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countenance a longing, wistful look, mingled
with a half-defiant expression, which could not
fail to tell the fearful warfare of the soul within.
Philip Reide was gifted with wonderful talent,
and a noble, hut erratic nature, full of impulse
,md waywardness, such as tho world calls genius.
Orphaned in infancy, and the inheritor of vast
wealth, his life had been one of self-will and the
indulgence of every *whim and caprice that so
impressive a nature could dictate. A childhood
thus sown with tho seeds of evil and self-gratifi
cation, could not fail to reach a sad fruition in
his manhood. Yet through all this, his innate
nobility of soul, like pure gold, shone through
the dross of habit, and the results of such fearful
training in youth. Ho had early perfected him
self by foreign study and close application in his
profession as an artist, and in a city remote from
that in which our story opens, he had won a
name honored by those of older and wider repu
utation. This course was the more laudable, from
the fact that it was. the gratification of his own
elevated aims and inclinations, rather than the
necessity of labor, which lent the zeal that had
marked his whole career. Gifted with those
brilliant powers of fascination which render
their possessor so desirable a companion to the
devotees of pleasure, he had fallen by slow and
almost imperceptible degrees, from his high
position, to the terrible destiny of the drunkard.
To those who have watched the fearful progress
of those gifted ones through their temptation,
who have seen the struggles of the wretched,
yet yielding soul ; havo listened to their solemn
pledges in their hours of shame, sorrow and re
morse, their is no need to tell the slow misery of
years that found .Philip Reide where we have
presented him to tho reader's eye. When the
fearful revelation of his bondage broke upon his
haughty soul, when he knew it was the smile of
a fiend that glowed in the red wine, and could
not choose but worship, then began that terrible
warfare through which he struggled miserably,
"hopelessly, through many dreadful years. Lost
to his friends, penniless, despairing, without one
kindly voice to strengthen him in better mo
ments, meeting the cold, derisive stare of a piti
less world, he was a careless, reckless wanderer.
Yet through all his misery and shame, the true
refinement of his nature withheld him from
those lower vices which are frequently the vile
concomitants of the drunkard's course. His was
not the constant intoxication of the beastly de
bauchee, day succeeding day in senseless ine
briety, but in an evil hour tho dreadful Graying
would come upon him, to be followed by weeks
and months of terrible remorse. It was thus
when he had wrestled as for life with the fiend
within, when the burning, maddening thirst was
haunting his every step,.that following his still
earnest love for tho beautiful, he had hoped to
lose his wretched consciousness in the glorious
visions of the ideal.
Standing thus before tho "Returning Prodi
gal," all the misery of his fallen soul came crowd
ing before his mental eye like the imagery of
some fearful dream. " Forsaken and degraded,
alone and tempted"—such was the cry of anguish
(md desolation that went up from the inner life
of Philip, Reide. Was it strange then, that the
words of Edith Graham held breath and pulses
still, or that her face shown like that of an angel?
Little dreamed the noble girl, as her rich yet
simple robes swept by him, that tho thin, hag
gard face, so near, and yet in truth so far otf,
would fain have stooped to kiss the hem of her
garment. From that time a new light seemed
10 dawn on Philip Reide, for the desponding I
heart could see even in the darkest hour of his
temptation, when the fiend whispered that des
pairing heart-cty of years, " Wprsaken and de
graded, alone arjdj calm face of
Edith Graham, and her earnest tones pleading
for the forlorn and sinful—pleading for him, for
was he not forlorn indeed ? Daily he waited in
that public gallery, watching and hoping for her
presence. She came frequently and lingered
long, passing in and out among the crowd, with
a careless, unobservant eye, so absorbed was she
by her love of art. Remote from her, yet con
scious of her every look and motion, Philip
Reide would recal again and again, while gazing
on her beautiful face, those words of strength
and cheer, and though he would have died rather
than ask her sympathy, yet the consciousness that
her pure lips could pray for such as he, that
dearer to her than name or favor were the long
ings and strong wrestlings of the fallen soul,
armed him with a sure defence against the
tempter's power.
There w r ere days of agonizing struggles, and
nights of weary wrestling with the fiend within.
There were times, when battling with all the
force of his better nature against the fierce temp
tation, even beyond the long midnight, when tho
pulse of the great city grew still, that he had
walked to and fro with a weary tread before the
home of Edith Graham, watching the lights from
its many windows with as strong a gaze as if
■ they were indeed beacons to -warn, or rays of
glory to illumine the path of him—that lonely
traveller who had set his face heavenward—
strengthened and sustained by the kindly words
of sympathy, uttered and forgotten by one, who
like her Divine Master went about doing good.
