Newspaper Page Text
Southern Field and Fireside.
$ VOL. 2.
l—
r [For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
( “MY LITTLE BABY BUT ONE MONTH OLD.”
}
r BT E. TOURS.
<
9 I have many good sons and daughters,
Y Beautiful daughters as you will find;
1 Sons that a queen might well be prond of,
-v Handsome in body and strong in mind.
m None but a mother can know how precions
" Are these children of mine to me,
Or guess my Joy when around our fireside
Them in their beauty and strength I see.
I Dear as they are I have yet another,
Q No less dear than these dear ones be
One that is not In our earthly fold
f My ttle baby but one month old.
> -
Y Well I remember the beautiful blossoms,
1 Out in the orchard were all a-glow,
And around the barn, and out in the meadow,
Q The new come swallows flashed to and fro.
c. When, with the birds and the beautifhl blossoms.
Jr Out of that shadowy, unseen world
/ Where Ood keepeth Ills unborn angels,
All In their beauty and purity pearled,
y Soothing the pain of my motherly-anguish,
s. One came to me with his bright wings ftirled,
And laid on my bosom his locks of gold:
My little baby but one month old.
\' ' '
- But one month old! for he grew' no older
Where time is reckon’d by years;
y Out of the darkness a bright hand beckoned,
vj Luring him back to the angel spheres.
Only a month was he frail and mortal;
it Only a month was he doomed to bear
On his baby forehead the crown of Adam,
7 Crown of humanity all must wear,
y Ere they can enter upon the possession
/ Os the bright heritage waiting them there
Whither he went with his locks of gold:
My little baby but one month old.
I
® Many a year is it since he left me,
7 And they who buried him under the slay
Y Quite forget that they ever saw him;
/ But I remember him every day.
> Often I sit in the dusk of evening,
Thinking, thinking about a face,
Scarcely beheld in my pain and anguish
KEre it was taken from my embrace,
Striving to see whether in its features
Aught of his brothers' mine eyes can trace;
9 But a cloud that 1 cannot pierce doth enfold
\v My little baby but one month old.
' Then, too, I wonder if in that region
K Whither he went they do change as here;
Whether the baby goes on to manhood,
Steadily growing from year to pear.
9 From year to year where there are no years
Y Where Time never was! Ah! 'tis all in vain
T That I try in my weakness to understand it,
*\ , I can't make it out with my simple brain;
» I only know there is something assures me
r That I shall see him and know him again:
K Somewhere or other my arms will enfold
My little baby but one month old.
Y [For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
/ the:
} PRIDE OF FALLING-WATER.
A TALE
O OF THE
V Old French War of 1755.
"h BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE.
KLXXVIII.
THE TEMPEST BEGINS TO MUTTER.
(. “I had designed,” continued Col. Harcourt,
y “to return at once, with my wife, to England,
l where my brother wrote his little sister should
be mistress of Harcourt Manor, provided she
r permitted him to reign supreme in one apart-
K* ment—the Library. My dear, good Henry
meant by this that, in my absence upon active
service, Anna should not be committed to the
9 • cold care of strangers, but should live at Har
i. court Manor, and be surrounded with every
j comfort. n
“I had intended to embrace my dear brother's
offer, and would have done so at once had it
not been for Donna Maria. This lady could not
V be prevailed upon to visit England, which she
/ evidently regarded as a nest of barbarous her e
> tics—and at her instance we determined to r
m main for a month or two at the chateau. Th •
- • ■ .... ...
AUGUSTA. GA., SATURDAV, SEPTEMBER 2!), 1860.
was more agreeable, as the early Southern
spring had commenced and the balmy air was
very different from the chill climate of England
at the same season. Wo thus consented to re
main, and as I was fortunate enough to procure
au extension of my leave of absence, for some
months more, I gave myself up to unalloyed
happiness, and‘lived in a worloUundimmod by
the shadow of a single cloud.
“ Father La .Vive, as tho youDg soldier was
now called, came frequently to see us, and I
wonder that I could have been blinded by tlie
treacherous villain. These are strong words,
you will say, but the sequel of my narrative
will show whether their application is not just.
“ He presented himself upon the double foot
ing of a priest and an old friend of myself and
the family. He smiled; be subdued his sarcas
tic voice to a gentle murmur, and seemed all at
once to have changed from a tiger to a lamb.
