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Southern Field and Fireside.
< VOL. 2.
A RHYMED TRIBUTE TO VIRGINIA.
a BY JOHN R. THOMPSON*.
v
T [The subjoined verses, from the new editor of The
>. Field and Fireside, were read at the recent celebration
tff of the Landing at Jamestown, held by the Old Dominion
r Society of Now York city. The anniversary (18th May)
V falling on Sunday, the Society commemorated the event
J. on the 14th by an Oration, delivered at the Cooper In
stitute by the Hon. George W. Summers, and by a ban
-9 quet the following evening at the Metropolitan Hotel*
In regretting his inability to attend, Mr. Thompson of
fered the verses, for the recitation of which an opportu-
C nlty was presented early in the evening, in consequence
kL of the absence of the Hon. Alexander R. Boteler, who
r was expected to respond to the first regular toast. That
y toast ran thus—
J. The Day we Celebrate—Forover memorable as the
day on whieh was laid the first stone of this magnificent
o' temple, which has been erected and consecrated to the
7 rightsof man—a temple which already numbers thirty
‘w millions of worshippers, and which may be indefinitely
m expanded. ‘
■v The poetical offering was thought appropriate os a
m reply# i
K Virginia! in our flowing bowls
Thy name we would remember,
Dear as Is Plymouth to the sonls
? Os Pilgrims in December—
O They hold their banquot as the gloom
If w wlw* ; .
| V The poet sizars our fitfheia dw*ls K
|JL Their/orms and 'y ?
R Aild yet how far our age exceeds
The age of Smith and Standislt;
Y The modem pilgrims journey all
J By steau* o'er land and fetry,
n And we the ‘Starving Time” recall
m In turtle soup and sherry.
] Yet something noble we may learn
From yearly thus reviving _ •
3 The virtues of those settlers stem—
-7 Their suffering and striving
Y Our fathers wore a knightly grace
/ Above their fiery passion,
Which, like their doublets and their lace,
y Is sadly out of fashion.
f # The Spaniard traces in the Cid
The Campeador’s glory,
The stirring Niebelungen Lied
J Tells many a hero's story—
Y O, more than any German myth
/ The highest praise deserving,
''N When shall you have, bravo Captain Smith,
y Your Halleck or your IrviDg ?
KWhat though, indeed, you left behind
No chivalrous descendants,
In other days a sword to find
J And fight for Independence—
Y Bear witness to your lofty traits
/ Our proud historic pages,
\ The ancient Mother of the States
y Shall cherish them for ages!
T Your valor, proved In Paynlm fights,
'm And tried by wild disorder,
o' With Spottswood’s “Golden Horse Shoe” Knights
J Went trooping o'er the border;
Y It stood on York’s embattled lines
/ With yet a presence grander,
jY And still its undimmed lustre shines
y In Scott, the Great Commander.
J” Lov'd Commonwealth of boyhood’s rule,
Wha recollections cluster
o' Around the whitewashed old-field school,
J The County Court House muster—
V From all the city’s toils and gains
/ Our hearts are turning now, sirs,
"JV To dwell in those sweet Argive plains *—
y Where first we donned the trowsers.
Still does the wavy Ridge extend
'm Its outlines soft before us,
(T' Still does Virginia's blue arch bend
J In tender beauty o’er us:
y The oldest exile breathes her air
/ With all the lastest comers,
>«And here to-night we freely share
The fervor of her Sumhers.
“A land of just and old renown”
“m To native or to resident,
“ Where freedom broadens slowly down
7 From President to President"—
'Y We change the Laureate's Hnet —too bad —
/ Yet think in all her crises,
How many Presidents she's had,
y How very few of Vices !
Then, brothers of the good old State,
4l Permit an absent rhymer
To pledge the day you celebrate,
7 But not in Rudesheimer;
Y He likes, whatever others think,
/ Virginia's own libation,
\ A whiskey julep is the drink
m That typifies the nation.
j JAMES GARDNER, I
I Proprietor* f
The ice we take of liquid blue
From Wenham's crystal fountains.
