coffee-pot on the hearth; the white china tea-pot flanked it on the other side, while at the foot of the table stood a juicy ham; golden butter occupied the centre; white rolls and biscuits, sweet-cakes and preserves filled up the intervals, and fragrant honey shed the odor of summer-flowers on the wintry air. How on earth, I hear my incredulous readers exclaim, did such a number of good things meet together in Richmond, in 1865? It happened in this wise: The tenement-house was crowded from attic to cellar with refugees from all parts of the adjacent country, and each one had contributed her quota to the feast. One had given the sugar, nearly half the small quantity brought from home, and jealously hoarded in case of sickness; another had spared the coffee from a sick husband's hospital stores; another had sent the juicy ham smuggled in from the country by a faithful contraband; and the pickles, preserves, honey, etc., came from similar sources. Kind and generous hearts! Of their little, each had spared a portion to enhance the young wife's innocent festival. Old Virginia! immortal Old Virginia! cypress mingles with and overshades her laurels, and her soil sounds hollow with the graves of her noblest sons; but, at least, she has a glorious record to show; and beside the red blazonry of her world-famed battle-fields shines the gentler and more tender, yet equally eternal lustre of her heroic women's deeds of love and charity. And the little feast, contributed from a dozen generous sources, is in honor of one of Virginia's brave defenders one who had spent all the nights of this cold, sleety March in the trenches before Petersburg — who slept, if he slept at all last night, on the cold, wet ground; but who should press to-night, please God! a softer, warmer couch. The long-desired, long-solicited furlough is granted at last; and to-night the husband rejoins the wife, not seen for six long months. A few brief days of happiness they will share, even amidst war's universal desolation forgetting the past, defying the future, they will be happy in the present. No wonder the young wife's eyes glisten, and her cheek flushes, and her breath comes quick and hurried, as she glances now at the clock, now at the table, and anon, with a fonder, more lingering look, at a tiny cradle drawn close to the glowing hearth, in which sleeps a chubby boy of four months old. Four months old, yet never seen by his father! Oh, what pure delight to show her boy, her first-born, to the author of his being!—to witness the father's proud joy!—to share his rapturous caresses! Tears of exquisite happiness—“the rapture trembling out of woe "-stole down the young wife's cheek as she bent beside her infant's cradle, and breathed her lowly, heart-felt "Thank God!" At that instant her ear caught the distant sound of approaching wheels—she knew it was near the hour when the last train from Petersburg would be in: doubtless her husband was a passenger in that train-doubtless it was his vehicle now drawing near. Yes; she is right-the carriage stops before the house-there is a knock at the streetdoor-it opens, and steps ascend the stairs nearer nearer nearer yet. She starts to her feet, and, with neck outstretched, fixed eye, and ear intent, she stands like a statue of expectation. But when the step pauses before her door, with one bound she is across the room, and, without waiting for a knock, throws the door open, prepared to fling her arms around her husband's neck. A stranger stands before her-he places a small slip of paper in her hand, and turns away. He is a messenger from the telegraph office-it is a telegraphic dispatch. She opens it-what does she read? "Your husband was killed in the trenches before Petersburg this afternoon at three o'clock." No more -no no less! No more was needed to hurl her from a heaven of happiness to a hell of woe- -no less could tell the tale! In the trenches! While she prepared to welcome her long-absent with light, and warmth, and feasting with tenderest caresses, joyous smiles, and the sweet laughter of his unseen child, he lay dead in those cold, dreary trenches! There slain there buried! Never after to be seen by her- never again to have his claycold lips pressed by the frenzied warmth of hers - never to lay a blessing on his infant's head! Dead in the trenches! While the words of thanksgiving yet trembled on her lips, came the sudden tempest, uprooting her every hope -the stern, relentless answer of inexorable destiny to her prayer. What wonder if, with the wild, piercing shriek of desperate woe that rang through every corner of the startled house, there went out from that darkened soul all hope, all faith, all religion? Draw the curtain in mercy over such a scene! Into how many desolated homes could we, Asmodeus-like, have looked during those terrible four years-should we have beheld the same fatal message carry horror and despair to millions of anguished hearts? And can these things ever be forgotten or forgiven? "Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord; "I will repay it." "How long, O Lord, how long!" WE ELLEN A. MORIARTY. believe, firmly, that there is much in a name, and are as often attracted by the name of a writer as the title of the article. The name of "Moriarty Moriarty" is attractive and inviting, and sounds very "English" too. Miss Moriarty came to America when very young; was educated in the North, and, on leaving school, came to the South, and has resided here for nine years, no inconsiderable portion of her life. Miss Eliza Moriarty, well known in the North as a poet of much promise, is a sister to the subject of this article. Miss Ellen Moriarty writes cleverly. Her poems are generally "hasty," but, with some corrections, do very well, and now and then she is brilliant. Her stories are excellent. We think that she is a better prose-writer than a poet; but as a poet, far above mediocrity. We look forward to seeing Miss Ellen ranking very high among the writers of the country; and with close application and study, it will not be a great while before her name will be lauded as a "rising star" in the horizon of literature. Her modesty and quiet dignity has kept her from being paraded conspicuously before the world; but we still hope and expect that good time to come when true merit will not go unrewarded, and "glitter" be given its true place. Miss Ellen Moriarty has contributed to various periodicals, North and South; recently to Miles O'Reilly's "Citizen," under her own name and various noms de plume-"Evangeline" and "Lucy Ellice " among others. She is now living near Baton Rouge, La. AN OLD STORY. Ah! my love, how many a day I have gone down to the ocean-side, The sunshine sank in the darkening tide. And I'd watch the white sails come and go, Ah! my love, when the proud ship bore My love my love! and we met once more 'Mid the light and song and the merry dance; But the hope and the joy of the past were o'er, And I shrank from the gleam of your scornful glance. I had won them all with a broken vow THE EMIGRANT SHIP. They're smiles and tears, but tears of bliss, That gild that meeting there, And friend meets friend with beaming looks And joy-bewildered air. Young Rory stands with throbbing heart And earnest, anxious eye, To see if 'mid the gathering throngs His "own" he can descry; For he had toiled with hopeful love, To gain for those he left behind Why starts he thus? O Rory, can That feeble man, be he who bears You speak to him. He knows you not, Thou couldst not be unknown to her It is thy mother! Rory, boy, The tear that's falling tells How deep and strong's the filial love Thy father with thy hand in his, I marvel not thy manly heart But there is one who stands alone |