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Southern Field and Fireside.
( V OL. 2,
£For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
80NG.-I HAVE LIVED IK FANCIES.
I have lived in fancies,
Heart and soul at play;
Dream'd through bright romances,
Night and day l
Loved too well the dreaming
Much to think of self;
Knew no arts of scheming
After power or pelf.
Life with me was loving;
Love the only true;
And, with fancies roving,
Love was all I knew.
To be loved was ever
All my simple art;
To be sure forever
Os one loving heart!
* Ah! the wordly fashion,
Sternly mock'd at mijie;
My proud, foolish passion
Was not thine.
Thou hast lost the many,
Whom thy*spells had won, i k, I
'***'•■ v li ' W GukSu '««■«*.
. ir > '• ' «
h
•a* of h*™ mm** mm
»*epeff all through with agf u gluW,
Th* whltpertog heart to Itwlf »h»U »»ji—
Twizt the quiet earth, and the quiet ektes,
Ifound my mom of May.’
■ [iorthe Southern Field and Fireside.]
* THE
prim: of falling-water
A TALE '
or THK
Old French War of 1755.
BT JOHN E6TEN COOKE.
xivn.
UNDER THE MASK.
Absorbed in looking upon the figures of these
two eminent men, whose names and deeds are
thp property of history, we have failed to speak
ox an individual, who, more than Fairfax or his
tOlßpanion, was connected with the inmates
•f Falling-Water.
We refer to Father Ignatius.
What part, it may be asked, has he played in
■ drama during these hours of hospitable en
r rtainment? and why has he failed to join in
tLe conversation ?
We reply that Father Ignatius has been af
icted with painful modesty. He has scarcely
■ de his appearance at meals, —gliding silently
to lis chamber when he can do so without at
tra :ting observation —and shrinking with hu
ll ity from drawing upon himself the notice of
it company.
Then any one has addressed him, as has
opened once or twice, the good father has re
pi .-l with touching diffidence, gravely raising
Lis ayes, and relapsing into silence as soon as
possible. The gentle deprecating smile on the
i .in, pale features has become almost diffident
and humble. In a word, the good father has
- vn in his manner, his expression, the very
tones of his voice, that he does not regard him
rte. worthy of notice, and is absorbed in his
tr.i quil and holy meditations upon things rais
e -hove this low sphere of earth, in which he is
tim jassive instrument of a greater Power,
sis is what the manner of Father Ignatius
jonveyed. Now let us penetrate that cun
mi. mask, and read the heart beneath.
1 . that heart a tempest of fiery and corroding
via- ion has been raging. Evil desires, unbri
dle longings, and bitter hatreds, have alterna
te 1 with despairing remorse and cruel self-re
,ch. More than once, in the still hours of
■t terrible scourge has descended on the
moulders —the thin frame has shrank
lddered beneath the infliction —and the
as sank down, feeble, panting, with
g wounds, to murmur his agonized pray
deliverance from the hell hounds of
i which are tearing him.
have been his nights—full of sleepless
~ cruel scourges, and remorse for the sin
.1 ie is committing. But the day has
bro , ht him no strength to keep his good reso
lutions. ’ 1 . i
Fa: ir Ignatius, the priest of the Roman
Othobo Church, sworn to celibacy, loves Isabel
stock.- n with a wild uncontrollable infatuation.
From the day of his arrival at Falling-Water,
h ha yielded inch by inch to the awful temp
on every hour his feet have slipped more
ma v re toward the dangerous verge; and
now hen there is no longer any propriety in
if- fun ter stay at the homestead, —when his
duties all him, and his presence begins," neces
sarii .. x) become the seource of comment—now,
j JAMES GARDNER, I
I Proprietor. f
• of real feeling, “or rather twice—and both timos
to the dearest of their sox. But I have no chil
dren—that's in the future still."
“And Wagner's Roost?" asks the Major, “is
that, too, imaginary ?"
“By no mean j, my dear sir. That’s the name
I gave my house yonder, up on Redbud run,
near the tract they call ‘Glengary,’ this side of
Winchester. It's a torn down place, I grant
you; but I'll build my palace, and the Roost
will do for my overseer. I have already fixed
upon the individual,” the Captain says, glanc
ing round, and finding that Miss Patty has va
cated the apartment, “his name is Von Brom, a
low but iudustrious Dutchman, whom I mean
to regularly thrash!”
