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I
VOL. 2.
I JAMES GARDNER, I
1 Proprietor. I
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
NATALIE.
BY < IIAHLIK WILDWOOD.
I*
When danced the quivering gleams of sunshine
’Poll a beautiful day in the spring-time,
A warm heart all buoyantly throbbed with glee,
And sweet rose-leaf lips poutfcd prettily,
And soft, peach-hued cheeks with beauty did glow
As with a mild word from her meek voice low,
A smiling young rose, with sweet modesty
She gave—oh, angels!—Me gave unto me,
My darling, my darling, my own Natalie—
The beautiful, charming young Natalie!
. v. n*
With beauty 'twas fit a queen to adorn,
For it wore the tints of a brigl . May morn,—
So delicately sweet was its odour,
And so dainty its beautiful colour,
The floweret thus given to me, I ween,
Was culled from a bower of fairest green,
Refreshed from flowers thrown out of the skies
Like pearl-tears glistening from angel eyea;
Culled from a Naiad-bower, wild and free—
Culled by the hand of my own Natalie!
hi.
Ah l tin* maid who gave this beautiful rose
Reflect* it*beauty wborever aha goes!
S# uKKifeStty yotiag, bo ciuumtagly nor, ,
This fkiry-like maid of heavenly sphere,
Each action of hers exhales the perfume
Os the lovely rose just bursting in bloom;
And, oh I a heaven of boundless love there lies *
In the soft sky-light of the wondrous eyes
Os the light-hearted, queenly Natalie—
The graceful, angel-smiling Natalie.
IV.
May she wear forever the crown of T*utm
■Which sits all bright 'pon tho brow of her youth,
And long may the roses of June's sweet weeks
Bloom ’pon her fair dimpled velvety cheeks;
Long may love-brilliants, like stars In the skies,
Beam in her beautiful, heaven-hued eyes;
And, Rose of Beauty, so young and so gay,
May sunbeams of Joy smile round thee alway—
Oh! yes, Nutalie, so young and so^ay,
May sungleams of Joy e'er gladden your way.
v.
Though the bright and joyous spring-time is passed,
And the bud has withered away at last—
Though its bright leaves are now withered and torn,
Its fair young beauty all faded and gone—
And the rich perftime of this bud so gay
Hath vanished away like the tints of day,
Dear maid, it still bloom? in the loveliest part
Os the violet-bordered Realm of the Heart!
Oh 1 yes, it still blooms in the loveliest part—
Blooms, Natalie, in the Realm of the Heart!
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE
PRIDE OF FALLING-WATER
A TALE
OF THK
Old French War of 1755.
BY JOHN' ESTES COOKE.
XCII.
THE FLIGHT.
Tbe hunters came on with loud shouts, and
, in five minutes had precipitated themselves up
on the den which contained their foes:
In front of all, Beausire, followed immediately
by Captain Wagner, plunged through the heavy
brushwood, and with his bunting knife between
his teeth, and his cocked carbine in his hand,
rushed into tho cavern.
He was met by a dozen savages, who, utter-’
ing ferocious warwhoops, threw themselves up
on their enemy.
Beausire laid the foremost dead by a ball
from bis carbine, and then grasping the weapon
by the barrel whirled it around his head, and
as it were, ploughed his way through the howl
ing mass toward the object of his anxiety.
Before the terrible advance of the young man,
wild with hatred, and dread at the probable
fate of the captives, savage after savage sunk to
the earth, with cloven skull or shattered arm;
and in all this time no knife or hall had reached
the breast of the youth.
Suddenly he felt a hand upon his shoulder
pushing him aside, and tho voice of Wagner
growled:
1 ‘ Good 1 comrade I You have done your part
so far—now give us a chancel”
And with the calm ferocity of a tiger, Captain
% Wagner struck with his long sword a blow
which cleft the forehead of the savage in front
• ol him.
AUGUSTA. GA„ SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1860.
Then shouting to his men, the borderer, like
Beausire who was beside him, advanced into
the surging, yelling, cursing press of savages,
like an incarnate Fate—his great broadsword
rising and falling, and leaving in its path the
mangled and bleeding bodies of those upon
whom it descended.
The cave was now filled with hunters and
savages, mingled in inextricable confusion.
Shots rebellowed, shouts resounded; and the
spectacle was that of a reeling, growling crowd
of furious wild beasts rather than.pen. who, in
the gloom of the cavern, and on the brink of the
abyss from which came the monotonous roar of
the cataract, strove to tear each other to pieces.
