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m\r f \ K VOL - % IV tFor the Southern Field end Fireside.] K . THE GIPSEY GUtL. ■ M ■jt *■% ' „ fy SI LOUIS* HAXHIEM. IJ * * I% . I*' 1 sweet perfuming, Mingles with the viofera blooming , On the coos green turf beneath, ■ T" And the tiny moss is peeping |4I | Through tho crevice, slyly creeping, |j\ Summer w\nd* to catch a breath. i¥ > •* ' ' ' ih' - |-n mom Is * ' I 4 < i . • Y On to swell he mighty river, y („,t h!uk \> ' Where the glitteringsun-beetr. L <&*,*»* Ms ? v" ! 1 "SafiEs???* » mUr 4|.. f . htf i.ll i Is*? ■■ “ yfT | fy All shut 1n —anil [’ There primroses are stlent bloTVlos,' KOr pure dsisles whitely glowing, Tie so Hslr and sweet, my bower, . That, when hidden there, no power 9 Can affaet my soul with sadness; Yet Idimot call It gladness Jr _ jhese feelings that upon me creep, C But a content so hushed and deep, (L And a heart so full of lose, r Thstat times above earth's glory, KI can almost hear the story, The sweet tale “ tAe lady ” told me, Os our Heavenly Father's mercy, P v Sung by angel choirs above. (. Aye, at times, low whispering voices f 8# and to me trom out the shies, And my soul, redeemed, rejoices, A And my voice within replies. In this green and hidden bower, / At the glowing sunset hour, 3 1, on tho mossy banks recline, 7 if- And watch the daye last sad decline, y Or, in the shade of grey rocks lie, / O'er which vines in festoons clinging, \ With proud tapestried halls could vie, ‘p And list the moek-bird's carols ringing, Unmatched by the tones of art, Y For that little bird’s sweet singing, A Deeper far doth touch the heart. f Sjg And when twilight is resigning J To the silver moon's pale shining, I hie me to the glpeey throng, St That dwell the greenwood haunts among; • When the watch-fires brightly glowing, K'Qalnst the tents tall shadows throwing, Fitfully lta.light revealing, Forms against the tall trees leaning, 9 Where the glpsey swain, retreating, Oa\\ „ Tow of love is oft repeating, T To his dark-browed maid; s si While soft sigh her breast Is swelling, ' Blush and jest her secrets telling, 'Heath the forest shade. \ _ a And maiden bids adieu to lover: 7 With mam's kind kiss, and dad’s rough blessing, Y And in low prayer my Bind confessing, ' Then I seek my quiet bed, \ Beftest tnrf beneath me spread. And the blue sky overhead, K Winds, that pour their song mid flowers, Blooming fresh in woodland bowers, Wafting the perfumes of the rose, Sweetly lull me to repose. 7 Thus, the snmmere gaily flee, V To a glpeey girl like me, / For a glpsey girl la free! / • And, when brighti warm days are past, Y Deep bine skies are gone at last. As When the lovely flowers go Aiding, \ s No more the wind* with perfumes lading, 7 ig s Shedding o’er their silent tombs, V Like pale palls their withered leaves, / he worm Industrious weaves, No more into silken homes. "V When the mournful autumn breeze, / Wails among the tall pine trees, f \ When the silvery elm with sighs, |jf To the quivering a*h replies, j JAMES GARDNER. I 1 Proprietor. f ■ 11 1 : AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1860. While, shuddering in every stem, They wail their shivering requiem To the dying joar: when gale, And rain, aed fVost, make nature pale, When the rainbow-tinted leaves, Blow about the cottage eaves, great oaks and maples bare, t*oss their spectral arms in air, Then, I dwell within the tent, Where the feggots cheerful blaze, And in dreams the hours are spent, Dreams of flowers and golden haze; 4 the time when comes the spring, With her rich stores blossoming. Thus, I mark the hours pass by, In the winter, cheerily. For I know the spring is coming, Bringing with her bees sweet humming— Happy thus, the years must flee, To a glpsey girl like me, Foragipsey girl is free! [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE PRIDE OF FALLING-WATER A TALE "in : m FreMkJTirV nil. lit. LOUP NOIR UONOKIYES A DEBUS. Other of Fattier Tg-fO’-e bad been ardently fixed upon the figure of the girt c* ghe half reclined in the dreamy shadow of the great tree* on the margin of the Ope quon. On the opposite bank of the stream, from the low brushwood, in which he lay oonceaied like a serpent or Loup Noir had