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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.