That I was deceived by him is attributable solely
to the fact that I was but twenty-three or four
years old. I had never suffered from the per
tidity of any one, and I could not realize the
existence of a depravity so profound and horri
ble as really dwelt in this man’s heart. The
majority of men are mean —and even then I
could not doubt tbo fact—but I could not be
! lieve in treachery and degrading falsehood. I
I therefore received Father La Vive with friendly
welcome, and though it made me somewhat un
easy to perceive that my wife regarded him with
unmistakable favour, the habit, so to speak, of
being happy had grown so strong that I wai not
i greatty*diaquieted. very gfeav alteration for '
i the better really did seem to have taken place
i in Pierre de la Vive, and the poor people of the
j country were high in their praises of his ardour
in the performance of his religious duties, and
his charity and goodness to themselves. That
he actually performed the meritorious deeds at
tributed to him, I did not and do not doubt—
for, as I have said, there was much to bo com
mended in this man’s character, in spite of his
terrible depravity.
“ Well, to proceed: I now come to the woful,
awful portion cf my narrative —to the history
of a man’s treachery and a woman’s weakness.
I shudder almost, even now, when I think of
that weakness, and stand in awe and wonder
before the spectacle of a human being so pure
and noble, but so powerless to resist temptation.
That this devil of temptation appeared in the
form of an angel of light—that the act of weak
ness presented itself in the guise of a great
moral victory over the sinful incliuations of the
human heart —renders the result only the more
woful. My sons, in that volume which coutaius
not only the sum of divine truth, but also the
supreme results of worldly wisdom —in the
Bible, there is no more solemn warning than the
words, 1 Let him that standeth take heed lest he
fall.’
“ But I wander from my narrative. Month
after month passed, and still, at the urgent en
treaty of Donna Maria, whose health of late
had begun to fail, I remained with my wife at
the Chateau of Montijo. The ancient lady did
not seem long for this world, and it was impos
sible to resist her tearful entreaties that her
child whom she loved so much would not desert
her yet. We yielded, and although I was anx
ious to repair to England, we were still at the
old mansion at the end of autumn.
“ I then received a letter which made it ab
solutely necessary that I should proceed to
England. My brother was desperately ill, and
wrote with a trembling hand, to request that I
would instantly return if I wished to see him
again, alive.
“ The intelligence communicated a profound
shock to my heart, and an additional subject of
anxiety was added to the distressing news from
England. My wife was near the period of her
confinement, and to leave her at such a moment
caused me acute distress. My whole soul had
become wrapped up in her; I loved her a thou
sand times more than I had done before our
marriage; and the thought of being absent from
her side at this painful instant nearly unmanned
me. It was necessary, however, to decide at
once, and I could not long hesitate which course
to adopt. I loved my brother as dearly as my
wife, though in a different way; and the idea
that I would never more look upon his noble
face, unless I returned at once, terminated all
my indecision.
“I informed Anna of my intention, and I
thought she received the announcement with
singular equanimity. Indeed, one of the most
painful obstacles which I had fancied, to my
journey, lay in the deep distress which it would
occasion her; and I had prepared myself for a i
detailed and eloquent exposition of the grounds
which made a brief absence necessary. You ]
will now understand my astonishment when I ,
found Anna not only willing that I should leave .
her, but apparently desirous that I should go at
once. i
“ I concealed my feelings and did not let her i
see that I was at all disappointed at finding my i
absence so slight a matter of regret; and on the l
next morning, having commended Anna to the I
watchful guardianship of Donna Maria, I cross- i
ed the Pyrenees, and took post horses for Paris, i
On the highroad, a league from the Chateau de I
.- ' '--«g-*!gL .
la Vive, I encountered Father La Vive, proceed- !
jog upon hia mule In the dtreeiion of the moun
tain*—that is to say, toward llomijo. I stopped 1
the vehicle, and Vith a vague distrust asked !
him where he waa going ? Only to visit some
poor people in the neighbouring valley, lie re
turned : and whither waa t proceeding in such
great haste ? " v
11 There waa something irf thb face of this
man which indicated that ,1 k waa telling mo a
falsehood. I knew that he - is going to Montijo
—felt it, ns by an unerring i Jitlnet —and for an
instant hesitated what eotrf* to pursue. His
visits had, of late, become atremely frequent,
and liis‘intimacy with Dorn 4 Maria and Anna
of the closest and most conJ T'ntial description,
jhbad regarded this state Obthiags with over
imireasing dread and suspU-Ji’i; and now when
I was about to leave them ; ey themselves, and
consequently subject to hi. regular espionage,
I know not what sinking of. tbe heart came to
me, and I remained sileut, looking, with a frown,
at the priest. He replied \ifilh a smile, and a
repetition of his question irj relation to my hur
ried journey. He was liajnrally curious to
understand it—ho added, wiijt a meek expres
sion—but if it was a private? matter he would
not, of course, Insist.