The whiskey sparkles with the dew
Os old Virginia's mountains—
The sugar borrow without stint -
5 From sunny Opelousas,
1 By every stream springs up the mint.
1 From Kennebec's to Coosa’s:—
) •
Que voule*~tous t Tis this—we wait
A wheat straw from the prairie,
(The Hooaier or the Sucker State,
, Their practice does pot vary)—
Here North and South and East and West
Are mot in sweet communion—
Now drain the cni>—this toast is best;
J Virginia and the Union!
0 • Dulces remi nisei tar Argos.—Virgil.
t t Where Freedom broadens slowly down
0 From precedent to precedent.—Tennyson.
T .A- ■ -1..
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
* THE
PRIDE QF FALLING-WATER.
A TALE . ti
- OF THE
Old French War of 1755.
Jtam-’ *--* *" T vmjßmai.y&K*.
' MSKi'airm th* <*
TTie’siin was about to set upon a beautilul
May evening in the year of our Lord 1J55, when
two persons journeying on welt broken Cana
dian horses, and coming from the West, paused
upon the summit of the groat range of moun
tains whoso Eastern base is washed by the
waves of the South Branch of the Potomac.
Before them lay a magnificent country bathed
in a flood of crimson light. The shining river
ran below, like a stream of blood, through rich
green meadows dotted with tall trees just bud
ding witli the tender foliage of spring—to the
left the mighty “Hanging Rock,” like a pros
trate giant, looked from its summit of three
hundred feet upon the flowing water; and in
the east the battlements of the Hunting Ridge,
belted with eternal pines, wore slowly disap
pearing in the darkness, crawling up the shag
gy slopes, and raising, so to speak, the golden
crowns from the tops of the great evergreens.
The scene was wild, imposing and majestic
for its primitive and untouched grandeur. The
home of the bear, the deer and the eagle, for
long centuries —it seemed to have never felt the
foot of man, unless of the prowling Indian,
ranging in pursuit of the wild denizens of the
forest.
The travelers gazed at the noble landscape
for some moments in silence; and we shall em
brace the occasion, as they stand in tho rich red
light of sunset to make a rapid outline of their
- figures.
The first is a young man of twenty-three or
four, with a sunburnt complexion, dark eyes,
mild but penetrating, and long black hair falling
upon his shoulders. His slender but close knit
and vigorous figure is clad in pliin dark costume;
over his bronzed forehead droops a black felt
hat, ornamented with the feather of some forest
bird; and in his hand he carries a short but
heavy rifle. The face of this man is attractive
for its bold and clear cut features; and the sim
ple, tranquil smile which habitually dwells upon
the firm lips. In the carriage of his person, and
the erect poise of the head, you may discover
the wild grace and ease of the free raDger of
the woods. At his side a great deer hound
raised his black muzzle, and looks with thought
ful eyes at his master.
The young man’s companion, who reins in her
little Canadian pony with the ease of a prac
ticed equestrian, is a girl of about eighteen,
with auburn hair, hazel eyes, a rosy complexion
somewhat affected by wind and sun, and a figure
just rounding into grace and beauty. She wears
a plain brown dress fitting closely to her form,
a cloak of the same material, leather gauntlets,
and a wide French hat secured by a blue rib
band beneath the rosy chin. The face is smi
ling, and possesses a rosy sweetness —the large
melting eyes seem ready to dance with merri
ment, or fill with tears at a moment’s notice.
For some moments the two persons gaze iu
silence at the fading landscape, and then they ex
change a smile. The young man nods, and says
with a slight French accent:
“ I see what yoq are thinking of, Isabel—yes,
we must spend another night in the woods. I_
. see no hone of reaching any settlement.”
“ That is nothing," is the gay reply ; “ I
am very, very, tired, and indeed I think I’m
glad to have one more night under the stars.”
“Glad ?"
“I mean I am almost sorry our long journey
is over, though I shall be very happy.’’
“ Aua for me?" he said with something like
a sigh, “do you think I am not sorry, too?
What remains for the poor stranger when he
has delivered his charge, but to say ‘ good for-
- if"*?* '7 v — ‘ "" -
AUGUSTA, GA„ fftTURDAY, MAY 26, 1860.
tume attomf yon,f|B&ji»;back to the woods ?
Butthis is to my duty.”
With thtso wards *.h§>peaker dismounted,
. fflxed his bridle to a Jpigh of the forest, and
then proceeded toassistltoe girl to the ground.