gazed with glowing eyes, and a flush in the swarthy cheeks, upon Isabel; and any one who had wit nessed the expression of the Indian's counte ■ ■ nance would have understood without difficulty that his love, like that of the priest, had become an infatuation. Since that evening when he had held the ani mated interview with Father Ignatius, Loup Noir had been tho prey of far more violent and con flicting emotions than before. He had wandered about in the woods, keeping carefully, however, with the unconscious craft of his race, in covert; —and gliding steathily through the underwood apparently without an object, ho had resembled the prowling animal from which ho 'took his name, or an outlaw of civilization listening for the officers upon his track. But beyond ordinary precaution, ho gave no thought to the danger of his sojourn in the region. His agitated brain and heart were pos sessed by one thought only; one image filled his whole soul—the image of the young girl for whom he experienced a sentiment so violent and absorbing. More than once he had approached Falling- Water, late in the nightfrom tho thick covert, near, he had watched the maiden’s form passing to and fro in her chamber; —had seen her shadow in the mirror; —and each time the Indian had gone away, uttering the hoarse growl of one who sees no means of attaining his most cherished defee, and almost yields to des pair. Thus buried in the underwood by day, and only going at night to the Otter’s for food, he • has lingered in the neighbourhood, growing every hour more desperate, and. revolving in the depths of his gloomy soul, the means of ac complishing his designs. The covert from which, like a wild beast in his lair, he looked upon the girl, was a favourite retreat. Through a loophole in the dense wall of shrubbery, he could command a view of the banks of the stream, and the winding path which led to the spot where the little skiff was secured. More than once he had seen the girl and her companions come down to the Opequon, and her appearapee had each time sent a thrill through his stalwart Irame, and brought a fiery light to his eyes. The savage was correct in his view of the nature of the passion which ab sorbed him. -It was a veritable madness; and had come to possess him with the Intensity of monomonia. . " He felt that he must carry off the girl, or perish —and as will be seen, he only waited for the means, which were promised very soon. From his hiding place he had watched the girL as she mused beneath the green trees; and meditated a wild and desperate attempt to plunge into the stream, and carry her off in his powerful arms then and there. This mad de sign had been abandoned however. It could terminate in nothing but his own destruction, since her ones could easily be heard by the party beyond the stream, or from the mansion on the hilL Thus, the savage had remained motionless in his hiding place, watching the girl, with glow ing eyes and a beating heart beneath the shade. Then the priest had appeared behind her, and Loup Noir uttered a growl like that which might issue from the jaws oPJttfleeding wolf, caught in a trap, and raising ■s» bloodshot eyes to his human foe. As the two flgi/res passed along tho bank of the stream, he had followed all their movements, nover for a moment lo«ag sight of them; and the keen eyes of the aagage had easily enabled him to discern the ojEfressiou ot the priest’s countenance. sj? In the mingled wretchedness and passion of the pale face, he rejjl the unhappy man’s secret —and his active imagination made him fancy that the wordß which were inaudible from the distance, were words oflove. The conviction drovip Loup Noir almost to phrenzy. He raised hV,carbine, and leveled it with deadly aim at that priest, and his finger touched the trigger. , J Then it was lowered. ’There was still in tho breast of the untutored* - savage a strange fear and awe i f Father Igcttius. He had so long been accustomed to yiejd to the will of tiie priest, as to that of a superior being, armed witli all the thunders of a .Higher Power, that he shrunk, in spite of biwtfe; from the meditated crime, and 'with a li&yse growl uncocked the weapon, and at bis side. Thence forth however he was fttro of the truth of his surmises. Father loved the girl, and be was an inmate of same dwelling with Ue U, could he do’ Yfoat -course could he racked wfK iaiiserable thoughts, Loup Ndr iollowad tie ,nvo persons with his »(m\ omatimMrr lui.