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Southern Field and Fireside.
sM/ - - -
VOL* 2,
MTV Where orbs of fashion roll their jbMjr round,
UH? Oat tbo’ ell lomipoas the halo round her
jjk There It no lovelier In our lovely land;
ft?,. do semetime* wear;
gMV ’Neath flowers so frmh and f*sr !
-.<;•< ' . Tr -• :
rffl\ You crushed the Rose jsst budding into woman,
#§Y Whereat the wild hea 4
Ij. You did hut break the let the dovelet !
/ Where are no weotTed wings, no plaints of sorrow,
No brimming eyes! - *
w And one—o’er him the ocean rolls Ms requiem.
J Oh! he was young and passionate and brave,
But wild and crazed by thy perfidious dealing
<0 He wooed a willing grave.
7 He was the only elm o/her a widow,
V Who madly shrieks to Mm beneath the wave!
*\ Know you those eyes? once tender and translucent,
A (What boots it now opacity or light?)
Reason went blind, and she, that loving mother.
V Now gropes in griefs dark night;
i At the stern grating of the madhouse window
™ Standeth a piteous sight.
c. But there’s a mound on yonder hill side, wearing
f A snowy tablet like a ghostly face,
There lies sepulchred all thy soul once worshipped,
A All manly beauty, eloquence and grace,
jr Yes! marble bosom, thou canst mourn thin victim;
§ There is thy weeping place!
Dance on f Oh, no, ’twero sinful thus to bid thee;
Nay, rather, turn thee from this scene of mirth,
ek? ‘ And cloistered with thy silent soul bethink thee
% Os many a lonely, many a darkened hearth
mj * . Whose fire was quenched by thee, whose lute, strings
broken,
mU- ' Once jubilant with mirth.
¥ % Not all the waters of baptismal Jordan
4ft -' Gould wash the crimson from thy spotted soul;
i+ And woe for thee if Calvary’s deep fountain
J Made not the sinner whole I
IjK Go! bathe thee there lif yet its bath of mercy
J May o’er thee roll 1
Washington, D. C.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
J * THE
PBIDE OF FALLING-WATER.
A TALE
' or TIIK
Old French War of 1?55.
Mg -■ BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE.
A XUI-;
? BEAUSIRE MUSES.
: 0»e person alone remained awako for many
/ hours of the balmy May night.
'Seated by the open window through which
* the noonhght streamed, and the woodland
' breeze stole in, laden with the fragrance of the
leaves and flowers, Beausire rested his forehead
* on his hand, and pondered silently, hour after
5 hour,
T With a rapid and comprehensive glance, the
V young man surveyed his life in the past, and
/ then eodeavored to piuugo into the unknown
\ and mysterious future. What would that future
sis bring for him ? Whence had he come, and
whither was he going?
“Stiange 1" he muttered. “Heaven seems
L to have made mv lot unlike that of any other
human being, and I can scarce find a foothold in
thft’slippery world. I faint and stumble among
y mysteries and doubts : all things seem insecure
/ and dubious in my present, past and future I’’
\ The forehead drooped lower, and something
iff like a sigh issued from his lips, which curled
*
.’ 1 *>
- r *~ . ■- " : T—tr* —l - ■ .— —
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, JUNE i), 1860.
mother, it, ri.ctted hie gate upon tbo tovel^
The moonlight bathed the miniature in it*
soft and dreamy splendor; and in that halflight
able 'love. The fond mother appeared to be
looking on her sorrowful child, to be consoling
As Beajisire gazed upon the miniature bia
eyelashes drooped, the firm lip quivered, tad
then two tears which had slowly gathered te
bis eyes rolled down the sunburnt cheeks.
“Motherl mother!” he murmured, almost in
audible, “ can you look from Heavenen me now ?
lam poor and weak—help me 1 Bless me with
your kind, good eyes, as I seem to have seen
you do in my childhood. Pm lonely without
unworthily."