As her band restsd s>r a moment on his
shoulder, and the curlj of her auburn hair
almost brushed hi* forofr ad, a close observer
might have dUeornod a slight Color in tho
bronied cheek&nd a- sufcjjm light in the eyes.
He said noising, however, and rapidly set
about preparing the younggirl's couch.
The horses werefaobbtoji, and turned loose in
a little dell through whk|t run a small stream
portmanteau strapped behind the'young man’s
saddle, and then- the cc&Mi was skilfully ar
ranged Tearing d»wn‘» number of "boughs,
the girl’s eompanfim copwricted, with the as
sistance of some saplij dt a closely woven
screen, against the trunle a great pine. Tho
thick carpet of pine *3 heaped up, a Cloak
spread upon them, and over the woodland pa
vilion was thrown a la:ze variegated doth,
which afforded a perfect diPd against the dews
• Exchanging with her toppanion a pressure
of the hand, such at might -have taken placo
between brother and sister*—although upon his
part there was a chivalrie rtspeet mingled with
the simple smile—the girl passed through the
opening in tho screen, and disappeared.
The young man examined his ride with a
critical eye, turew S-jahtaM penetrating
l W,n; himseH
, ibis was the j.mnner h u»i. Henry Beau
-1 sire, called L'&ifa.d de Jr.is had leveled with
) Isabel Stockton from the great woods to the
- valley of Virginia,
i * <
TI i
. m <
THE HNAKK IX Tilt: GRASS.
I In a few minutes, Bearn re and the girl were
: sleeping as only those who liavo made a long
i day’s journey on horseback sleep.
The lingering light gradually disappeared—
i the birds of night sent their lonely cries through
the forest—hnd from time to time the shuffling
i tread of a bear, or other prowler of tho dark
i ness, might have been heard in the dense growth
of the mountain side.
The hours passed on, and midnight approached.
The cry of the owl and whippoorwill was hushed
—the footsteps of the nocturnal wanderers were
no longer heard—and the only sound which dis
turbed tho gloomy silence was the low sigh of
the wind in tho tufted heads of the great pines.
■ A quick ear, however, might have distinguished
all at once, a stcaithy step upon tho bed of pine
tugs—or rather the noise ofV a body crawling
along close to the earth, from which it could not
be distinguished.
When all was still agate, and when the moon
rose aboV% the battlements of Hunting Ridge,
and bathed the sleeping figure in its mellow
light, no other form was seen.
At the end of a few minutes the sound was
repeated, and a bough of the covert near at
hand was stealthily thrust aside. In the open
ing thus produced, appeared the face of an In
dian, and the moonlight glittered on the shining
barrel of a carbine levelled at the sleeping
man.
The countenance of the savage resembled
rather a horrible mask than the face of a hu
man being. Deep hatred distorted the gaunt
muscles, and the eyes burned with a lurid light
which indicated that something more than ordi-
actuated the assailant.
The young man’s face was full in the moon
light, and for an instant the muzzle of the wea
pon was directed point blank at - the tranquil
forehead. Then it was lowered ; and the hand
of the ludian fell upon a long knife in bis gir
dle. He was doubtless actuated by a bloody
desire to slay his enemy with his hand, and
issuing from his covert, crept along the earth
toward the sleeping man. The full light fell
upon a figure of great size and muscular vigor,
wrapped in a colored blanket, and wearing upon
his forehead a crown ol pluntes, the badge of a
chief. The face was full of craft and ferocity,
and as the savage crawled along tho earth he
resembled some venemous reptile, bent upon a
stealthy errand of death.
The Indian glided slowly toward Beausire,
and passed finger over the edge of his
knife asAhough to assure himself that the blow
which lie designed would be certain in its re
sult. He bad now arrived within a few feet of
his victim, and was about to throw himself up
on the sleeping figure, when another actor ap
peared upon the scene.
The deerhound, who, unseen by the savage,
had watched with lowered head his gradual ap
proach, suddenly uttered a furious growl, and
with a single bound threw himself upon the as
sailant and buried his teeth in his throat.
Tho savage recoiled, and reached the dense
covert, the dog still clinging to his throat, be
fore Beausire, who instantly rose to his feet,
caught a glimpse of his figure.
He rushed in the direction of the covert
where tho deep growls of the hound indi-
1 >: j ■: / —— ' ——
cated that a desperate struggle was taking
place, and Just as he reached the spot, almost
stumbled over the body of the dog, who had
Mon violently hurled from his throat by bis foe.