Suddenly the Indians uttered a wild and ter
ror-stricken yell, which escaped from their
throats, as it were unconsciously, and evidently
originated from some other feeling than hatred
of their enemies.
They crowded in a mad, wild multitude to
ward the opening of the cave, no longer return
ing the blows of their adversaries, in many
cases abandoning their weapons, and apparently
intent only upon Sight from tbe spot upon which
they stood.
At the same moment Captain Wagner shouted
hoarsely so his men, and throwing himself vio
lently in the direction of tho retreating foe, is
sued with the hunters from the cave.
XCIII.
THE CATASTROPHE OF THE DRAHA.
The precipitate retreat of the savages and
their as«»liants from the. cavern originated ip. *
sadden instinct of self-preservation.
Loup Noir had not taken part in the conflict
He had something nearer his heart even than
triumph over the hated foe. Love conquered
rage, and he unhesitatingly relinquished his
leadership of tho band to carry off Isabel.
As we have said, when the savage rushed
into the cavern after his struggle with Killdeer,
he found that the captives had disappeared. In
fact, Father Ignatius had taken advantage of
the sudden movement of the savages toward
the entrance, to hurry off Isabel and her com
panions by the steep and dangerous path which
led along the brink of the abyss, to the second
entranco of the cave.
Here, the priest knew that Loup Noir had
posted a fleet horse, stolen from one of the plun
dered farms, doubtless with the view of bearing
off Isabel, and even though the band were cut
to pieces, of securing tho gratification of his
most ardent passion.
It was the design of Father Ignatius to use
the animal for the rescue of the women if ne
cessary—but to reach tho opening was tho first
necessity; and to the accomplishment of this
ho addressed himself with energetic rapidity.
He hurried the captives along, and had reach
ed a point beyond the gulf where the path was
smoother and less dangerous, when suddenly
Loup Noir cleared the abyss with one desperate
bound and caught the unfortunate priest by the
throat.
Father Ignatius made a desperate effort to
defend himself, but in vaiD. He struck wildly
at Loup Noir with his poignard, but the blow
cut the air only. The hand upon his throat
closed more tightly—Loup Noir uttered a hoarse
cry—and then Isabel and her companions saw
the priest totter, and staggering back, fall heav
ily to the earth.
Loup Noir’s knife had entered his hoart, and
with a last look toward the girl, the priest ut
tered a deep groan and expired.
“ So much for treachery I” growled the sav
age, drawing a long breath, and speaking in the
Cherokee toDgue, “ now for the restl”
With these words he again cleared the abyss
at a bound, seized the keg of powder which had
been carefully concealed, and grasping a brand
from tbe smouldering fire, rapidly ascended\the
path which had been followed by the priest and
the captives.
He was thus raised above the mass of com
batants as it were, and at a wild and peculiar
cry which the savage uttered, the band suddenly
turned toward him.
It was then that tbe Indians had recoiled
from their opponents, thrown away their arms,
and sought to escape from the cavern.
/The spectacle which they beheld was indeed
sufficient to make the boldest recoil with terror.
Upon a ledge of rock above the abyss, and with
in a few feet of the dead body of Father Igna
tius, Loup Noir was standing with the keg of
powder balanced aloft, ready to be hurled be
low. The fuse was already lit, and the lurid
glow fell full upon the ferocious features of the
savage who resembled rather a demon than a
human being. y
The design of Loup Noir was plain: His
friends would hear the warning, and escape.
But before the pursuers could issue forth, the
explosion of the powder would take place, and
they would be one and all destroyed.
Such was the diabolical Bcheme of the savage,
and, with an unfaltering band, he applied the
brand to tbe fuse which would burn for about a
minute. Y
With an almost superbufoan exertion of his
immense strength be thaojrtpled the keg across
tho vulf: and it rebounoad heavily from the
g
floor of tho cavern. "E.si - -
A last glance told L «up Noir that the Rise
was still smoking ; and then with incredible ■
speed, he rushed throng, the'half darkness of
the cavern toward the reed entrance which the
captives had fled to, durj ig the brief interval.
Loup Noil- reached tV open air last in time
to see Isabel and her lompanions flying with,
loud screams, towards hunters who had is
sued in a tumultuoua on* ‘d from the other on
t trance. V
Tlie savage saw tha .$. was over—that his
i band was in full flights >hat even bis devilish
i - scheme of blowing up Hy party had failed.