“Oh t that will be excellent I” says Will, with
a laugh; “Mynheer Von Brom is going to marry
Miss Patty, and I heard her say that the Roost
was an elegant place.”
“Miss Patty I" thunders the Captain. “Von
Brom! Miss Patty! Let me see him try it—
th« rascally fat cattle drover! To presume to
’"use his ayes to the paragon of women, the pearl
her sex!—zounds I let him take care how he
thinks of such a thing 1 I'll forbid the bans,
and if necessary spit his carcass on my sword,
or the devil fly awe', with me!" l! -
- Will laughs and says: '<■
1 i "You seem Interir.
* "if * s* ■**"
* ' J jk: rested ?—b
rtbv. whxj PM'
boon, juld !angu.
Such were the real feelings of the humble,
shrinking priest, gliding modestly away from
the assembled company, and replying with a
faint, gentle smile, when any one addressed bitn
—and a few murmured words.
With such feelings in relation to the young
girl, the priest, it will be easily believed, did not
look with iudifference on the scheme of Loup Noir
to carry her off. When he thought of it, indeed,
a wilder devil than all the rest took possession
of him. His feverish imagination drew a pic
ture of the girl in the power of the savage;—he
fancied her subjected to barbarous cruelty or
what was far worse than wounds and death.
When such thoughts crossed his mind be raged
and gnashed his teeth, like a wild beast caught
in the toils; —he rolled upon the floor of his
chamber in an agony of wrath, terror, hatred,
and despair. But the danger remained. Loup
Noir had apparently disappeared from the re
gion, for the priest could not obtain another in
.terview with him—but he knew the wily char
acter of the savage too well to believe he had
relinquished his cherished design. He, too, tho
priest reflected, was mad about the young girl;
and he knew that Loup Noir never swerved from
any pursuit which he undortook.
He could only register a vow—we should
rather say swear an oath —to thwart his rival
in the terrible game; and toss and writhe in
hopeless agony as before.
He had no designs—no future—no thought
of what would ensue. He had never dared to
form any plot—to fancy himself stripped of his
cassock, and free to espouse the girl. He yield
ed to his madness—which, as in due time will
be seen, had temporarily driven from his bosom,
another possessing devil of a different character
—and floating on the stream, thought not of the
b reakers which might shipwreck him.
Such, we repeat, was the face beneath the
mask; the heart beneath the trappings of the
actor.
The drama was in full action, and promised
to terminate in some tragic catastrophe.
XLVIII.
ONfcTHE STAIRCASE.
“Come, Amy, let us go and lie down, —I am
tired, and think I would like to have a talk with
you.”
“ Just see, dear, how the same thoughts pass
through both our minds at once. I was just
saying to myself, ‘ I’m tired of these ridiculous
boys, who are all the time jesting, and wish I
was lying down, talking with Isabel.”
“Well, dear, we’ll go up stairs." •
And, with her arm around Amy’s waist, Isa
bel went toward her chamber.
On the staircase the/ encountered Father Ig
natius, wd<l smiled gently.
“ Ah, young ladies,” said the priest, in his
soft voice, “you are leaving the young gentle
men to take a little rest, are you not ?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Isabel, “I am tired." ;
“I fear you are not well, my daughter. You
should watch over your health, since you are so
dear to your father and overy one.”
“lam not really unwell, sir.”
“I am afraid you are.” 1
“ Do you think rSe sick ?” 1
“ At least you are very pale.’-’
And the priest gazed, with mild affection, up
on the young girl—with a fatherly air of pity <
and sympathy.
“I am very much obliged,” said Isabel, “ for 1
the interest you take in me; but the winter will
make me quite well again.”
“ Yes, sir,” said Aifly, “I shall give Isabel
a part of my roses —and as I’m not at all afraid 1
of you, Father Ignatius, I venture to offer you
1 all the rest I don’t want.” j
AUGUSTA, GA„ SATURDAY, JULY 14," fsfiO.
i not one of tho many friendly savSgos who were
■ scattered, ns permanent and peaceful settlerjg
throughout the regiou—but an, *tual, howrftl
i brave of the western tribes inp ** * l’ u giand,
and. in consequence, to Virgintre
The idea seemed incredible q: tbe old hunt
er was called upon to repeat hihJL,- H ed:d
so near yin the 4m words, ci vtJ ended with
the declaration that he knew ev< friendlv T
dian in n circuit of twenty mIWP> and th J one
was a etranger.