Afc-to the Indian, he had disappeared like a
shadow, in the gloomy depths of tho- woods.
Beausire cocked hia rifle and leaned against a
tree, listening. No sound disturbed the silence,
apd bending down he laid his hand upon the
animal. He was trembling and breathing
heavily. '•’'•'f';. .
* The savage had well nigh strangled him in
his desperate efforts to rid' himself of the fatal
teeth. He had dropped his knife, and it was
only by almost superhuman efforts that he suc
ceeded in hurling tho dog from him.
Beausire remained leaning against the trunk
of the tree, in the shadow, with his rifle cocked,
throughout the remainder of the night. No one
who had seen his face would have believed that
he recognised the neighborhood of a deadly foe.
The brow and lips were as calm as before—but
a suppressed fire in the dark eye indicated the
silent derision with which be waited.
He remained thus, watching in the deep
shadow over the pavilion from which no sound
had issued, and did not leave his post until the
eastern meuntain reddoned in the sunrise.—
Then going to the scone of the struggle be
tween the hound and the savage, he picked up
a long knife with a buckhorn handle, and criti
cally examined it..
“ I thought as muoh," he muttered coolly.—
THK ■ONUTVIf*.
Hits travelers were soov, upon thur way
again, breasting the brilliant sunshine down
the mountain road, toward the fringed banks of
the. river.
Beausire had said nothing of tho nocturnal
encounter, for fear of frightening his companion;
but had she not Been absorbed in her own
thoughts, she must have observed the keen and
anxious scrutiny to which he subjected every
clump of trees, more than ordinarily dense, which
thoy passed.
Finally he drew a long breath of relief. As they
ascended a knoll not far from tho river, lie saw
to the right, not more than half a mile distant,
a curling smoke ascend, and then the rude walls
of a frontier fort appeared.
Between tho spot which thoy had reached
and the fort, the green meadow land ex
tended, unbroken by underwood which
could afford a hiding place to an enemy. Fieom
that moment his precious charge was safe, and
the young jpan smiled joyfully. There was
something pleasant in the sunshine, so to speak,
whioii this smile brought to the bronzed face—
but it soon disappeared.
The eyes of Beausire wandered from his com
panion to the fort which they were approach
ing, and a shadow, like that of a floating cloud,
passed over his forehead.
The young girl saw this shadow, and said,
with a pensive sadness in her large eyes:
“ Why do you look so sorrowful ?”
“ Sorrowfril ?” said Beausire, calmly. “Do I
look sorrowful?”
“Yes, something disturbs you —I can read
your face so easily!’’
“Strange,’ said her companion, “that is what
everybody says out there in the woods. Well,
I believe I am somewhat melancholy, for soon
we shall part and I shall see you no more, Isa
bel."
“See me no morel” sho repeated with a quick
blush.
“Yes, I must go back to tho woods, and I
think will look dreary without you.”
“ But why must you go back?” she said im
pulsively; “you have no parents."
“That is true —I have neither father nor
mother.” •
“ Nor relations ?”
“None, I think.”
“Then,” said the girl, with earnest feeling,
“we will bo your relations hereafter. You must
not go back, but live upon the Opequon.”
Beausiro snook his head.
“ That is impossible,” he said, “ I should be
out of place: lam not fit for the settlements —
without you I should have been a mere wild
man of the woods. lam better than that now,
but I am still a nameless wanderer, and fit for
no life but a hunter’s.”
The girl’s head drooped.
“Besides,” said Beausire, “a man is not free
in the settlements as he is in the woods —not
the being God made him, good or bad. Ho is
rated by his fortune or his name, not by his
character. They might think I was honest, but
if they asked me my name and origin I could
not tell them.” .
“Why, your name is Henry Beausire! ex
claimed the young girl.
Her companion shook his head.
“They oall me so,” he replied, “because a
French trader fixed it on me. My old Indian
nurse made me a beautiful fringed dress when 1
was a child, curled my hair, and brought me to
the door of the wigwam when Captain Jocrisse
was coming out from th© council firo. H© laugh
ed at ray dress, which was gaudy enough, and
I Two Dollars Per Annum, l
) Always In Advance. f
—■ n. .1
I —r-
called me beau sire- in Jest. Afterwards I got
the name of.L'JSStfrnif de Hois."
