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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