- better to shudder. tm her talking with' his rival than not to |ee her at all. He must see lier—approach her—be beside her once more—or he would go mad. As these thoughts passed through his mind, a sudden light shone in Loup Noir’s eyes, and his lips writhed apart, displaying bis large stony teeth. He had conceived an audacious project, which might and most probably would terminate in his destruction, but would also gratify his passionate longing. To resolve was, with tho Indian, to act. The shades of evening were already descending upon the forest, and a few hours only would elaspe before the time which he had fixed upon for the accomplishment of his design. Meanwhile he.would lie concealed in his hiding place, and wait patiently for the time. What the project of the Indian was, will speedily bo shown. . LHI. TIIE MANNER IN WHICH FATHER IGNATIUS LASIIED AT COLO NIL HARCOORT. The cheerful supper is long over at Falling Water, and the different members of the house hold are seated around the broad fire place, in which some sticks are .burning—for the October nights are gradually growing very cold. The young men and the girls are playing games on one side of '.he fireplace; on the other the seniors are talking upon war and battles. Isabel leans her held upon her hand, and her elbow upon the old Major’s knee, listening ab sently; and in the shadow, as usual, Father Ignatius gazes, from lwneath the hand half-cov ering his eyes, upon the grave, sweet face of the girl. “I grant you, my dear Colonel," says the Ma jor, smiling, “that there are portions of the martial art which are attractive—the sojourn in new countries, the fine fields and cities, to say nothing of the pride which your real soldier takes in a hard fought and successful battle. But there are less agreeable flings connected with your profession.” “ Very true, Major, and I think I understand your meaning." “ I refer to the dull routine of barracks, tho monotony of peace.” “ It is exhausting, truly.” “And you grow tired of it ?” - Immensely. As you have said, there is a keen delight in the march, the battle, the charge at the head of a column of gallant fellows, against a gallant foe. But the inevitable re verse of the bright Ihield is soon presented. We get into quarters—we drill, and parade, and dawdle—and I, for onp, have felt terribly weary of the eternal, unchanged jingle of the rusty accoutrements of Marl.” “ Which you must yet continue to wear.” “ Inevitably. If I read at my post, some in terest suffers—if I lie down unarmed, some foe may come upon the camp or the quarters, sud denly, I must remain a war machine—and, I assure you, the clogged wheels sometimes creak harshly.” “ You have seen mnch service ?” “ Since my boyhood I have been in harness. I went into the army at eighteen—and here I am a grizzled Colonel of cavalry at fifty, tossed about still upon the surges of a troubled world. Do I wish to rest?—the word is ‘ march 1' Do I long to he sent upon some particular service 1 —it is ‘halt! You are needed here!’ You see it is not desirable—this trade of war.” V t “ But the glory and honour of a great career, i Colonel—you should consider that I While we poor planters rest here in inglorious sloth, you f soldiers load a life full of fresh and splendid , emotions ” i “In jack-boots and sabre, in wind, and sun, l and rain 1” interrupted the cavalry Colonel, i grimly smiling. “ But the glory remains.” f “ The glory, Major ?” • “ The public respect and admiration.” ’ Tho lip of the grim Colonel curled, and he i passed his hands, after a fashion with him, quickly over his contorted face, as if rubbing i his eyes after sleep. ; “ The public respect and admiration, which you speak of," he said, “ are really very fine things to talk about” “ But they are real.” “ They are imaginary.” ‘‘Now, you are growing misanthropic, my dear Colonel,” said the old cavalier, with a smile. “Misanthropic, my friend?” said Colonel Harcourt, smiling grimly as before,” not at all. I am less of a misanthrope