“But you are called Henry too," said the
young girl, penjjyely.
“Yes,’and trait X think is my real name. It
, was the name my mother gave me.”
“You then remember her? 7 ’
“ I think sometimes that I do—dearly. But
i she died when I was a little child, and perhaps
’tis only her picture that makes me think so.”
With these words, BoatuM re put his hand into
his bosom with a hesitating movement, looking
, at Isabel.
, “Yes, I will show it to you,” lie said, con
quering apparently a momentary indecision. “No
othor eye but toy old nurse’s has looked on it,
but you may. See I she must have been a good
and beautiful woman."
As the young men spoke, he drew from his
breast a small leathern case, secured by a steel
chain, and opening the clasp, said:
“ That is my mother.”
Isabel took the miniature, and gazed at It
with deep interest. It represented a lady ap
rently about twenty, with black hair and eyes,
brunette complexion, and a graceful figure, clad
in blade, with rich lace of the same color on
the snowy shoulders. It was a face of surpas
sing loveliness, and the large dark eyes pos
sessed a wonderful fascination.
Isabel remained for some moments lost in sur
prise.
“And this," she said at length, “ this was
your mother I” ,
ture, “ my' oid Indian uhrse hung it rrimiJrKp
neck when my mother died, and I have worn it
ever since.”
“How strange your life is!” said the young
girl, thoughtfully, “ but have you never tried to
find out your mother's name ?”
“ I have spent my life in searching, but all in
vain. Some day I may find all about it, how
ever, and another time I will tell you of somo of
my adventures. Now we must think of other
things. Thero is the fort.”
Beausiro remained silent for some moments,
then extending his hand toward the stockade:
“Isabel,” be said, “ that is the sign that our
journey is ended. All my long, pleasant hours
are over, and now, before you reach your friends
again, let mo have your assurance that I have
done my duty. Have I kept ray promise, and
watched over you faithfully ?’’
“No brother could have been more true and
kind and faithful!" was the low reply.
“ Then, all is well, in any event;" said Beau
sire, in the same tone, “wo have arrived at
last.”
IV. .
110 W THE TRAVELERS MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OP
CAPTAIN WAGNER, COMMANDANT OP PORT PLRABANT.
On the esplanade before the rude stockade
fort, with its blockhouses, palisades, and low
doorway, ready to be closed against a foe, a
crowd of rough borderers were assembled: —
and this crowd at sight of the travelers from the
western woods, hastened forward w ith eager
curiosity.
The times were troubled—the crisis of the
struggle between the French aud English had
arrived—and every unknown person was look
ed upon with suspicion,
The French accent of Beausire as he calmly
replied to the questions addressed to him, speed
ily attracted the attention of the rough hunters;
and one of the tallest and most powerful subject
ed him to a rude cross-examination. There
was something so offensive in the tone of the
speaker that the young man's eye flashed. He
replied coldly that ho would give an account of
himself to the commandant and no other —and
touched his horse with his heel to ride toward
the stockade.
Suddenly the animal almost reared. Tho
hunter, enraged at the cold reception of his dic
tatorial address, had caught the bridle of the
animal, and nearly thrown him upon his
haunches.
Beausire’s eye flashed, and as quick as thought
his hand darted to the hilt of the couteau de
chasse which he wore in his belt. In an instant
a bloody encounter would have taken place, for
the huire borderer, seeing the movement, had
drawn his own hunting knife, when another
personage appeared on the scene.
“Let the stranger alone!” said a quick,
haughty voice behind the borderer, “ are you a
coward that you assault a single man, and a
woman!”
Tho borderer wheeled round with a wrath
ful look, and saw standing before him a youth
of seventeen, clad in a biown traveling dress,
with a slender and elegant figure, rosy cheeks,
blue eyes, full at the moment of generous indig
nation, and long curling “air of a bright chest
nut. The youth was evidently different from
the crowd around him, and spoke with the clear
delicate accent of one educated in all the refine
ment of the society of the seaboard.
“ Yes,” he repeated, not retreating an inch as
the buHy of the crowd advanced upon him, I
say it is cowardly to attack a single stranger
who has a lady with him, and you shall not do
so where I am present 1”
fsfde