly appreciated
the phenomenon. They were a wild “harum-
j JAMES GARDNER, I
I Proprietor. f
AUGUSTA. GA., SATURDAY, JANUARY 7, 1860.
scarum” set—fond of frolics, fox-hunting, blooded
horses, and every species of fun. They ran ra
ces, danced interminable reels, and drew at
sight—not seldom in advance—upon their capi
tal of youthful strength and gaiety. Tho merri
est haunt of all was the “ cedars” where Phoebe
lived with her father and brother. The old hall
was eternally' filled with youths, como to visit
Jack, of course—never Phoebe—and there xvas
generally some urgent reason about six times in
tho year, for a grand dancing frolic, to which
the youths and maidens of the whole country
side flocked. What a gay time it was! How
we danced, how wo laughed, how we smoked
interminable pipes in Jack’s special den —outdo-
ing all the travelers of romance in our stories
and experiences! It was the riot of health and
romance—not vicious at all, however—the stir
ring of tho blood which would have its frolic and
its laughter.
Os all tho youths there was no one half so
popular as Tom Dangerfield, unless it were Ar
thur Ilewston, his and my bosom friend, llow
distinctly they rise now in my vision, as I pon
der! They were strongly contrasted in person
al appearance. Arthur was dark, tall, col
lected, almost grave at times —Tom, on the con
trary, slight, blue-eyed and gay, They both
loved Phoebe, but had never spoken of the sub
ject to each other nor to her. As to the feelings
of the young lady, no one could form the least
opinion. She treated both with the same deli
cate and winning kindnoas—her habitual de
meanor toward young men—and, as far as any
one could perceive, was equally fond of them
both. I knew afterwards, liowover, and all
knew, that Arthur had, long before, secured the
affection of her warm young heart. 'Why is it
that the dark, serious, earnest man so often gains
tho love of a woman, surrounded by suitors more
gay, “ desirable” and interesting"? I know not,
but I know it to be the truth. As I found, in
due time, Phoebe had no dream or thought of
the future that wa3 not connected with Arthur
Ilewston. But she did not betray her secret—
waiting, with tho siugularpatienco of women, for
tho moment when her love should be pleaded
for. It came at last; the occasion was a great
frolic at the hall,—but a singular scene bet ween
tho friends preceded it. Tom told me all after
wards, and described their interview. It was
painful and embarrassed, for they had told oacli
other all, but Arthur soon recovered his cool
ness.
‘■This is a miserable business, Tom,” he said,
with contracted brows, “a terrible thing to think
of, that we are arrayed against each other.” .
“Yes. truly miserable,” was tho low reply.
“Whoever wins, the other loses,” continued
Arthur Ilewston, “ unless we both abandon the
affair. That, however, would be unmanly—let
us do better. Go and tell Phcebo that you love
her and ask her to marry you. If she discards
you, I’ll try my luck. Docs that suit you, old
fellow ?”
" No,” said Tom, “ for it gives me an advan
tage. Let us both go away, or decide by chance
which shall speak first.”
“Done —there is tho backgammon board.—
We’ll throw’ for the chance.”
With these cool words, Arthur Ilewston rat
tled the dice and threw' —six, ace.
“Now' it is your turn,” he said as coolly as be
fore. His friend with a trembling hand obeyed.
The dice w r ere cogged. He threw again—six,
deuce.
“All right,” said Arthur, “you have won and
I have lost.”
“You are not betting?” said a gentle, re
proachful voice behind them. “Fie,gentlemen,
lor shame!”
And Phoebe, with her half reproving, half
smiling face, leaned on the back cf Arthur’s
chair. lie rose.
“It was only a trial of good fortune. Miss
Phoebe,” he said, bowing calmly, “there is Jack
on the lawn, and I wish to see him for a mo
ment.”
With these words and a significant glance at
his friend, he left tho apartment, closing the door
after him. Well, not to lengthen out my bietory,
Tom Dangerfield took advantage of the oppor
tunity and poured, into the ears of Phcebo, the
story of his love. Itwasp sad busiucss, he said
to mo afterwerds. With tho gentlest and most
affecting kindness she said that she did not re
turn his attachment, although she was his faith
ful friend —that, was all. A few tears from the
beautiful eyes —a warm pressuro of his hand —
and she glided, aw’ay with a faltering step, which
showed !>«w nuch she had been moved and dis
tressed. Tom went to the stable, mounted his
horse and set out for home. At the great gate
he met Arthur and Jack, the latter of whom de
manded to know what in the world carried him
away. He made some indifferent reply, but
while Jack w r as repulsing a fox-hound and not
looking at him, he bent in the saddle and whis
pered to Arthur:
“ All’s over for me, and I'm wretched enough.