“ I replied, coldly, that ms journey was easily
accounted for—and then I explained its object.
Having done so. I stated tie*t my. wife was un
well, Donna Maria busy attj id.ag her, and that,
the friends of the family wc beat consult the
convenience of the ladie-' j their
—I said, hr odiieliißtwi-—La Vive
might not go thither, as even fie would Ire an
embarrassment to the household. > '•
The same meek smile which I had observed
before greeted those cold and formal words—but
a covert flash from the dark eyes of the young
priest filled mo with new distrust. Ho replied
with perfect calmneto, that he was very sorry
to hear of tho illness of his worthy friend, Hons.
Henri, whose kindness he should never forget,
and earnestly hoped that I would find my fears
at rest bn my arrival at Harcourt Manor. As
to Donna Anna’s sickness, he presumed that it
was the natural one under tho circumstances,
and trusted that the result would prove hqjpy.
If I desired it, ho certainly would not visit
the chateau, and he should accordingly avoid
doing so, though he would be frequently in the
neighbourhood upon business connected with
his religious duties, and would naturally feel
anxious, as a friend, to call and inquire about
Donna Anna's health. My wishes in the matter
were decisive, however, and if ho was to be ex
cluded wholly, lie would not complain, however
singular and unfriendly it might appear to him.
“ Having made this reply with a meek and
submissive air, the young priest humbly inclined
his head as though he wore saying, ‘ Pass on,
gay world of men and women, loves and hatreds,
noise, dust, bustle, change—l am only a poor
priest going to visit my parishioners! ’ I say
that the man's face expressed all this, and though
I knew that he had loved my wife, that he was
dangerous, and though I had no confidence in
his word, I was unable to retreat from the false
position which I occupied. I had never charged
him with falsehood—had, indeed, remained up
on outwardly friendly terms with him—and it
now appeared ridiculous to forbid him the house.
I accordingly growled out a parting intimation
that I would speedily return, and, in the mean
while, would like the chateau de Montijo to be
quiet; then, with a formal bow, which waa re
sponded to by an bumble inclination ou the part
of the priest, I continued my way.
“I speedily reached Calais and immediately
crossed the channel to Dover. The day after
wards, having ridden through the night, I ar
rived at Harcourt Manor. Ifound Henry pros
trated by a burning fever, and calling for me in
his delirium. I took the feeble hand of the no
ble heart, and that loving pressure seemed to
quiet him. He recognized me, smiled, and
drawing me down until my ear was at his lips,
murmured, ‘ Where is little Anna ? ’ I replied
that I had been compelled to leave her, but here
I was, at least. He emilod again, and whisper
ed, 1 Ask the doctor what I have been saying.’
The old physician, overjored at the change in
his patient, replied, ‘l’ll tell you, Lieutenant.
He’s been saying all the time, ’/ wish George was
here — there's nobody like George!' —and here,
lam glad to say, you are.’ I have mentioned
this slight incident, my sons, to show you what
the relations were existing between Sir Henry
Harcourt and his younger brother, and to beg
that you iu turn will cultivate toward each oth
er the same affection and tenderness.
“ I watched by my brother's bedside for a
month, before his disease began to yield. To
my inexpressible satisfaction, he then showed
signs of improvement, and though the result
was still doubtful, the increased hope was an ex
quisite enjoyment. I could now think more of
my dear wife, far away from me, and dwell up
on her image without having, as it were, be
tween my eyes and the picture the pale coun
tenance of my suffering brother. I had received
regular letters at first, but then they came less
frequently. A week finally passed without in
telligence; then came two letters, with a post
I date as far back that they might liavo traversed
the distance twice or thrice. This seemed to in-
I dieate great uncertainty in the post, and I was
I not positively uneasy.
“ But thereafter came no letters at all. Ship
after ship arrived—no letters. I wrote every
day—no reply. Then commenced a cruel strug
gle. Should I leave my brother, still in danger,
and preferring my presence to that of all other
persons iu the world, or wait still for intelligence
by the irregular post? The cruel hesitation har
rassed me for a whole week ; then, as my broth
er's condition suddenly and visibly improved, I
hastily prepared to set out for Spain.
