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Southern Field and Fireside.
VOL. 2.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
BLACK BAYOU.
. BY MA 1T E. BIYAK.
It is dark down where Block Bayou runs.
The oak and the sycamore shadows are there,
And the reed bends downward its bristled spear,
And the long moss droops like plumes on a bier,
So that nerer the autumn's suns
Do more than glance with a slclyly glare
On the deep waters, that black and drear,
Are flowing so noiselessly far down there.
It was very dark there one night.
One autumn night, a twelve-month ago.
The owl remembers it well I trow,—
The old grey owl that is hooting so,—
For he sat in the dim moonlight
And looked through the darkness dow n below
On what happened there twelve moons ago;
He was very still all that night through.
A woman's faint, half-stifled scream,
' Tis so like the prowling panther's cry
That any belated passer-by
Would hurry onward, nor care to hie
T g the spot whence it came, I deem.
And the life-blood followed this sharp cry,
But only the grey owl, pcrchod on high,
Heard the fearful sound, saw the agony.
But the next morning's sun ahone pule
On a woman's dead, white face that was seen,
Floating there where the rank rushes lean,
Turned up to the sun with its rigid mien.
It was a sight to make one qnail.
$ V * «Al tiu> Mnong their green
n ußhst dead flaw, and mwt a queen
* -' E
God! that mu should be so base
At to win t woman's love sway,
With her soft ringlets snd buds to play,
And hear her murmur love-words all day,
Then, when tired of her fading face,
Whose roses the tears have washed away,
To plena the breast that was his for aye,
Nor give the poor victim time to pray.
Do not go at dead of the night,
Down to the glen where Black Bayou flows;
There nor deer, nor hunter ever goes,
There sings no bird and blossoms no rose,
And they say that the blue moonlight
Shines In ona spot on the face that rose
Up to the surface in dead repose—
Shines there all night till the red cock crows.
Red River, La.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE
PRIDE OF FALLING-WATER. •
. A TALE
OF THE
Old French War of 1755.
BY JOHN ESTER COOKE.
LXXXV.
HOW BEAUBIRE AND CAPTAIN WAGNER TOOK A
NIGHT GALLOP.
Such is the state of things at Falling Water.
Is the sky as cloudless at Wagner’s Roost,
where the lord of that domain sits, after a com
fortable breakfast, with his feet against the
mantel-piece, smoking his ' pipe, and pursuing
idly his recollections and his dreams?
The worthy frontiersman puffs Niway at his
corncob pipo, and thinks his thoughts, looking
through the western window of his mansion on
the undulating fields which stretch away to
ward the great hill leaning over “Glengary.”
For the moment, silent and • inert, his mental
vision wanders vaguely over the far scenes of
his boyhood, or comes with a bound to the pres
ent hour—to pass thence, curious and roving,
into the yet undiscovered realms of the Future.
[The writer of these lines would Tain dream,
too, for a moment, as he looks, in thought, upon
those “sweet fields” of the far away'past.
Lost in a reverie, half sad, half smiling, he sees
again the hills and valleys, the forests and mea
dows, the rivulet stealing through grass and
flowers, and the blooming locusts on the emer
ald slopes. He salutes, in fancy, the old manor
house.“ Glengary ” —the enchanted realm of his
sunny childhood, the fairy land of his youth;
and, as the murmur of the oaks comes back to
him, could shed some idle tears, as he thinks of
brighter days and the dearly loved ones who
were then beside him, but are now beyond the
stars. Alas’! the old country house has disap
peared, even as the forms of those who made it
dear, have gone into the dust. One day a month
of fire was wrapped about it, and a few discol
oured walls alone remained —some towering ga
bles, which a child looked on with dreamy in
terest and awe, as he wandered under the great
trees, and sang his idle songs—holding a hand
which will clasp his own no more in this world.
The murmur of the trees comes to him even
now, and he will hear it always—until it mingles
with the winds whieh blow forever from another j
land—the breezes of eternity. 1
I J A TIES G ARDNER, I
I Proprietor. f
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20^1860.
But we linger unduly. Let us come back to
our narrative. Kvents crowd on us, and the
pages which remain must be filled with other
matter than idle dreams.]
Captain Wagner is musing still, and smoking,
when he hears tho sound of wheels without.
He rises, knocks the ashes from his pipe, and
issues forth, with all tho curiosity of a dweller
on the borders of civilization who sees nn ap
proaching traveller, that is to say, the means of
gathering the “ latest intelligence.”