titan any one whom I know. But do you really fancy that the pub lic cares about us bf the army ?" “ I know it.” ' “ Well, you would not think that you knew it, had you seen more, at least of the English people. The nation take thought of her sol diers, unless they shine in the light of some dazzling victory—some encounter that happens to attract public attention ? Not so, my friend I lam not a grumbler, and do not share the sneering at cjviEan3.'"'iitl?; i assuiu*Juu, ui< - country at largo don't,onraa penny Cor our ex istent*). We toil'and pludf and light and win battles—and it makes less noise than the last elopement in high life. We bear the heat and burden of tho public defence, and the sleek, soft courtiers, or political intriguants, get the hon ours, the offices, the emolument, and the public eye I I care not for the profit—l scorn it, for my estate is ample ; and, were it not, I should still scorn it. But I hate to see injustice, and I spealcfor my brother soldiers more than for my self. *1 have seen old and accomplished officers kept out of promotion, and treated with con temptuous neglect, in order that some popinjay, with no knowledge of his profession, but with influential backers in the family, might obtain everything he wished. I say, my dear Major, that I hato injustice—and that coldness of the public is a trifle, in comparison with the rank and criminal injustice of the men in civil posts of influence.” “ I fear your criticism is just, Colonel;—no thing remains but the performance of one’s duty.” “ You are right, sir,” said Colonel Harcourt, , raising his proud head with grace and dignity, “ that at least does remain—the discharge of a soldier’s duty, in whatever sphere. If he faith fully perform it, he can afford to care nothing for the intrigues of small civilians, whatever fine offices they may hold. The history of the land will reverse the injustice—and the names of the valiant soldier will be loved and hon oured, when the tricksters and time-servers are forgotten, or remembered only for contempt I” Having unburdened his mind by these ani mated words, the Colonel smiled with the odd mixture of sarcasm, pride, and carelessness which characterised him at times; and turning to Father Ignatius, said “What are your opinions, reverend sir, of of this bloody trade of war ? Did you ever see a battle T” The priest, thus suddenly addressed, stam mered something in a disturbed voice, to tho effect that his profession did not permit him to approve of bloodshed unless it were necessary. As to battles ” “Why, Father Ignatius 1” said Will, “you must be more of a soldier than you think 1” “ I, my dear young friend?” “Yes, just now when the Colonel was de scribing that night attack, and the charge he made with his cavalry, I thought your eyes were going to blaze outl” “ Oh, my young lriend! What an idea I” “It’s true,” said Will, laughing, “and do you know what I thought as I looked at you ?” “ What you thought ?” “ Yes, the queer idea in my mind?” “The queer idea, my young friend?” stam mered Father Ignatius. “Yes, it will appear very queer to you, Fath er ; but I thought, as you looked so at Colonel Harcourt as he spoke, that you must have been —before you were a priest, you know ” "Before I was a priest!" “ That you must have been a soldier 1” The simple words of the laughing young man seemed to produce a singular effect upon Father Ignatius. He turned paler than before, and for a moment preserved an agitated silence. “That is, truly, a fanciful idea,” he said, in a low tone. “ What made you imagine such a thing ?” ~ _ . T “ Your expression, as I said, Father Ignatius; and other things, too. But you will think me discourteous, if I allude to them.” - , I Two Dollars Per Annum, 1 Always In Advance. , “Discourteous?" said Colonel Harcourt, gaz i ing at the priest, though addressing Will, “ how i can the reverend lather take offence at an idle [ fancy? What was it, Will?” “ Well, then, if Father Ignatius won't be of fended I have seen him in his walks, when he was thinking, and I never knew a soldier whose gait was more perfectly military." “ Military 1” stammered the priest. “ Yes, indeed, Father Ignatius 1” cried Will, laughing. “ The left hand on the cartridge hoxl—the right hanging easy!