It is your turn now. Good-bye, Arthur.”
They exchanged a close grasp of the hand,
and parted. All that day and evening Arthur
was silent and gloomy, and yet there was a
strange light in his eyes. A week afterwards
he found Phoebe alone and told her how much
he loved her. When a servant opened the door
to put more wood upon the fire, the head of tho
young girl was leaning upon the young man's
breast, and sho was crying.
I must not spend too much time in these
musings. The rest of Phoebe’s story is told.
There was no obstacle to lier early marriage to
Arthur, and the wedding day was fixed to take
place in January, about three mouths from that
time. On the appointed evening, a great crowd
assembled, for in those days they did not marry
and hurry off a couple of young people without
a frolic, as if they ought to be ashamed of them
selves, and were called upon to get away from
their friends and kin, and all whom they had
been raised with, as soon as possible. The hall
blazed with lights, from garret to basement, and
an army of servants hurried about, as if they
had lost their wits, and were rather pleased at
the accident. As the hour of nine approached,
a multitude of vehicles, of every description,
drew up to the door—the portly chariot, the
comfortable buggy, tho light sulky, and the old
fashioned one-horse stick-chair. In addition to
the compauy which came in these conveyances,
a crowd 'of youths appeared on their riding
horses; and all went merry as a marriage bell.
Soon, the carriages containing the groomsmen
arrived —as to the bridesmaids, they had been
at the hall for a dozen hours; and I suspect
that the greater part of that time liad been
consumed in dressing. Certain it is that as I
went up to the chamber set apart for
men, a maid chanced to open the door of the
young ladies’ room; and never have I seen a
more perfect chaos, or heard a greater Babel of
tongues. They were arranging their hair, fit
ting on laces, and tying the ribbons of satin slip
pers around their small ankles with an energy
and delight which was proved by their animated
faces and quick movements. Here, a maid was
hooking a young lady's dress—there’ another
was pulling down the folds of a heavy white
satin. It was one of those scenes which only
greet the eyes of the male sex by accident, and
cause us to reflect.
I know not why I have entered into this tedi
ous description. It may be that my memory,
by an unconscious act, lingers upon the bright
and cheerful sceno I have mentioned, from a
sort of shuddering dread of approaching the se
quel. I must come to it, at last, however.
Nine o’clock arrived. The bridegroom bad
not made his appearance. People began to
whisper and exchange glafices—especially those
old ladies who scent a misfortune or scandal
with preternatural intensity of smell, and gloat
over misery before it comes. Those old gos
sips, of whom there were plenty at the wed
ding, now congregated in corners, and shook
their withered old faces at each other in away
which spoke volumes. Indignation was the
prevailing sentiment among them—and pity for
the bride.
“Poor, dear thing 1” they whispered, “it
was shameful to have a laggard liko this—it
augured ill for her happiness.” The facts of
the case were soon known. Arthur had bade
his groomsmen meet him at the hall—important
business would detain him at home until seven
or eight o’clock. Soon after eight, however, he
would join them punctually.
Ten o'clock came. No bridegroom. Then
fright took the place of indignation. What
could have kept Arthur Ilewston ? The delay
was wholly unlike him. He was the most punc
tual of men —and noted for his nervous fear of
wounding any one, much more Phoebe, whom
he loved with passionate earnestness. Some
thing must have occurred —something unfortu
nate. The bride and her attendants were near
ly crazy with apprehension. Scarcely able to
hold her handkerchief in her trembling fingers,
Ptuebe sat silent and cold, in an arm-chair up
stairs, I afterwards heard; and seemed to have
no ears for any sound but that which she listen
ed for from the road without. When eleven
o’clock arrived, and Arthur did not come, all
ceremony was at an end. The young men has
tily mounted their horses, and took their way
towards the houso of the bridegroom. I was
among the foremost. I spurred on, wildly, with
a horrible coldness of the heart, for my imagi
nation, supernaturally stimulated, bad drawn a
horrible picture. A wide and deep stream lay
between the hall a‘nd Arthur’s home—a stream
crossed by a crazy bridge, whose swaying in
the angry current, swollen by heavy rains, we
had noticed in coming. I cannot go on
calmly with the rest of tho details. Wo
rode on blindly, through the darkness,
by a struggling and only partially illumined
moon, and drew near the stream, which roared
hoarsely as we approached. I drove the spur
into the sides of my horse and pushed him to
ward the bridge. Suddelily he recoiled violent
ly ia the black darkness—for the moon had dis
appeared beneath a heavy cloud —and reared al
most erect At the next instant, 'the moon
soared out —I found myself and my companions
standing on tho brink of a precipitous descent
beneath which the angry waters rushed tumul
tuously. The bridge, old and rotten, had been
carried away. As I realized the truth, the blood
rushed vioiently to my temples—l reeled in the
saddle, and nearly fell.