His eye fell upon Colonel Harcourt and Tom,
who occupy tho light traveling carriage of Ma
jor Stockton, and aro proceeding toward Win
chester.
The Captaiu hails them in a friendly tone, and
they stop to converse. The Cdlonel and his son
are going to pay their long-promised visit to
Lord Fairfax at Greonway Court, and ask the
borderer if he cannot accompany them. To this,
Captain Wagner returns a reluctant negative.
No, he must remain whero he is for the moment
—his services are needed at the Fort in Win
chester, where the cannon are about being
mounted; aud he must*decline the proposed ex
pedition. To this decision lie adheres, aud so,
after some more conversation, the Colonel and
his son, with courteous bows to the worthy
Captain, continue their journey.
Captain Wagner having finished his after
breakfast evoke, and attended to the .'flair* of
his household, mounts his horse and .proceeds
toward Winchester. As he does so, ho turns
his head frequently, for, on this morning he ex
pects a visit from Beausire. Colonel Washing
ton had expresaed a strong desire to have the
view* of the hunter upon military affairs gen
erally, and as it was impossible for him then to
i’rav« ’,Vinci...: .h Contain Wngner had sug
gested to Beausirepll vis.f*to tl„4f‘<w. -ai'-s*
suggestion had been accepted, and on tlia morn
ing when we again present Wagner to the read
er, the young hunter was to make his appear
ance at Fort Loudon.
One of Beausirc's characteristics was a fixed
habit of keeping any promise which he made,
however unimportant it might scorn. Thus
Wagner counted upon him, and he did not count
in vain. About noon tiie young man made his
appearance at the Fort, and dismounting pro
ceeded to the apartment over the southern gate
way, the commandant's quarters, where ho found
Colonel Washington and Captain Wagner im
mersed in the calculation of angles, aud the dis
cussion of matters and things in general, con
nected with the fortification.
Throughout the entire day the three soldiers
consulted upon the military condition of the fron
tier, the means of organizing thoroughly tlte
scattered forces in the region, and the best man
ner of meeting the Indian inroad which Beau
• sire declared to be impending.
With these consultations and discussions our
narrative lias nothing to do, and we leave to the
historian of this wonderful period in the life of
a heroic leader, the detailed account of the dif
ficulties with which ho had to contend there at
Winchester. Some day that picture will be
painted, and the world will know that George
Washington bore the burden of the public care,
at twenty-three, as calmly as he did at twice the
age,-in the great Revolution.
Beausire and the commandant parted in the
evening, with many mutual expressions of re
spect and the hunter accompanied Wagner to
his mansion, where he had promised to spend
the night.
They reached Wagner's Roost just ’as night
drew on, and were soon seated in front of the
great fire-place, where some logs of wood were
blazing cheerfully. The ruddy light fell gaily
upon the rude apartment, with its rough pine
furniture, its raftersajecorated with old swords,
worn trooper's saddles, rusty fire-locks, and a
thousand heterogeneous objects.
The old servant, of whom, as we have said,
the worthy Captain Wagner was mortally
afraid, placed an excellent supper on the board;
and to this meal the good companions did the
fullest justice. Having finished, they commenced
smoking, and conversing tranquilly.
The picture is a pleasant one to gaze upon.
Tho worthy Captain half reclines in his huge
chair, like a prostrate Goliath, and from time to
time sends forth, from beneath his ebon mus
tache, snowy clouds of smoke, which lie watches
curling upward, with a musing eye, and an ex
pression of the deepest philosophic interest.
Beausire, placed opposite, is equally absoibed in
the luxurious occupation, and smooths, uncon
sciously, with his slender hand, the rough neck
of a deer hound which has accompanied him
upon his journey. This hound is an old friend
—the same, indeed, who saved Beausire's life
on the last night of his journey with Isabel to
the valley, when they slept beneath the stars,
above the South Branch of the Potomac, and
Loup Noir made his audacious attack. The
hound has been with Beausire ever since—has
walked beside him when he was borne well
nigh lifeless from the bloody field of Luquesne
—ana again has traversed, with his master, the
great wilderness, and re-appeared at Falling |
Water.
As Beausire passes his hand now over tho
! powerful neck of the faithful animal. Killdeer,
I for that is his name, wiiines gently, rises, and
looking with his grave inte.l -nt eyes into his
master’s face, again lies'd* in. and rests his
muzzle on his paws.
Tho companion* conver ■, iron many things,
and the loug hours like minutes.