“Twenty-four hours afterwards I had ex
changed a smile and pressure of the hand with
Henry, and was on my way to the south of
France, from which I would cross by the road
I had come, to the chateau de Montijo.”
LXXIX.
THE HURRICANE.
Colonel Harcourt had uttered tho latter sen
tences of his narrative with painful emotion.
He seemed to speak with difficulty and to shrink
with a sort of dread from that portion of his
history which lie had now reached.
Resting his forehead upon his slender while
hands, and frowning painfully, he sighed with a
weary expression, and remained for some time
~ silent. From this reverie he aroused him
self, however, and returned to his narrative.
Passing his hands over his face, and relaxing bis
. iron lfp which Usd been viotomtly eumpresaed.
he continued !
“I descended tho southern slope of the* Py
renees on a dull, grey afternoon in winter, when
the face of nature seemed to wear a frown of
despair. I had seen the chateau de la Vivo on
its hill, near the post road which I followed;
but I had uot paused, and now, as night began
to approach, I found myself within half a league
of Montijo.
“I cannot describe tho unaccountable fore- ]
boding which filled my mind, or the terrible, un
deflnable fear which made me start at every
noise and strain my eyes toward the old tower
to catch a glimpse of some one. I had written
to inform the ladies of the day of my arrival, and
unless the letter, like the rest, had miscarried,
my wife, or, at least, her aunt, would be looking
for me. No ono appeared. The old chateau
was as silent and as ghostly as a nightmare, and
the heavy tower seemed to weigh like an incubus
upon my heart. I hastened the speed ol my
horse, for I had mounted a rapid and sure-foot
ed animal on the French side of the mountains,
and hurried onward by the narrow bridle path
which greatly diminished the distance, and the
panting animal mounted the steep acclivity with
painful exertion.
“ I was now within two hundred yards of the
chateau, and could plainly distinguish every ob
ject in the range of vision. No one appeared.
The gate in the outer wall was closed, and a
strange air of desolation reigned over tho whole
place.
“ With a beating heart I dug the spurs into
my horse’s side, and he started forward with
deep pants and the foam flying from his jaws.
In a moment I was before the gateway. I tried
it with my baud. It was fast barred. As the
bar resounded against tho heavy wood, I felt a
choking sensation in my heart, for it was not
the habit of the inmates of the chateau to secure
this gate. Depending upon the strength of the
mansion and tho friendly character of the neigh
bours, they only locked tho heavy hall door,
leaving tho outer entrance open.
“ Again I shook the gate heavily, and thun
dered at it with the butt of my riding whip. The
echoes chased each other through the chateau,
and died away in the sombre silenee. No re
ply came. A second time, and with a hand ren
dered powerful by a species of desperation which
came over me, I thundered at the entrance. As
the noise ceased, I heard an aged and uncertain
step upon the walk within. I called aloud, and
a faint voice replied, which I recognized as be
longing to an antiquated servant woman, who
was generally bed ridden.
“ With clenched teeth and an awful coldness
at the heart, I waited until she reached the en
trance. Kvery fall of her crutch upon the hard
earth, as she hobbled along, sounded like a dea th
knell. At last she reached the gate, and with
a hand trembling from ago and weakness, let
fall the heavy bar which secured it.
“At sight of me she started, and then the
old crone begin to wring her hands and wail, as
the Spanish peasants always do when some
great misfortune oppresses them. I checked her
with a stern word and glance, asking how her
mistress was. Was she sick ?
“ ‘ She is dead, senor —both dead! Donna Ma
ria, Donna Anna—all dead, dead!
“ Such was her reply.
It was well that I had quickly dismounted
during the continuance of the old woman's wail
ing. for I should have fallen from the saddle.
As she uttered the words I have repeated, I felt
a sudden dizziness, which deprived me of all
strength, and had not the old woman supported
me I would have sunk to the earth. It passed
off in an instant, and I entered the chateau,
I Two Dollar* Dor Annum, I
| Alway* In Advance. i
walking like one in a dream and asking myself £
whether 1 was not the victim of sorrfc hideous k
nightmare, rather than a sane man in the broad
and real day of the actual world. The place c\
was wholly deserted. Not even a servant re- f
inaiucd. with the single exception of the old wo- v
man. I sat down, leaned my head upon my »
i hand, and my brain seemed bursting. The old [
soul brought mo some food and wine, but I J 1
could not swallow. I made signs to her to come ffl
and sit down, and tell me what all this meant.