Little dreamed the fair girl in tho warm glow of
her beautiful home, whose music was the kindly
tones of loving hearts, of the wanderer, sorely
tempted and beset, so far removed in all the out
ward life, content to gather strength in the great
temptation, from even the consciousness of her
near presence.
Those only who have passed from such wretch
edness as his, to a reformed and amended life,
can tell of the slow torture of months—nay, even
years, that lie between that misery and manhood.
Strange discipline for a heart striving and pining
for some dear companionship, to Avatch through
weary days and months and years, longing, as
the desolate soul alone can, for the friendly voice
and kindly hand of Edith Graham, ready to go
forth in recognition of the returning prodigal,
yet in the keen anguish of his sensitive soul
waiting still in self-distrust, till tho world again
should honor his manliness and truth. There
were vague, wild hopes in the heart of Philip
Rrdde—wild in truth, for must not months, per
haps years intervene, before ho might dare to
lift his eyes to hers in mutual recognition ?
[conclusion next week.]
If any one would have an idea of the nature
of this Allatooim Range, (the scene of Sherman's
operations) let him imagine ten thousand hills of
various sizes, none of them very high, all flung
irregularly upon a vast parellelogramme acre, a
hundred miles long, and from six to fifteen
broad; strew the sides and summits of thesw
hills with a million wagon loads of fragments of
quartz and flints ; have all sorts of impassible
and impossible gorges and ravines, running in
all possible directions among tho hills; then
cover the entire tract with a pretty plentiful
growth of pines and scrub-oaks—and behold,
you have the Allatoona Mountains.— Army Let-
I ter.
v
Picture of a Battlefield.
One of our exchange papers gives the follow
ing graphic limning of a battlO'-field :
" Stand, in immagination, in some position of
our Southern country, where earth and sky
blend together in light and harmony, where the
air is rich with fragrance, and soft with the song
of birds, when suddenly there arises the sound
of fiercer music and the measured tramp of
thousands—eager squadrons shake the earth
with thunder, and files of bristling steel kindle
in the sun—and now, face to face, rank to rank,
shoulder to shoulder, aro arrayed men whom
God has made in the same likeness, whose na
tures he has touched with the same Impress—the
same heartbeats alike in all. In the momentary
hush, just previous to the charge, rises before
them memories of homo—voices of children,
perhaps, prattle in their ears, memories of secret
affections stir amongst their silent prayers—but
it is but for a moment, when all these affinities
are swept away, trampled under foot by the
shock and the shouting. Confusion then rends
the air, the simmering bomb ploughs up the
earth, the steel bites to the bone, the iron hail
cuts the quivering flesh, the cannon-shot crushes
through serried ranks, and, in a cloud of smoke
that hides both earth and heaven, the desperate
struggle goes on. The day wanes and the con
flict ceases. On one side there is victory, on the
other defeat; the halls of the triumphant city
are lighted with jubilee—the tide of acclamation
rolls along her streets—the organ heaves from
its groaning breast the peals of thanksgiving—
but under all this tumultuous joy there are
bleeding bosoms and inconsolable tears, and
whether in defeated or victorious lands, there is
a wail of orphanage and widowhood, a chill of
woe and death, that is broadcast throughout the
land. The meek moon comes out and breaks
the dissipating veil of the conflict, and rolls its
calm splendor above the dead. See now the
fierceness of man's passion, the folly ol his
wickedness, displayed in those torn standards—
that charred earth—those pools of clotted blood
—that festering heap of slain. Nature never
made such horrors! and when those fattening
bones shall have long mouldered into dust, she
will spread out luxuriant harvests to hide them
forever from the sight."
John Morgan and Clay's Horses. —A gent
leman at Lexington. Ky., relates an incident
relative to John Morgan which is certainly char
acteristic of him, whether it be true or untrue.—
After he had stolen the celebrated race horse
"Skedaddle," Mr. Clay started in pursuit with
two fine animals worth over $500 each, and over
took the freebooter, and offered him both, to*
gether with $600, if he would return the racer.
" These will answer your purpose just as well,"
said Mr. Clay.
John looked at the horses carefully and said—:
" Well, Mr, Clay, they will answer my pur
pose as well as Skeedadle ; and as I am disposed
to accomodate you—"
Here Mr. Clay's countenance brightened.
"As I am disposed to accomodate you I will
partly comply with your request."
Mr. Clay was puzzled.
" I will partly comply with your request; I'll
take these two horses, but I can't give you th»
other."
Mr. Clay was completely taken aback , but he
was not allowed to get away so easy. The sol
diers took the six hundred dollars from him, and
he was compelled to leave for home on foot witii
his pockets empty.— Nashville Union.