Tho autumn uight takes • -g. and flies before
the jests, the wild and the grim, low
laughter of the Captain, w< . Is full of “ high dis
course,” and Bmokes inter mrible pipes to ao
company his interminable nories.
But as midnight approach i *, this mood changes.
Captain Wagner becomes tf.ent and an indefin
able uneasiness seems to t*i# possession of him.
Indeed, throughout the w,h'e evening, a vague
disquiet has at times passed ever his brow. He
has talked incessantly to i awah this unwonted
gloom, you might suppose—hut, as midnight
draws near, the shadow to deepen, the
Captain grows more ret-uri*, and it is plain
that an unconscious foreboding agitates him.
He walks from his chair to t' e window, through
which he looks uneasily: ! muses in the midst
of his chance-uttered vu ■to listen; and is
so absorbed in thought that he scarcely hoars
the words addressed to hhn : y his companion.
Beausire witnesses tin • *“-»■ cupation of the
soldier, with great surprise, aud says at last:
“You seem uneasy, Copn.li"
“ Uneasy? Well, I ana, ■' '<% Wagner, gloom
ily,” I feel" as if someth ng vis going to liap
“ Something going tp-ffC e jL
“Or happening, which f e fworse. Yes, Beau
sire, I'm much mistake, H something is not
going to take place win /*. ve are concerned
in.” '
“ What osn v » ipg-te r This is certainly
a rather my*t-dtou«'»F-rf nol ftement, C. ptain.”
“ Mav’x, ,40— he' wateS 1 way I tav*; this
t '.JR«r like r Jho frigHu-wwAwp every
thing' ««>'* *’
“ Why, what can iir.ppfp to make you un
easy?” l
“Injuns can happen, Bfausire— bloodthirsty
devils, with knives wl.etted for women and
children.” s
“ True, but what grounds have you to be
lieve that we are in danger of an Indian at
tack ?"
“ I did not fear for you. or myself."
“ For whom then ?”
“ Can't you thick?"
“Ah 1”
“ Well, I see you understand at last.”
“ You fear for the famhy yonder at Falling
Water.”
“ Just so."
Beausire knit his brows, and reflected. Then
he said:
“ Has anything occurred to make you fear au
attack ?”
“ No.”
“ Why, then ?”
“Go about growling to myself, aud croak
ing? Is that your meaning, comrade ? Well,
I have only to reply, that that same growling
and croaking is away of mine at certain times,
and I have rarely known my fears to be un
founded. You sec. sir, I'm a hunting dog—
born with a nose that smells an Injun as a fox- j
hound does a fox, or the devil take it! Did you
never hear an old watch-dog growling in his
kennel, on a quiet uight, when yov. could dis
tinguish nothing—because he heard the sound
of approaching feet before it caught your ear ?
Well, I'm a fox-hound, a watch-dog, anything
you will—for I have heard!"
The soldier uttered these words so gloomily,
and with an earnestness so deep, that Beausire
lelt a chill invade his heart. Ho tried to smile,
and utter a jest in reply, but the attempt was a
miserable failure.
Suddenly, in tho niidst of. the deep silence
which followed his forlorn endeavour, Killdeer, j
the staghound, rose quickly to his feet, aud with !
his black muzzle turned toward the door, uttered j
a deep growl.
“See there 1” said Wagner, “ what did I tell
! you? It's coming!”
“ What is coming ?” cried Beausire, starting
to his feet unconsciously.
“The news!” muttered Wagner, with a su
perstitious glance, which seemed strange in the
dark, bold eyes.
“ I hear nothing 1"
A “Wait!”
•' At the same moment the houpd growled
again, and, had not Beausire restrained him,
would have rushed to the door.
“ Down!” he said, and as the dog crouched,
fiery but obedient, the sound of a galloping
horse was heard upon the highway.
“Listen!” said Wagner, laying bis heavy'
hand on Beausire’s shoulder, and bending down j
as. the forester does when he hears the ap- '
pr’oaehing step of a wild animal—" listen, Beau- 1
sire I”
“I hear!” was the muttered reply; and, now.
wholly under the influence of his companion's j
apprehensions. Beausire fell into a seat.
‘ As he did so, the clatter of hoofs suddenly
ceased. The rider had evidently drawn reia at
tho door of Wagner’s Roost.
“ Good! as I thought J" cried Wagner, and
seizing from the fireplace 6 flaming brand, lie ,
threw, open the door, aid. followed by Beausire, !
lushed out to the highroad.