One thing alone remake I—to secure Isabel;
and before the affrighted, girl was aware of his
vicinity, his vigorous arm were around her, and
lie was half carrying, ha': dragging her toward
tho spot where the horao Was concealed.
Suddenly a loud cry ran,; through the air, and
Beausire who had caugli, sight of the Indian
and Isabel, rushed wildly"!award them.
His brain reeled, his b» >m seemed on fire—
with a wild shout he d»rte; toward his foe.
Loup Noir rapidly mu ;bored the horse—a
fleet and powerful animal- and vaultim into the
saddle drew the half iusßhute form of the girl
up before him.
With a last look of triumMiant hatred toward
Beausire, he strained the fo'jn of the young lady
close to his bosom, dug tyi heels into the ani
mal, and started at a gallop down the
declivity, toward a clump octrees, which would
completely screen him, ftu I enable him to ca
“Xwdtß* «*W »V . vr , Jm . \ ’
sued from his pale and IraW Ungllps. His oars ’
bine was unloaded—indeed?it had been so frac
tured in the encounter in the cave that even had
it been charged, he could not have uaed it—and
the young man saw the woman whom he loved
more than his life, borne sway by the savage,
before his very eyes.
The spectacle seemod to deprive him of his
genses almost. He uttered inarticulate sounds,
' and time after time leveled and snapped his use
less weapon at the savage who was about to
enter the wood and escape.
Suddenly Beausire hoard a step behind him,
and a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder.
He turned and saw the old hunter, Davy
Burns, beside him.
“LookI" cried the young man, madly glaring
at tlie woodman, “ he is bearing her off.”
“ He won't,” was the low, deadly reply of the
hunter whoso face was very pale; “ she’s my
darling? and that’s the scoundrel who strangled
my pnpl”
As be uttered the words Davy Burns threw
his long rifle to his shoulder.
“ Take care I” cried Beausire, “you will strike
her /”
“ Never fear,” was the reply, “my hand's as
steady as a rock—and now look!”
An instant of silence followed, and Beausire’s
eyes were strained in the direction of the flying
savage who was on the very edge of the pro
tecting wood. In another moment he would
escape, and Isabel would bo lost forever.
The youth's teeth were ground together, and
he turnod to the hunter. As he did so a puff of
smoke Issued from the muzzle of the long rifle,
and the discharge followed.
Beausire looked and saw a horee flying rider
less—and the two men hastened toward the
spot. '
As they did so, an explosion which seemed
to shake tlie earth to its very centre tore its
way from the bowels of the mountain, and filled
the air with earth, huge masses of rock, and
blinding smoke. A dun cloud rolled rapidly
along the wild declivity, and over the i-hattered
rock and ploughed-up earth settled a heavy
veil which seemed to wrap up in its gloomy
folds some terrible mystery,
i Beneath that veil—in that wild tomb—re
posed tho body of tlte man who had atoned for
a great sin by a profound penitence.
Beausire and Davy Burns hastened onward
in spite of the suffocating smoke, and soon
readied the spot where Loup Noir has been ar
rested by the unerring ball of the old hunter.
The riderless horse had fled into the forest—his
rider lay where he had fallen.
The ball had penetrated the back of the sav
age and passed through his heart. He bad fall
en, dragging the girl with him, and when Beau
sire seized the fainting form, which the arms of
the savage still encircled with a last desperate
’ effort, Loup Noir writhed like a venemous rep- 1
tile in his dying agonies.
He was plainly conscious of what was going
on around him, though the film of death already
began to dim his fiery and menacing eyes.
Those eyes, filled with hatred and despair, were
fixed with wfid intensity upon Beausire, who, in
spite of his struggles, forced the almost inani
mate form of the girl from the savage clutch—
and the passionate gaze followed tlie youth as
he bore Isabel to a neighbouring streamlet, and
deluged her forehead with cold water.
The girl regained her consciousness speedily,
and drawing back from the supporting arms,
buret into a flood of tears. Then her eyes
turned toward the spot, but a few yards distant,
where Loup Noir was writhing in his death
agony.
——
The old hunter was standing beside him,
leaning upon bis rifle, and calmly contemplating
■ the repulsive spectacle. There was no little
compassion in the expression of the old man’s
face; but that pity did not arise from compunc
tion. Ho had slain tlie savage in fair fight, and
to rescue a woman; but the agony of the dying
, man no less moved him.
. “Poor,Hjiser’ble human bein’.” said the old
he won’t live three min’its, and I'm
“W.,f«rl” camo in a hoarse cry from tho
parched dhlbat of the Indian, and the appeal
was not disregarded. .