My awful presentiment had been true. We
foilnd his dead body half a mile below. His
horse had escaped and returned wildly to his
stable. We could not know the particulars of
his death ; but doubtless he must have ventur
ed upon the bridge in spite of the great danger,
at the moment when it gave way, aud so lmvo
been swept down. A heavy gash upon the fore
head explained the rest—for Arthur was an ex
cellent swimmer, lie must have been struck
senseless by a portion of the timber of the
bridge, and so hurled into eternity. We re
turned with the body, which was buried the
next day with a great procession of mourners,
for thb' young man was universally beloved. So
it ended.
How long I seem to Lave mused ! These old
memories absorb us at times. Shall I end my
story ? Phoebe was brought to the brink of the
grave by a brain fever, following the wild shriek
which she uttered when the truth was told her.
Her life hung long on a slender thread, but she
recovered. She was never like herself after
wards, however—and I thought I could see her
fading away from the world like a beautiful au
tumnal sunset. The friend of Arthur, poor Tom
Dangerfleld, never dreamed of renewing his
suit. He saw plainly, as every one did, that
this suffering wife-of-the-dead was slowly but
surely going to rejoin her husband, to greet again
the disembodied soul to which he had plighted
her maiden troth. She did not linger long.—
Drooping gradually ns a delicate flower does, as
the months pass on, slia seemed to detach her
self, so to speak, root after root, from the soil of
this world ; and to fix her eyes upon the realms
beyond At last she quietly declared herself
“a little unwell,” and did not rise from her bed.
She would converse very calmly and sweetly
upon every topic but one. That, by general
consent, was carefully avoided. No allusion
was ever made to Arthur Hewston. Her hand
would often move to her bosom, where I knew
that she wore a locket containing his liair. but
she never uttered his name, or indicated in any
manner that she thought of him even. At last
the end came. It was on an evening of May
that she died. I was at the hall, and was told
that she wished to see me. I had often been in
her apartment, which was a general resort of
friends and the family; for I was the friend of
Arthur, and I had discovered Ins body. She
beckoned me to approach as I entered; lean
still see the thin white hand—the golden hair
around the snowy temples—the gentle, dreamy
smile on the worn ethereal-looking face. She
motioned me to bend down. I did so, and she
whispered, '*. I can speak of him to you—you
loved him—do not let them lay me far from him,
or remove his locket.” That was all. She never
spoke again. When the sunset died into night
she had gone away, but the tender smile was
still upon her lips.
I had almost forgotten the low, moss-elad
stone beneath the bust there. It marks the last
resting-place of Arthur Hewston, and I gaze
upon it with melancholy pleasure. Do you ask
mo why with “pleasure?" I reply that I think
the fate of this young man was not unhappy.
He was a faithful Christian; the one whom he
loved above all others is by his side in heaven.
Had they lived, who can tell what sins and stains
and miseries might have visted them? Now,
they bloom in imperishable youth in a clime of
never-ending sunshine.
As I ramble on and muse and dream, I ask
myself if there can be any doubt that they are
happier—the dear dead maiden and the youth
who loved her? I think they are happier far,
and I smile, you see.
How Charles the Twelfth Died. —A letter
from Stockholm, of the 6th of September, says :
“By permission of the King, and on demand
of M. Fryxell, the historian, the tomb of Charles
XII. in the church of Riddarholm, has been
opened in order to ascertain exactly in what
manner the Swedish hero died. The King,
Prince Oscar, the Ministers, Professor Fryxell,
three Physicians, and some other personages,
were present. The medical men examined the
body, and the result to which they arrived was
that the King must have been- struck J>y the
fragment of a projectile in the left temple, and
that it cane out at the right one. As at the mo
ment he was killed the king had his left side
tnrned away from the fortress of Fredericksteen,
there is some reason to suppose that he was
fired at by one of his own men and assassina
ted.”
Our readers may remember that Voltaire and
other foreign historians have resented, and la
bored to disprove an accusation which was
urged in this connection against the French aid
de-camp of the King. Voltaire moreover states
that the ball entered the right temple. ‘Un
balle I'avait atteint a la tempe droite." The Mr.
Fryxell alluded to in the foregoing extract is
the most distinguished Swedish writer of the
day. He has been engaged, during two years
past, in writing a detailed life of Charles XII.,
and has latterly returned from a visit to Bender,
(now a Russian city,) whither he had gone in
search of materials and anecdotes. His work, it
will be seen, is likely to confirm the prevailing
belief of Swedes that their great soldier king
was assassinated.
i Tivo Dollar* Per Annum, I
l Always In Advance. f
[Fur the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE SPECTRE..