Beforo them appeared a negro servant,
mounted upon an animal which was panting
heavily, foaming at the mouth, and in spite of
the chill night, steamiug with sweat. The uc
gro was nearly speechless from fright, and it
was some moments before his stammered words
conveyed any sense to the listeners.
“Speak plainly, and to the point!” cried
Beausire, seizing the trembling negro by the
arm, and nearly dragging him from the saddle,
“ what has happened—out with it?"
The lips of tho servant turned ashy pale, but
the hoarse voice awed him into obedience, and
he managed to make himself understood.
A few words explained all.
Just after nightfall, on that evening, Falling
Water had been attacked by a band of savages,
at least a hundred in number, who were in pos
session of the house before any one dreamed
of their vicinity. Major Stockton, Will, and
Mynheer Von Brom, were the only men present
to oppose them, and Von Brom had yielded
without a struggle. The Major and his son re
sisted desperately, and were lying mortally
wounded. The house had been ransacked, and
Von Brom and all the ladies carried off. He,
the messenger, had been ordered by his master
who was bleeding and seemed about to die, to
ride and tell Captain Wagner and Beausire of
what had occurred.
Such was the intelligence communicated by
the negro, with many gasps and pauses; and
the quick, stern cross-examination of Wagner
extracted nothing more.
It was obvious that Falling Water had been
attacked by some wily foe, who knew of the ab
sence of several of its defenders—most proba
bly by the savage chief who had been repeat
edly pursued in the neighbouring woods—that
(lie household had been over-lowered, the ser
into the fores*- %d the females
far, iraWtu s— ■*' V
‘ Well, that’s afi toleraß, - f
soldier, coolly, “ and, now, cof&wie. you see I
was not wrong in my fears.”
“No, where are the horses?”
Beausire was as cool as Wagner, but the
steady flame which burned in the dark eyes,
and the deadly pallour of the cheek, sufficiently
indicated the volcano under this ice.
“All in good time,” returned Wagner, “ they’re
in the stable.”
"We will go at once!"
“ No, and I beg, Beausire, that you’ll remem
ber your bringing up. It’s melancholy to see a
great Injun fighter, like you, lose his wits be
cause his sweetheart’s in danger. lam going
in the opposite direction from Falling Water,
comrade—to get a few friends from the Fort,
yonder.”
“Is it necessary?” growled Beausire, “and
the time !”
“ The time is nothing, and I, for one, am not
going like a knight errant by myself. I’m not
over afraid of Injuns, Beausire, but I doubt if I
, can take charge of more ’n fifteen or twenty at
j once. Now. there are about a hundred, and I
! want a few friends."
Beausire yielded with a muttered protest, and
; quickly buckling on the belt containing his knife
1 hastened to get his horse.
Captain Wagner bade the negro continue his
way to Greenway Court, and inform Lord Fair
fax, Colonel Harcourt, and his son, of the events
of the evening; and ten minutes afterward was
on the highway to Winchester, accompanied by
Beausire, muttering feverishly.
The league which' separated them from the ]
town was speedily traversed, and Wagner gal
loped to the doorway of the Fort, at which he I
thundered with the hilt of his sabre.
The sentinel challenged, but, hearing the well* j
! known voice, quickly opened the gate: and j
j Wagner was soon communicating his intelli- j
i gence to the youthful commandant, who slept
1 upon a rough camp bed in the room above the 1
j main entrance.
A few minutes sufficed. Colonel Washington
1 who bad speedily risen and donned his military
dress, ordered the drum to be beat; and the in
| terior of the Fort suddenly swarmed with men.
j Captain Wagner selected twenty or thirty,
' who were ordered to act under his command —
and then exchanging a few additional words
with the young Colonel, and directing the men
to procure horses wherever they could, and fol
low immediately to Falling Water, he and Beau- !
sire made the military salute, and struck the l
spur into the horses, who started forward with
good will over the dark road.
Behind came the tall hound. Killdeer. keeping >
! abreast of his master without difficulty, and evi- i
: dentlv enjoying the night journey.
[to BE CONTIXCED IK 01-R NEXT.]
Charles Dickens is reported to be at work on j
I a new novel, to make its appearance iu the usual j
: monthlv shilling form, which is found to be the j
I most profitable after all, as it would bo difficult
! to make any serial pay £40,000 profit in twenty j
months, by running a novel through it. This j
i sum was netted by Bleak House.
i ■ > -«■»■— — —•
“Brows Study" is a corruption of brow-study,
; brow being derived from the old German bram,
1 in its comoound from mtj-braun, an eye-brow.