“ Y ! ' at ™ kes the whole mats | plain is thiß -
added the old man: “that he he saw
me, and the peaceable savages ne for d ’ o Thev
stand still, and takeoff their caps l and try to
make out they’re your best frier* / and humble,
and submissive. Tfjisftvas a reifrbrare in his
war paint, with r carbine; i wd i for ono
am goto* to look o' 1 :.,r the
And I.'.toy futiii said ' ntain Wagner,
wbo had listened with dee" Mention to the
bunte-j; m,rratjvafl “ I’m go g, lho tra n and
mean to n;n this, rascal to bis ; #nd tUen un .
earth an.?giveh-m a small r : vt’tyof i eadi or
my name’s not - he scoundrel I
to com- prowling abC. * ,» very settle
ments WTamustbc th o *, and
',H.g Jiud. ass-r tight ” jo along and
,5 okmg round
»>-—*> -iK- vv-ius >etj/„ _
to their cliamber. ) r \ /
XLIX. \ -
TWO BEATING HEARTS.
In a few moments Isabel and Amy had di
vested themselves of their tight dresses en
dued themselves after the fashion of youn : la
dies “not visible," in flowing wrappers; and
were lying with their cheeks nearly touchin; on
the snowy couch which they shared at nig t.
“ Do you know, dear,” said Amy, in that ooo
ing voice which at times rendered the little
maiden’s talk so musical, “ that I hate the.very
sight of that man ? ” - /
"Os whom? Father Ignatius?”
"Yes,”
"Ido not like him, either,” was Isabel’s re
ply, “ but Ido not hate him. I strive to hate
no one."
" That’s because you are so good, dear. You
are a thousand times better than I a«. and I’m
glad I came to Falling Water, for you’re making
me good.”
“I ? " said her companion. “ Oh, Amy! you
do not know how sinful I am. I have faith—l
do not know what I would do if I had not trust
in God. The world is a very poor place—at
least to me, and I do not care much for life—this
life. All I look to is my preparation for another
world, where there will be no sorrow and tears.”
These words were uttered so sadly, though the
accents of entire resignation removed all traces
of gloom from them, that the impulsive Amy
turned her face to the pillow and began to sob.
“Amyl” said her companion, “What are
you doing ? Have I made you feel badly ?’’
“ I’m crying," burst forth from tbe young la
dy’s lips, “ and you always will make me cry if
you talk so. Oh, Isabel, why do you stay so
sorrowful ? ”
And Amy raised from tho pillow a face wet
with tears, and pressed her lips to her compan
ion's cheek.
“I know what you mean,” she murmured,
passing her hand slowly and caressingly over
her friend’s auburn hair, and gazing sadly into
her face; “you are thinking of him.”
“Yes, dear,” was Isabel's low reply; “I think
of him nearly all the time, and I will not be so
untruthful as to say that my sadDess is not oc
casioned by his death.”
The word came forth in a low stifled voice, and
as she uttered it, the young girl’s eyes filled sud
denly with tears and she sobbed.
“ No," she said quickly, as Amy threw her
arms around her and drew her with tender pity
toward her bosom, “ no, you must not think I
am much distressed—that is, more than usual.
Look, Amy dear, I have gotten over my distress,
and now since I have spoken plainly,, have
spoken of him as he is—as dead, no longer on
this poor cold earth, I feel relieved. Oh, me l—
it is very hard at times'to think that I shall nev
er see him again; hut God’s will be done. I
hope we shall meet again in Heaven.” .
And the low voice died away in a sad murmur
which was not tremulous at all. Resignation
had plainly taken the place of grief in the inno
cent bosom, and Isabel no longer shrunk from
looking her loss in the face.
“I know you will meet him in heaven,” said :
Amy, wiping her eyes, “if all that I have heard
of him was true.”
“True I” said the young girl colouring with J
sudden ardour “it was a hundred, a thousand
times leas than the truth. Oh I you did not; ’
know him." ! 1
“I shall always regret that my visit was noi j
in the spring when he was with you, dear.”
“Yes, you should have coma then. We bed j i
just returned from the wilderness. Oh I Amy, i :
” J6mmm
■ l’m no judge of human character.”
“Ah I—something wrong?”