—head up, eyes front!—the feet moving left!—right!—as if you were marching by the tap of the drum!" And, extremely amazed at the idea of Father Ignatius being a military gentleman, the young man laughed gaily, and exclaimed: “Come now, Father, confess that you were once a soldier. Colonel Harcourt, do you re member no face in the ranks of the French like the father's ?" “It really does seem to me that I have seen Father Ignatius before." And the Colonel, byway of humouring Will’s jest, looked keenly at the priest. Father Ignatius was pale before, but his face now became so livid that it resembled that of a corpse. The sickly pallor extended to his very lips, which were closely drawn over his teeth; and the dark eyes, lurking in the ghost like countenance, were terrible from the con trast. In spite of this strange and excessive exhibi tion of emotion, however, the voice of the priest, when he replied, was calm, and as cold as ice. He looked Colonel Harcourt full in the eyes, taiih iinmttthing almost resembling bitter menace lie accent*; |n jy* low, clear, metal yourself; Cfctonef uistrust my word, and make me the subject of your jests and sneers, I have only to reply, that I shall leave the household in which I am treated thus. I had supposed, that after doing all in my power to return my young friends to their fathers’ arms again, that I should at least be free from insult —for your son's sake, sir, if from no other con sideration!” The full, defiant look into the face of Colonel i Harcourt, clenched the words like a blow; and the officer afterwards declared that very little ] effort of the imagination would have been ne cessary to produce the conviction that an armed hand had actually struck him. For several moments the entire company re- , mained as still as death—not looking at each other; and axperiencing very uncomfortable sensations. The voice of Will broke the si- ) lenee. “ Why, Father Ignatius 1” he exclaimed, im- i pulsively, “could you think that my foolish jest was meant to wound you?—that I would , offend you, and in my father’s house? I assure you nothing was further from my intention, and j I did not dream of such a thing!” “Nor I, sir,” said Colonel Harcourt, coolly, for the expression in the eyes of the priest had f not pleased him, “my words were as idly ut tered as those of my young friend, and I bog j you to pardon them." * “Yes, forget all about it, Father,” said Will, “ it’s too little for friends to fall out about.” “ I do not bear malice, my son,” said the ( priest, who, with extraordinary quickness, had suppressed liis anger, or at least the traces of it, and resumed his old calmness. “ Perhaps I j was too hasty—if so, as I doubt not I was—l regret it. Age and suffering have not succeed- i ed, I fear, in taming an originally quick temper —nor even my holy profession. No, no, I will not think harshly of my friends, and it is I who should beg pardon of the excellent Colonel Har court, and of you, my son, which I do with all my heart 1” The benignity of Father Ignatius, as he ut- , tered these soft words, was exquisite. His eyes, a moment before so full of anger and menace, were as mild and gentle as a dove's—or an amiable tiger’s. He positively beamed upon the company; and seemed desirous of gathering them like a party of children into his paternal j arms, and blessing them. “That’s right, Father,” said Will, “and I promise in future, to keep watch over my fool- j ish tongue." “ No, no, my son—to jest is the prerogative . of youth. Jest, then —even at your old friend, if it affords you innocent amueementl” And Father Ignatius sank back modestly into the shadow of tho mantelpiece, with a heavenly smile upon his lips. ) ■ — m,,m rr LTV. HOW THE HOUSEHOLD OF FALLING-WATER WAS AROUSED FROM SLEEP. In spite of this highly agreeable and amica ble termination of the scene, a perceptible stiff- i ness settled upon the circle. Friends may heal their differences, and declare that unpleasant words are completely forgotten —but while those words are still vibrating, as it were, in the atmosphere, the old careless se renity cannot return. It thus happened? that everybody simultane ously made the discovery that the hour was '! NO. 12