“ Yes,” muttered Beausire, “ now I can think
i more coolly—it has done me good to look at
my mother. Life after all is not so weary and
unhappy, and I’ll not fear for the future.”
Then his gaze wandered toward that portion
of the mansion in which he knew Isabel was
Bleeping, and the dark eyes grew softer still.
“God guard and keep her,” he murmured, as
before—“may nothing harm heria my absence.
My absence! When shall I return ? Never
until I find out my origin and am able to look
into the old span’s face and say, 1 I am the child
of an honorable father and mother—give me
your daughter for my wife. 1 ”
His cheek flushed as he uttered the words,
and with a sudden light in his eyes, be said:
“My wife I—to have this angel for my own—
Wholly my own! Can I dream of so much hap
piness 1 And even if I should find out what I
wish I—if I am her equal, and a fit mate for her
—will that be all ? Can she love the poor,
homeless hunter, when so many wealthy gentle
men will contend for her hand ? Could she
ever love me?”
And again the head sank in a musing attitude
upon his hand, and for more than an hour he
remained lost in thought. His memory return
ed to all the scenes through which they had
passed together—to tho old days in the wilder
ness—the long journey to the valley—and the
hours spent with, each other since the young
girl’s return to Falling Water.
The look of doubt in his thoughtful eyes
seemed to indicate that no certain conclusion
had resulted from his mental survey.
“ Well, well," he said, at length, nsing and
standing full in the moonlight, “ I’ll leave all to
time, and do my duty. That, at least, is in my
power, and there is no longer any room for hesi
tation. Igo on the campaign with this true
hearted soldier and young Will. What a brave,
bold boy he is!—he has his sister’s large frank
- yes and smiling lips—and I’ll watch that noth
ing happens to him! From Duquesne, if we ar
rive there, I will go upon my search, and trust
to Providence. All rests in the hand of God!”
With these words Beausire retired to rest, and
was soon sleeping as tranquilly as an infant
That slumber might not have been so calm
had his eyes been able to penetrate the deep
foliage of the forest not far from his window.
From that dense covert, two burning eyes, full
of hatred and menace, had been watching him
for hours, and more than once tho muzzle of a
carbine had fcebn aimed straights his heart.
XIV.
THE BLACK WOLF.
The burning eyes were those of Loup Noir—
the Black Wolf—whom we have seen crawl
stealthily toward Beausire while he slept upon
the mountain above the Potomac..
The Black Wolf had indeed “ tracked" his
enemy, not only through the pathless wilderness
from tho Indian towns to the Virginia settle
ments ; but to the very banks of the Opequon.
Beausire had underrated the daring and deter
mination of his foe, in supposing that the peril
of an entrance into the regularly settled region
would deter him from proceeding further, and
cause him to return to the great woods.
Had simple hatred been the controlling senti
ment in the Black Wolfs bosom, this might
have happened. He would have buried his en
mity for the time, and waited until chance threw
Beausire in his way again, where the ball from
a carbine or the edge of a knife might have fin
%
ished him. But there Was in the heart of thia
savage a stronger ffidpig than hatred—it was
love.
For two years he Ifrwl experienced for Isabel
a powerful and absorbing passion. Belonging
to the Cherokees, s trtjfe with whom the Dela
wares were tßen at peace, and meeting fre
quently with the young girl in the course of his
excursions the Black Wolf lutd found himself
the victim of an halitKShsMJen for which be could
not account, and which he consequently attrib
uted to vntchcraft. T a veil, however, had the
“ medicine men ” cndewywfpd to drive away the
evil spirit which made Uw great chief inert and
careless of his fame a whrrior and punter.