“I a® sure of it. Why does he remain with
you ? You will acquit me of discourteous Med
dling with your private matters, which would
be extremely reprehensible in one who, like his
reverence, Father Ignatius, is a guest himself;
but I do assure you, my dear sir, that I take a
very sincere interest m your well being and that
of your family; hence I speak frankly. I add
now, that I have conceived a very unfavourable
opinion of this man, and feel as though bis pres
ence here was dangerous.”
The Major became thoughtful. Then follow
ing with his eyes the form of the priest which
was about to disappear in the forest extendi..g
along tl a banks of the stream:
“Can such be the truth?” he said. “You
utter what has more'lLm-once Hashed across
my mind; but it seined absurd.”
“ Well, time will show. The period in which
we live is troubled; this region is the prize
which England and France are lighting for—
now this priest is a Frenchman.”
“ But what end could he compass by schemiug
herd"
“ I know not; I only know that Ido not like
his stealthy ways; Ms doWnoast looks, and sub
tle smile, and murmured humbleness. It seema
to me that I have ihora than once observed id
bis eves a very different expression—and did I
’ not think It, Utaossible, should suppose that this
n»i» r - <&,r me Jecret enm; .y in his heart toward
. _ «• cate. - |
I(pt4 • from the day on which he we.. - new
known it I should have become his wife, Amyl
—for what real obstacle was there," she con
tinued in an excited voice “since I loved him
and he loved me ?”
“His being nameless, which you told me of,
was none at all," said Amy. >
"None 1” exclaimed Isabel in the same tone,
“how could it be I Was ho not entitled to me,
since without him I should still have been lost
from home and friends*? Did he not watch over
me, protect me, guard me like a brother, and
restore me to my father ? But he was too sen
sitive—too proud 1 He would not ask a young
lady, he said, to marry a nameless stranger I
As if he were not better, nameless as he was, and
though he had no claim on my hand, than the
greatest duke of England t Oh, Amy! I should
have been happy, joyful, prouder than any queen,
even though I had been a queen indeed, and he
my humblest subject, to have gone to him and
laid my hand in his, and given him my life to
keep! For I loved him—he was worthier of
love than all the world beside!—l shall never
love again I”
And trembling, blushing, exhausted by her
deep and painful emotion, the young lady
turned her head away, and said no more. Amy
did not break in on this sacred grief, before
which she felt herself powerless; she only
passed her hand caressingly over her soft hair,
wiping the tears from her own eyes, and feeling
very unhappy.
In a few moments Isabel had regained her
calmness; and turning to her friend, with a sad
smile shining like a gleam of sunlight through
her tears, said:
“I have made you sorrowful, I am afraid, dear;
but my loss came to me, heavily, as I spoke. I
will not talk any more about it, and distress you.
Time will do away my grief, and I have much
to make life dear to me. I will try tp do my
duty in the world, and be obedient to God—
and then I shall meet him in another world.”
She drew the face of Amy to her as she spoke
and kissed the sweet cheek; —and thus wrapped
in each other's arms, the two young girls, whose
words we have not shrunk from placing upon
record, even though they make our friends the
cynics sneer—thus, in a close and fond embrace,
the two hearts rested happily.
L.
HOW ISABEL WAS STARTLED BY A NOISE BE
HIND HER.
Some days have passed.
It is one of those bright afternoons of autumn
when a pensive splendour seems to fill the air,
and nature stands in her many coloured gar
ments, meditating as it were upon the glories
soon to pass away, and fade into the russet
brown of winter.
The old house of Falling Water sleepily re
poses under its great oaks whose leaves are
gently nestling in the idle breeze, and beyond
the stream, fringed with the drooping boughs of
the great forest trees, the steep declivity is all
alive with variegated tints, all beauty, splendour,
and romance. The great willows sigh above
the flowing water—the whito armed sycamores
stretch out their mighty limbs toward their
brethren opposite, as though they longed to fold
them in a close embrace; and the, alder trees,
tulips, hickories and dogwood, burn in red, and
blue and yellow in the hollows which stretch
onward, and sr-. .'oat in the circling belt ofever
greon piues.
The air is drem ly, pensive, filled with memo
rial sadness. Th hours have come when the
golden year s uiawing to his death; and the
flaming cardinal flowers and prince's feathers,
*
I Two Dollar* Per Annum, >
1 Always In Advance. f'
sorbed in meditations connected with bis sacred
office, had become now, in presenco of the sav
i age, a stem, collected, almost haughty superior,
• before whom an inferior who had been guilty of
l some misdemeanor, had appeared to receive
judgment and punishment.