“Alas! I soon knew. Through the window /
she pointed to two newly made graves in the A
private grounds of the chateau, and then came ?
her story.
'• Soon after my departure Donna Maria, who %
' [ had long been labouring under a chronic mala- f
| dy, was compelled to take to her bed, from *'•
I which she never again rose. The younger lady, tj
in spite of her critical condition, had waited up
on her assiduously, and had greatly enfeebled - /
herself by these duties. It was all in vain, 4
however. Donna Maria gradually sunk, and
finally died. The effect of the death oflieraunt
upon Donna Auna was painful. She was pre- m
maturely confined, and gave birth to an infant.
Twenty-four hours afterwards both mother and
child were dead. They wore buried there. And A
the old crone extended her trembling hand to- *
ward the graves. /
“ Such was the narrative—such was my re- A
ception at the clftiteau. I will not dwell further
upou that period. It is useless to say that I
was utterly heart-broken- that I longed for fk
death as u relief—that my whole life was over
: seemed ado- <S
quate etVr again to raisoTXSalh oalnilj- continue A
my narrative. *
“When I had recovered from the first stun- ** /
niug effect of the blow, I endeavoured to extract J
from the old woman all the details. Here, how- £
ever, I was disappointed. The servant who had ©
watched over Donna Anna in her illness, had
; soon after her death gone back to her relations
somewhere in the south of Spain, and if I wished *\
to know anything about it I must go to the A
priest, as she, the old woman, had been confined y
to her bed during the whole time. I knew ,
whero the priest lived, and mounting my horse, jf
proceeded to his dwelling. He was absent on O
his religious duties in the parish, however, and 4
I returned without seeing him—returned to go, «,
and pray and weep upon my darling’s grave.
“ Enough of this epoch. I need not lengthen t\
out my history. I did not see the priest who A
was always absent, and soon afterwards, having m
arrangeil with a neighbouring magistrate all as- S
fairs connected with the chateau, I returned to J
England.
I passed by the chateau de la Vive, and 4
stopped to see the father. The old sire assured it
me that his son had been sent by his superiors
to a parish in Languedoc a month nearly before AJd
—had I not seen him ? They had not heard from j
him. I replied calmly that I had not, and then y
re-entering my vehicle proceeded on my way. S
“ I suspected nothing, or if a vague disquiet J
ever came to my mind, I could reduce it to no A
shape aud endeavoured to banish it as absurd. 4
I think my faculties must have been somewhat ft
benumbed, for looking back now to these events, J
it seems to me that I was criminally inert, un- c\
speakably credulous. J
“ I returned to England, found at Harcourt m
Manor orders to rejoin my regiment, and so re- y
commenced my active life, as though my mar- J ■
riage had been but a midsummer’s dream.” A
[to de continued is our next.] 4
—
WOMANS MARRIAGE. rU
To marry one man, while loving and loved by i \
another, is about the most grievous fault that «|
woman can commit. It is a sin against delica- N
cy, against kindness and truth. It involves /
that to legal right which is guilty and shameful A
when given to anything but reciprocal affection. 4
It involves double treachery and a cruelty. It i
involves wounding the spirit, withering the Y i
heart, perhaps blighting and soiling the soul of c\ I
the one who is abandoned and betrayed. It in- . \
1 volves the speedy disenchantment of the one w
who is mocked by the shadow where he was V <
'■ promised the substance, and who grasps only / <
the phantom, soulless beauty and the husk, the Al l
shell, the skeleton of a dead affection. It en- 4
tails ceaseless deceptions at home and abroad, by V a
day and night, at our downsittings and our up- y '
j risings—deception in every relation—deception j
in the tenderest and most endearing moments s \
of our existence. It makes the whole of life a ©
weary, degrading, unrwvarded life. A right- w. -
minded woman could scarcely lay a deeper sin 7 '
upon her soul, or one more certain to bring <\ ■
down a fearful expiation. | '
Tiie loss of goods and money is oftentimes / j
no loss; if you had not lost them, they might A '
perhaps have lost you.
Be calm and quiet in your life. You are not V i
necessarily servicable to others when you are / j
troublesome to yourself. A]
Correct yourself betimes. You will seldom *>l!
or never keep from falling if you cannot recover
yourself when you first begin to totter. Til
NO. 19 $