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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.