To the humble words of Loup Noir he replied
coldly in the Cherokee tongue, which the Indian
employed:
“It is well; sit down on that rock and listen
to me.”
“The Father is angry; his eyes are like a
clouded sky,” murmured the savage, obeying
the command of his companion and sinking
down upon the moss-clad rock at his feet, “why
does he look so, coldly at his son ?”
“ You are no 80n of mine, nor of the Churcli, ”
returned Ignatius, “you are a reprobate, for I
have commanded, and you did not obey.”
The Indian counterfeited astonisument.
“ Loup Noir disobeyed!" he exclaimed; “ dis
obeyed his father 1”
“Yes,” said the priest haughtily, “two days
ago, when I encountered you in thf forest and
bade you meet me here to-mg) t, . ret.
that you would not approach;::, house,” a"
with his thin finger he pointed ' direct
of Falling Water. *“ Well, you in ,t that [ a
ise I " * . “ *
And he. looked so sternly at ti e Indian t' it
he could not sustain the priest’s -vn.
“ Ough I ” grunted Loup Noir who hi: it - ,
talking to the father? Did * ~ird of •ue ,ti Usll
absorbed apparently fJua* ■ ,
On the opposite bank, hi.-; i» ri>.~ ■ ' “I
“Minnehaha” for a stroll in the grass .- rol'o v
Bunk between the hills, the figures of Ann '.l -
ra, Will and Tom Harcoi :* are usibl •-a t e
and joyous with the elast.:: ; on and • leva: •
youth. Amy had begged er ' let.: '/> , ' '
them, but Isabel, with tli> ■ faint sad " , >< ,
almost always seen upon her p.iie hi •
— she would rather wal, be th, •: -i: i. t: ;
they came back, she said A : A-ny ng
plainly that her friend wished to b .none, r
left her, first, however bogging jic. Tom liar
court to understand that his society was not tho
least inducement to her, and she would beg him
not to make a single observation during the
whole walks.
Isabel is thus alone in the little wood; and
listens with a pensive pleasure to the sigh of the
wind in the pines beyond the stream. Weary
with walking, she sits down on a grassy bank by
the water, and leaning her head upon her hand,
surrenders herself to melancholy musings.
Wo know of what she is thinking—what fig
ure rises up before the eyes of her memory, and
looks at her, as it were, from the shades of
death. The low murmur of the wind is in uni
son with her mood : and she returns in thought,
as she has done a thousand times before, to the •
bright past —she hears his frank true voice—and
looking into the dark eyes, which filled with such
ehivalrie love and homage, when they gazed upon
her, feel? as though he stood beside her as be
fore.
He is evermore to her, if possible, than ever;
—since he has passed away she remembers
nothing which detracts from the perfect outline.
Crowned with the great, supreme, and change
less grace of death, he stands before her like a
beautified spirit, with a love and pity sweeter
than the power of words is adequate to express.
Such was the mood of the young girl, and
such the figure which her dreamy eyes looked
upon, when a voice behind her made her sud
denly stait.
‘•Good evening, my dear young lady” said the
voice.
And turning quickly she saw Father Ignatius
standing before her.
She could not suppress a movement of dis
pleasure, and a contraction of the brow, which
plainly indicated the disagreeable character of
the interruption.
“Good evening, sir,” she said with unwonted
coldness, and rising as she spoke “I was not
aware of your presence, and your me
nervous, from its suddenness.”
“I regret it,” replied Father Ignatius speaking
with unwonted distinctness and boldness, “but
as I have something to say to you, and may not
have another opportuniiv, I beg leave to re
main.” •
“Something to say to me, sir?” said the
young lady coldly, but experiencing a vague
disquiet at the altered demeanor of the priest.
“Well I will listen sir.”
And she bent her clear eyes on the pale thin
face.
LI.
A SINGULAR CONVERSATION.
In spite of his great control over himself, the
priest could not suppress the traces of some
powerful emotion which affected him; and be
fore the calm clear eyes of the brave and col
lected girl, his own sank unconsciously.
It was not long, however, before he checked
every exhibition of feeling, and returned the
young lady gaze for gaze.
“ Let us stroll along this beautiful path, my
daughter,” he said softly, but with the same
NO. 8. ol