BY IUII KAKM'.ST.
*■ Maggie, do you mean to wed Hubert Nor
tou ?” asked Mrs. iiOigh, as her niece, Maggie
Eustace, came tripping gayly into her room one
evening.
“Why, Auntie! what a question! You
know I have been engaged for the last si.x
months to George Armistcad, with the full con
sent of all parties.' 1
“Yes, I know that; but what mean your
walks and rides with Mr. Norton, and these
frequent evening calls? Ikvesho know of your
engagement? ”
“Well, no—l think not,” she answered, while
a crimson glow mantled her cheeks. “But why
do you ask such questions, Auntie ? There can
be no harm in a little flirtation. It is so dull
here during George’s absence—meaning no dis
paragement to you or to father, who do all you
can for inv comfort; but you know I have a
spice of mischief in my composition. I must
have some society of my own ago and taste, and
Hubert Norton is all that is available at present.”
“ Maggie, Maggie, there is harm in what you
are doing. I have ; >eu you together, and I
know that he loves you. I believe I know some
thing of human nature, and I think his is too
noble a heart to WtridMwith. Take my ad
vice, dear child, and let him know of your en
gagement, or it will b« a source of life-long re
gret to you. What, do yon think, would George
think of your actions? Think how be loves and
trusts you, and t”
“There, there, auntie dear, no lecture, if you
please. Ido not suppose lam worse than the
most of my sex,” and Maggie pouted out her
rosebud lips in mock anger.
Mrs. Leigh was silent, while Maggie rocked
back and forth, humming a new air. Her co
science was not at ease, though she tried to hide
that fact from her aunt
Mrs. Leigh was the only sister of Mr. Eust
ace. She had married, at eighteen, one every
way worthy of her, and, at twenty-three, was
left a widow and childless. She immediately
took up her abode with her brother. In a short
while Mrs. Eustace died, and Mrs. Leigh took
upon herself the care of the little motherless
Maggie, and a mother indeed she proved to the
little ouc. Mr. Eustace loved his child with all
a fond father’s devotion, and would have com
pletely spoiled her but for his sister’s watchful
ness. Maggie grew up beautiful and petted—
consequently a little wilful, notwithstanding the
constant care of her aunt, who saw with pain a
growing propensity to flirt. She knew her niece
was not very wicked at heart, and if she could
see Her sin in all its heinousness, would reform.
Therefore she concluded to tell her her own
heart history.
Young, beautiful, accomplished and wealthy,
people wondered why Mrs. Leigh shut herself
in from the society of which she was once so
bright an ornament. Fifteen years of widow
hood .had passed; still she adhered to her
widow’s weeds and seclusion from the gayeties
of life. Wherever there was work of charity to
be done, Mrs. Leigh was first at her post,—
visiting the fatherless and the widows in their
afflictions, comforting the sorrow-stricken, lead
ing the wicked from their way by gentle per
suasions and the brightest example, and nursing
the sick, till all knew her as “ good Mrs. Leigh."
“ Maggie, come here, dear; I wish to tell you
a story—my own story. Come close.”
Maggie needed no second invitation, but,
drawing an ottoman to her aunt’s feet, sat down,
leaning against her with face upturned, in token
for her 10 proceed. This was what she had long
wished for, as, with the rest of Mrs. Leigh’s
friends, she had often wondered why she re
mained so secluded. She had seen more of her
aunt than any one else, and she felt sure some
secret grief had made her give up the world.
There was a tremor in Mrs. Leigh’s voice, and
a moisture in her eye, as she put back the heavy
braids from her niece’s fair brow, and said:
“ My dear child, I wish to tell you something
of my life which is not even suspected by any
now living. When I was your age I was very
gay. People called me handsome, and, having
educational advantages superior to those with
whom I associated, with but few exceptions, I
became vain. My society was eagerly sought
for, and 1 had several suitors. There were two
who sought my hand at the same time—my be
loved husband, Edward Leigh, and a young man
named James. I need not tell you I loved Ed
ward Leigh ; but, as is too frequently the case
with young and vain girls, I encouraged Mr.
James because he lived near, was gay, fascina
ting, and unmercifully bored by manteuvering
mammas who thought him a splendid match for
their daughters. He was <rery intelligent, had
seen a great deal of the world, was thirty years
old, and had never iovfed. The desire seized my
mind to captivate him, to win him to an ac
knowledgment that he loved me. I never once
thought of the pain I might occasion him. I
thought it would be such a triumph to accom
plish what no other woman had been able to do.
I knew I could not win him by flattery—l had
NO. 33.