Old Davy Burns hastened to the stream, and
returned with bis otter-skin cap filled with tlie
cool limpid water. Then kneeling he wised the
Indian’s bead, and held the cap to his lips.
With a last effort he gulped down a deep draught
of the water, and, throwing back his head,
breathed heavily. ,
Suddenly his glazing eyes Tell opon Isabel,
half supported by Beausire, and the spectacle
seemed to recall him from tlie brink of the
grave—to turn hira footsteps back, as it were,
from the very threshold of death. %
His {tint and trembling hand fell, with gal
vanic movement, upon the hilt of his belt.; and,
clutohing the hilt, he drew it and rose to his
feet. Two staggering steps—a wild, desperate
stab at at the air—and then, with a frightful
cry, Loup Noir fell forward upon hia face, (ear
ing up and biting the earth. /
,A last convulsiou .passed over his writhing
form—a last hoarse growl came from the hot
Mtft Wwdk* Kpe; end then the proetrato
' ISrth no lotiger Noir was dc nr.
“ Poor, miser’ble human bein’,” repeated the
old hunter, in a low tone; “ tie’s gope with all
his sins upon his head. May God have mercy
on his soul!"
Such was the rude prayer which accompanied
the spirit of tlie savage on its flight to another
world.
XCIV.
‘the sequel.
We need not pause to describe at length the
events which had occurred iu another portion
of the field of encounter, or to dwell upon the
sequel. A brief summary is all that our history
requires.
The Indians, finding themselves outnumber
ed, and missing their desperate Chief, had
speedily lost heart, and given ground before
their enemies. The hunters pressed upon them
with redoubled energy, and very soon the dus
ky warriors might bo 1 seon plunging with fierce
cries into the depths of the forest. The explo
sion in the cavern diverted the attention of the
fee; and, covered by the dense smoke, tlie rem
nant of the band made their escape. They left
behind them but few dead bodies—and one hun
ter alone had fallen in the struggle outside the
cave. Another, and several savages had been
killed in the cavern, but their bodies were
buried there forever, from human sight, beneath
great masses of rock.
The smoke had scarcely risen from the decliv
ity, and rolled slowly away, when Colonel Har
court, his son, and Lord Fairfax appeared upon
the scene, followed by a number of hunters.
They were too late, but seemed overjoyed at
the rescue of the captives. We need not des
cribe the feelings of Mr. Tom Harcourt, when
he saw Amy before him “ safe and sound ” —nor
need wc refer to the feelings of Beausire, or of
Captain Wagner, who bowed to the fat Mynheer
Von Brom, who had also escaped, with ironical
courtesy. Mr. Von Brom was quite crestfallen,
however, and did not return the salute. He
sullenly retired into the crowd—and will appear
no more in this history. His unmanly fear and
neglect of his companions during the march and
their subsequent captivity had induced Miss
Patty to regard Mynheer with profound con
tempt ; and, inasmuch as Mr. Vom Brom was
only noticeable in our history as a suitor of the
fair lady, he naturally disappears, when he is
forever defeated by his moustached rival.
Colonel Harcourt had gone by Falling Water,
and brought the welcome intelligence that Major <
Stockton and Will were perfectly easy —their
hurts only flesh wounds—and their speedy re
covery cortian. Little Clara cried silently .as
she listened, and we may be sure that neither
Amy, Isabel, or the soft-hearted Miss Tatty were
more self-possessed.
Then preparations were speedily made for the
' return. The dead bodies were buried; the la
dies were placed upon horses; and tne trium
phant party set out for Falling Water.
As the stalwart heel of Captain Wagner rang
on the portico, he turned to Lord Fairfax, and,
smiling grimly, growled:
“ I think we’ve done for ’em this time, my
Lord 1”
“Companion,” added the Captain, addressing
Beausire, “ we’ve rooted out that scoundrel Loup
Noir and bis rascals, and may be married now
in peace—eh, comrade ? I'm going to get mar
ried on the same day you do, or I’m a dandy r
“ Excellent, my dear Captain 1” said Beausire,
with a happy smile. “ Remember, now, to keep
your resolution.”
."I will,” said Gaptain Wagner, “or I'U eat
my head!” '
I Two Dollar* for Annum, {
I Always la Advance. )
[ xcv.
CONCLUSION.