“flower of the pale foes*’'—as Isabel was call
ed among the Deiawsu-wfi-had increased, and at
last bad grown
Then the Black Wdtfßj)tdone what was al
most degrading in a gpMpkrrior: he had gone
in person to the young Sir), told her that he
loved ber, and domaneM tbat she should be
come bis wife. Isabel ted shrunk from the tall
savage, whose dark gMses frightened her,with
a repugnance plain la Aye sad cheek and lip;
and the Black Wolf; giirjfedaway by frenzy, had
seized ber hand and terrible brows with
menace, and tbwtter# d tar with death unless
eli© yielded • ■ •
ward him, and suaUinllni the feint and trembling
form which Btill shnsnpc, shuddering, from the
savage. 1
The Black Wolf laid replied by a single sound
and a single motion. The : sound was a growl
like that of a bear fro In whom his prey has been
torn ; the movement (wag- a-sudden clutch at
the hilt of his long hunting knife.
Beausire, as quick sis thought, drew his own,
and placing Isabel bt. iind him, confronted his
foe with a face full of rage and scorn. Thor
oughly aroused, the wild devil in his blood un
loosed, the youth would have'met single-hand
ed a hundred enemies without giving a thought
to the probable resuolt of the encounter. Fortu
nately a number of the tribe were within hear
ing, and attracted by the voices of the advorsa
riss, entered the wigwam. The scene therefore
terminated without bloodshed, inasmuch as Loup
Noir knew very well that his own life would
atone for tho least injury to Beausire or Isabel.
The young man had gone dose to him, finally,
and informed him, in the Cherokee tongue, that
the flower of the pale faces—and he pointed to
Isabel—was what a sister would be to him,
and if the Black Wolf annoyed her further
The hand falling to the hilt of the long hunt
ing knife and the dangerous flash of the dark
eye, as Beausire led Isabel forth, sufficiently
conveyed the rest of the sentence.
From that moment Loup Noir had bated
Beausire with undying enmity; and the conclu
sion which the savage soon came to, that the
young man was a favored rival, did not lessen
this sentiment. Thenceforth to kill Beausire
and carry off Isabel, became the great aim of
his life. Either was a difficult undertaking, as
the young hunter was the Indian’s full match
in woodcraft, and Isabel was never separated
from the tribe with whom she had become a
great favorite.
Such was the state of things when, on return
ing from a hunting excursion toward the Great
Lakes, Loup Noir was informed that Beausire
had set out many days before for the Valley of
Virginia. He followed them with passionate ra
pidity, but came upon their traces ooly on that
evening when they reached the summit of the
mountain overlooking the Potomac.
We have Been the result of that meeting.
From the dense wood Loup Noir had aimed at
his enemy’s heart—but had suddenly lowered
his carbine. The discharge of the piece/ might
bring somo of the neighboring settlers to
the spot, and then his scheme of carrying
off Isabel would have failed. The temptation,
in addition, to slay the sleeping man with his
own hand was irresistible, and nothing but
the presence of the hound bad prevented
the execution of his murderous intent. The
sudden bound of the dog had taken him by sur
prise, and seeing Beausire rise to his feet he had
rushed into the dark forest to escape the uner
ring ball of the young hunter. There, at some
distance from the woodland pavilion, lie had re
flected long and profoundly.
The result of this reflection was that the In
dian abandoned all idea of renewing the at
tack, and ascending to the summit of a densely
wooded peak, waited patiently for daylight
He doubtless supposed that a few leagues would
terminate the journey, but he was destined to
see the travellers set out from Fort Pleasant
again—to which place his keen eye had tracked
them, from his high observatory—with the ad
dition of Will Stockton.
The Indian ground his teeth with rage, but
he was not accustomed to yield I He followed
them stealthily through the wild region until
they came to Falling Water, and in the imme
diate neighborhood of the mansion lie had ever
since remained concealed.
XV.
WBA.T 11E LOOKED UPOX.
Buried in the thick foliage, Loup Noir, as we
. have said, had watched Beausire as leaned
upon the window sill and pondered in the stream
of moonlight.
He had looked with strange agitation at an
other figure—that of Isabel who wrapped in
her white night-robe, had come to her window
too, and leaned forth for an instant, before she
retired, to inhale the delicious perfume of the
leaves and flowers.
