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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.