We are happy to be able to inform the reader
that the valiant Captain Wagner was not driven
to the terrible alternative of making a meal up
on bis own head. Miss Patty Fairfield no long
er offered any opposition to the wishes of her
chivalrie admirer— and became Mrs. Captain
Wagner .upon the very day when Isabel gave
her hand to Henry Haroourt, Esq., f«r, as we
prefer calling him, Beausire.
We may as well anticipate events and add
that Tom and Will were eventually married to
i Amy and Clara; and this announcement, we
hope, will give pleasure to our 'more youthful
readers, who have, doubtless, had more sympa
thy for the youths and maidens than for Father
Ignatius and tho Indian. .
We regret to say that Captain Wagner was
induced by his wife *to abandon “ Wagner’s
Roost," and bseome the jolly landlord of the
great hostelry in Winchester, where the thrifty
dame soon made a little fortune. As to the
Captain, ho yielded to the wishes of his wife,
and gave up his estate of country gentlemaD,
oaone condition only: He was to have no
thing to do with business in its practical details
—and be carried out his resolution. Captain
Wagner stalked about the hostelry with his
great sword clattering against his huge boots,
hobnobbed with his guests, and occasionally
went to spend whole days with Lord Fairfax at
Greenway C&urt, whilst in Winchester he spent
many hours of every day at the Fort, discussing
military matters with Colonel Washington
T 'i« r '• ■ M.ii.i-mPtotfurn lo» xmlVui sol
dier into a portly tavern-keeper; and, had it
not been for the state of the times, Wagner
would, undoubtedly, have deteriorated in the
manner which we have mentioned. But this
threatens to beguile us into the commencement
of a new narrative—and we leave the valiant
Captaidf married and happy.
A word in relation to other characters, and
our tale is ended: Major Stockton and Will
recovered speedily from their wounds, and Isa
bel and Beausire were married Christmas day,
as were the Captain and Miss Patty.
Colonel Haroourt presented his son with a
splendid estate adjoining Captain Wagner’s,
which lie had lately purchased; and then, in
the commencement of the year, rejoined his regi
ment. Tom went with him, but returned in u
few months for his bride.
Captain Wagner abandoning “ Wagner's
Roost,” Beausire added that estate to his own; t
erected a fine mansion on, the hill overlooking
it, and carried out the scheme of Wagner, by
lodging an oversew in the “Roost.”
At “ Glengary,” as the mansion was called,
the young man, whose strange fortunes we
have tried to narrate, and Isabel, his dear wife,
lived long and happily. Colonel Hareourt and
his son came, in a year or two, tomee them; and,
as the reader may fancy, the re-union was a
happy one. The Major and his liausehold were
assembled at Glengary to meet the ancient guest
of Falling Water: and they talked serenely in
the merry, peaceful days, of former times, so
filled with peril, suffering, and blood.
It was after one of these conversations, and
while the elders were not looking at him, that
Beausire drew to his breast the tender check of
Isabel, and murmured in her ear:
“How all is changed 1 L'Enfant de. s Bois,
the Child of the Forest, is Henry Haroourt, gen
tleman! The Pride of Falling Water, too,
is ”
“What?” she whispered, smiling tenderly.
“ The joy and blessing of Glengary!” was
Beausire’B reply, as he pressed his lips upon the
pure, white forehead.
* * * * * *.
So ends our chronicle. It has tried to trace
some figures of the elder day, and to make them
play their parts upon a theatrofamiliar and dear
to him who writes. For there, on the emerald
slopes, by the laughing stream, in the cheerful
old hall—wherever moved the forms of Beau
sire and Isabel—the writer of the chronicle re
. lating their adventures gaily in the imme
morial years. The feet of the stranger have
passed over the soil of “ GleDgary,” and the
flowers, the blossoms, the old loveliness, have
faded. At “ Falling Water” only does the old
time live again. There the musical Opequon,
overshadowed with great sycamores, still mur
murs as it murmured in the days before. There
the skiff “ Minnehaha” still rises and falls upon
the sunny ripples—and under the great oaks
on the grassy lawn sound the voices and the
laughter of other years. *
Dear voices! happy laughter!—o merry, mer
ry carnival of a day that is dead!—as the music
sounds at sunset from the hall, I think of one
who often wandered afnid these scenes—who
was the pride and joy of more households than
“Falling Water”; and yonder, past the sunset,
smiles p saint in heaven.
THE END.
Marriage is a feast where the grace is some
times better than the dinner.
■ i»i
Unbecoming forwardness oftener proceeds
from ignorance than impudence.
NO. 25.