There was something so pure and maidenly
in the girl’s attitude, as she thus bent from the
window, which was brushed by the boughs
of the great oak, that the rude savage felt some
thing like a thrill of swe pass through his
frame. His burning eyes took in every detail
with passionate delight—the round bare arms,
the flowing robe, close buttoned to the throat —
the mass of auburn curls reposing on the shoul
ders, and the large soft eves which shone with
a tranquil sweetness in the moonbeams.
Then the figure disappeared—and the win
dow was closed—Loup' Noir uttered a low hiss
ing groan. His eyes returned to Beausire, and
then it was that his carbine had been levelled
“No,” muttered the Indies is the Gherokee
. big French sows WWh* I will lay my i,. p.
; Ah! L'Enfant de Buis, beware I Loup Noir is
1 on your track.’ "'vStth'inga he will have—the
flower of the pale faees, and your blood!"
With these wordiyjpttered in the low, almost
1 inaudible tond of the-Indians, Loup Noir disap
peared in the'denso foliage, at the moment when
Beausire reached the ehd of his mnsings, and
retired to rest
XVI.
now locp koto was nfntRnLPTED is his oon-
VERSATIOX WITS THE OTTER.
Let us follow him.
Tho Indian threads Ills way through the
gloomy shadows of the forest with the air of
one who has become perfectly accustomed to
the locality, and at last emerges upon the bank
of the Opequon, which steals along beneath the
heavy boughs, that droop near ithe surface of
the water.
In a little cove, where tbe'moonlight, twink
ling among the thick leaves, in vain endeavors
to fall upon the water below, a small canoe, made
of a hollow tree, is tranquilly rising and falling
upon die ripples, which are so slight that they
scarcely stir the leaves of the lazy lilies or the
stalks of the drooping water-flags.
Loup Noir detaches the canoe from the root
to which it is affixed, pushes it info the cur
rent, and a dozen strokes of the paddle bring
him to the opposite shore.
Then as the frail skiff seemed about to touch
the bank, it suddenly disappeared. It had
glided beneath a heavy screen of boughs, and
was lost from sight jn a low cavern which the
Opequon flowed into, leaving only room suffi
cient for the passage of a boat and rower with
his head bent down.
The Indian did not seem at all embarrassed
by the deepsdarkness. He affixed the boat to
a projecting root, stepped upon a plateau of
rock, and cautiously advancing about ten feet,
emerged through au opening concealed by flow
ering vines, and stood upon the declivity which
extended at this place along the west bank of
the stream, becoming, higher up, the abrupt
rampart from which stood out tho peak called
" The Lover’s Rock."
Without pausing more than a moment, Loup
Noir rapidly, but with stealthy steps, proceeded
through the thick pines, and in half an hour
stopped before a low cabin, shrinking from view
in a cleft of hills, immediately in front of a deep
hollow.
Three cautious taps were given upon the door,
and a voice demanded who was there. A word
in the Cherokee tongue was returned, and the
door opened immediately. The interior was
that of the rude abode of a hunter and trapper,
and before the fire place, near the shock bed,
lay some hounds, close to tho slight blaze which j
had apparently been kindled to drive away the
damp of the cool May night. He who had
opened the door was an old, thin, dried up sav
age, with an expression of infinite craft in his
eyes, and clad in a nondescript costume, half
hunter, half-beggar.
“ Loup Noir is welcome,” he said, with deep
respect, and speaking in the Cherokee tongue,
“has he been venturing near the flower of the
pale faces again
The new comer sat down and for a moment
remained silent. .
“Loup Noir is a great Chief,” resumed his
companion; “the Otter is a poor animal, he
would starve without his traps—let the Black
Wolf speak.”
Loup Noir raised his head impatiently.
j Two Dollars Per Annum, I
\ Always in Adranee. I
“I hava nothing to speak of!" he growled.
‘‘Yes, I have seen the flower of, the palefaces.”
The Otter sat down respectfufe some paces
from his companion.