I Two Dollars Per Annum, [
| Always in Advance* »
, THE INDIAN SUMMES.
*• Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters
1 Its fromlage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:
* That forest through which the great * Father of Waters
t For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!
Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,
With a heaven above it of glorious blue.
And say is there scene, in this beautiful world.
I Where nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?
> Or think'st thou that eon in the region of bliss,
i There's a landscape more truly Elysian than this?
i
I Behold the dark smnac in crimson arrayed,
; Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!
[ I And side by her side, on the edge of the glade,
I The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!
Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,
And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;
And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,
Ere they drop to discover its gold;
And the bay-tree, perfumed, never chamflng its sheen,
But forever enrobed in its mantle of green!
And list to the music borne over the trees!
It falls on the ear giving pleasure ecstatic —
The song of the h*rds and the hum of the bees
Commingling their tones with the ripples erratic.
Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal's call
From the groves of annona?—from tulip tree tall?
The mock-bird responding?—below in Hie glade,
The dove softly cooing in mellower shade?
While the oriole answers in accents of mirth—
Oh, where Is there melody aweetcr on earth ?
In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers.
Who falsely declared ’twasa land without song!
Had he listened as I .to those musical numbers
That liven its woods through the summer day long—
Had he slept in the shade us its blossoming trees,
Ur tahnierf tiUhk sweet fcrttn <v»*r loading the breeae,
He would scarcely have ventured sa statements so
wrong—
‘Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.’
Ah I closet-philosopher, snre. in that hour,
You had never beheld the magnolia's flower! .
Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found—
For how coaid such land to the gods be unknown ?
And where is there spot upon African ground
So like to a garden a goddess would own?
And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,
Wh*c£ Lhe hero, whose guide was a god of the sea. <
i '-'xL
I Sure that rcgToirof old was thVD&nd of u*« t> «Y?<fc
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ANNIE MORETON;
08,
LOVE’S CHANGES AND CHANCES.
CHAPTEB V.
Whene’er I see those smiling eyes.
All Ailed with hope and joy and light.
As It' no cloud could erer rise
To dim a heaven so purely bright,
I sigh to think how soon that brow
In grief must lose its every ray,
And that young heart, so joyous now,
Almost forget it or.ee was gay.
[Moose.
It was a genial, autumnal day. The glorious
sun “in unapproachable divinity careered.”
kindling with benignant ray the vast expanse,
till the shining heavens were resplendent in sil
very sheen. The earth, bathed m the effulgence
aud clad in its mantle of yellow, glowed with
j “ beauty aud life and joyance from above, ”
looking gay and even gorgeous in its garniture
;of gold. The air was soft and scarcely less de
| licious than when fanned by the fragrant zephyrs
of spring.
In a window of Mr. Lawton's splendid man
sion, situated in a retired part of a large and
picturesque town of middle Georgia, might be
j seen two youthful maidens, arrayed in riding
; costume, and on the lower skirting of the house
: two mettled steeds, pawing the earth in seeming
| impatience. The fair equestrians, Ida and An
! nie, are awaiting their respective cavaliers. The
> former is attired in a closely fitting, black riding
I habit, with jaunty hat and waving plumes, which
! display to great advantage her ['early edru
i plexion, while the dress discloses the graceful
symmetry of her form.
i Annie is arrayed in a dark green habit, with
1 hat and plumes to harmonize. Her dress is ad-
I mirably adapted to reveal the full, but light and
I elegant proportions of her figure, and never did
I she appear more radiant and captivating.
| The girls had waited with commendable pa
tience a full half hour, when Mr. Longwood ap
| peared alone. Apologizing for the delay, he
said, he had been momently expecting his friend,
I who finally despatched him a note, explaining
I that he had been called suddenly to attend a
i dying relation, aud hoped Miss Morton w ould
excuse the unintentional omission of a eiwility
j he would have been only too happy to render.
*■ You shall not be defrauded of your ride, coz.
| You must go with us," said Ida, good naturedly.
j .“Do not mind me," answered Annie. "I
I shall change my dress and take a walk, and
i thus enjoy equally with you this fine and gio
! rious sunshine."
j Mr. Longwood added his persuasions to those
i of Ida to induce Annie to change her resolution.
She mistrusted herself. Unwooed she had been
i won. All the priceless gems of feeling that.
! should have been buried in the deeps of her
! heart, were scattered in wild profusion at his
feet, and she feared in some incautious moment
he would discover the gift. “ I would rather
die than be thus humbled," was her indignant
l ought. “But what has my coward heart to
NO. 22.