“And the young hunter,” hsofifi, “did a
gun go o£T to-night by accident?"^®”*'
The question seemed to irritate Loop Noir
strangely. His brows contracted, and he
growled rather than said:
“ Fool! how can a gun go off, or what good
would it do? No, he is going soon to the war
in the big French fort-*-then the path will be
free."
The Otter grunted respectfully. This grunt
signified that he was listening with deferential
interest, and his companion proceeded :
“ I would move him from my path as I would
a snake, but why? He is going, and there is
time enough to say to the carbine “now I’ ”
“ Ough,” grunted the Otter, “the Black Wolf
is truly a great warrior.' 1
“Thepale face once on his way," continued
Loup Noit, knitting his brows in moody reflec
tion,. “ there will no longer be much trouble.
Some night the flower will disappear, nobod**-
will know where—her foot will slip on
of the stream and she will be swejrt>p^ acl |'
understand, Otter; and then ,
be saidtS*!j“ t j' tll, y 'j ij s teeth '
• aud fialceps with one
for a girl 9 «
“.Becfttisfo T ;rtn mad about her!“ said Loup
Noir, with a sudden blaze in the dark eyes, “I
would risk a hundred lives to bear her off to my
wigwam.”
The Otter suppressed a contortion of the lip,
indicative of something closely resembling
scorn; and said humbly:
“ Well, the Black Wolf knows best. Now J
would never lake that much trouble for a
squaw.”
“ I thought so too, before I saw her,” was
the moody reply, “but she has made me foolish.
Doubtless it is witch-craft, I know not, but I do
know that I will carry her off or die I"
The trapper grunted, then he said:
“Had not Loup Noir better bring some of
the band ? This is very dangerous.”
“No!” was the quick reply, “where could
they hide ? No one suspects that lam in this
region, for I have laid close to the ground, like
a moccasin. But a bawl—they would be dis
covered.” *
“Hist!" said the trapper suddenly, and lay
ing his hand on his companion's arm, “ I heard
a step!"
And with a single bound, which proved that
the old Indian was still as active as a wild cat,
he reached the door, and noiselessly dropped
the heavy bar which secured it This was done
so quickly and silently that it evidently indica
ted long practice. As the bar glided into its
place, a step was distinctly heard approaching
the cabin—slight and cautious, but still quite
audible to the quick ears of the listeners —and
the Otter, in a hurried manner, pointed to a
rude ladder leading to the loft above. Loup
Noir understood, and disappeared in his hiding
place at the moment when a hand was laid up
on the latch, and a voice without said :
“ Are you stirring. Otter?”
The trapper made no reply, but one of his
•bounds growled, and an expression of wrath
came to his features as he caught the dog by
the throat. The demand was repeated in a
louder tone, and finding that he could not con
ceal his presence in the cabin, the trapper, ut
tering various grunts and yawns, as of a man
just awakened from sound sleep,, asked who
was there ?
“ Davy Burns,” replied the voice, “you sleep
late, Otter. Do yau know the day's a break
iug?" . ,
And the hunter renewed his attempt upon the
door. It was necessary to admit the intruder,
and the trapper unbarred the door, rubbing his
eyes, drowsily.
Then commenced a dialogue, in broken En
glish on the Indian’s part. So the day was a
breaking—said the Otter, with innocent sur
prise,—and he not to know it! But lie was
getting old now, and required a heap o’ sleep,
and was hard to wake!
To these remarks uttered in a polite and re
spectful tone, the hunter, whose keen eyes had
fer some moments been examining the cabin, re
plied :
“Well now, see what deceivin' things a man’s
ears are! I could a took my Bible oath, 1 heard
the sound o' voices."
At these words the Otter counterfeited deep
astonishment, and declared his strong belief that
such could not have been the fact. Voices!
what voices ? nobody was about this early, and
he had heard nothing.
The hunter nodded, and leaning on his long
rifle looked keenly at his companion. He had
no faith in the Otter’s word—not the least—but
the acting of the Indians was so excellent, that
NO. 3.