younger men after the fall of Charleston; but he met with the usual share of suffering and loss that fell to the Whigs. In Cunningham's bloody foray, October, 1781, his house and provisions were destroyed. He and most of his family had sought safety by removal to Broad River.

His son Robert, born in 1760, was one of the expedition against the Cherokees in 1776, under his father's command, and took part in the battles of Stono, Musgrove's Mill, and Black Locks in 1780, and the Cowpens, January 17th, 1781.

After Greene raised the siege of Ninety-Six, the family of the elder Gillam resided on Broad River to escape attacks by the Loyalists. Mrs. Susan Finley, a widowed daughter of Major Gillam, occupied the old place. Her brother Robert had just finished hauling in the crop of corn, and had left the homestead to follow his relatives to Broad River, when Cunningham's party, on their bloody march, reached the place. They immediately set fire to the dwelling-house, corn-crib, and outhouses. Mrs. Finley was acquainted with many of the party, and entreated one of them to save a bed for her. He did so, and put it in the smoke-house, the only building left standing on the premises. Robert Gillam, meanwhile, ignorant of what had taken place, was moving leisurely on his journey. reaching Mudlick, he was hailed by Ben Collier, who, though a Tory, loved his neighbor, and informed him of the movements of the Bloody Scout under Cunningham, also of the murder of John Caldwell. Pointing to the smoke from the ruins of his house, visible in the distance, he bade him fly for his life. Gillam obeyed the friendly warning, and, before the morning sun arose upon him, was in safety.

On

After the war, he married Elizabeth Caldwell, the aunt of John C. Calhoun.

BENJAMIN EDDINS.

Benjamin Eddins, the grandfather of Major William Eddins, was captured in some partisan affair, and was confined at Ninety-Six as a prisoner of war. The Tories took advantage of his incarceration to go and plunder his house. They compelled his wife to deliver up all his money and every valuable article she possessed, and were so brutal as to strike and wound her so seriously that she bore the mark to her grave. They then fired the dwelling and outhouses. In a few moments,

the patriot's home was in ruins, and his family was turned out shelterless and pennyless. But the courage of the Spartan hero did not falter.

Colonel Cruger, commander of the garrison at Ninety-Six, desired the services of Eddins as a pilot for his foraging parties. He came to visit him, and offered him liberty, liberal wages, a commission in the British army, and full indemnity for all his property which had been plundered and destroyed, if he would consent to serve. The offers were rejected with scorn. Threats of severe punishment were then resorted to. To these, he replied: "I am your prisoner; you may inflict on me any cruelty your imagination can invent; you may hitch a horse to each of my limbs, and tear my body into four pieces; or you can (baring his bosom) cut out my heart, and drain it of its last drop of blood; but, sir, my services belong to my country; and you can never command them."'

This bold answer so impressed Cruger with respect for the patriot, that he liberated him at once, without even a parole. He was soon after seen in the ranks of General Pickens's command, and served to the end of the war.

MY FIRST LOVE.

BY PRAIRIE FAY.

Он, never, never, never more
Shall come such free, bright hours to earth,
As when, in the young morn of life,
My first glad dream of love had birth!
Ah me! ah me! those bygone hours

Gave joy to my untutored heart;
Even their memory, though they 're dead,
Can make my very life's blood start.
In the oak's great spreading shadow,
In the maple's heavier shade,
In the broad and upland meadow,
In the deep and silent glade,
There we wandered, hand in hand,
When the summer skies were blue-
Then Hope read us fairy lore,

And the tales she read seemed true

By the seashore was our dwelling,
Near that tiny, simple cot,
Ocean anthems rare upswelling,
Anthems ne'er to be forgot.
But my boy-love, boy-like, panted

To ride on the deep wild sea;
Yet tears dimm'd his dark eyes' brightness
As he said "Farewell" to me.

And the autumn came, not frowning,
But with pleasant fall of rain;
Clarence went to sea one morning,
But he ne'er came back again.

Long sad months his mother waited

For the dread and fearful tale
Which I heard in every zephyr,
Seemed to hear in every gale.

At length it came, the fearful truth!
Oh! I had dreamed I knew the worst
In deeming him in his bright youth

O'erpower'd by fire, flood, or thirst.
But a more fateful doom was his-

They told the wild words o'er and o'er : He and his crew 'gainst pirate hordes Lifted their swords, red-hued with gore!

And he, my Clarence, bravest lad,

They took, they made a captive slave: Oh, better far to have won and laid

His lifeless form within the grave. When we heard the fearful words,

His mother beat her breast and wailed; I only bit my pallid lip,

While from my face all color paled.

And when long years had passed away,
And we ne'er heard from him again,
No news of what his fate had been
Came back across the rolling main.
His mother, weeping, pined away,

And, with her head upon my breast,
Sighed fond farewell to me, to earth,
Then fell asleep in quiet rest.

And when time's wing to rest had fanned The bitter pangs that rent my brain,

Another took me by the hand,

And I-I learned to love again. Oh, I am blest yet in my dreams The veil I vainly strive to tear

That hides the strange wild fate of him, Of Clarence, my boy-lover fair.

THE FADED FLOWER.

BY MRS. CLARA B. HEATH.

UPON a downy bed of moss,

Just underneath a chestnut-tree, With dainty dewy web across,

And leaves as green as they could be, Reclined a starry-snowy flower

I did not know the name it bore; "Twas lovely as the tiny shower

That sparkled all its petals o'er. Anon the sunbeams drank the dew As Sol rose higher in the sky; The fate of that sweet flower I knew, Too well I knew that it must die. "Twas even so; for soon it drooped Upon its warm and mossy bed, And ere the sultry hour of noon, The flower, so well belov'd, was dead!

"Twas thus our precious darling came-
So fair, so pure, so dear to me,
With dimpled cheeks, and azure eyes,
And brow as fair as fair could be.
Twas thus she died, our darling one-
She came with spring's first breath of flow'rs,
She drooped beneath the summer's sun,

And died ere autumn's chilly show'rs.

LIFE'S STAGE.

BY C. H. M.

WE actors turn with each in and out,
And our shadows chase each other about
Like sunbeams on a wave:

We enter the play well armed for fight,
But startle with fear and tremble with fright
As we see behind us abysmal night,
And before us the open grave.

With doubt, and hope, and tragic start,
Each mortal plays his varying part

In the ever changing scene:
With pleasure we enter the wild contest,
The wave we part, the storm we breast,
Till we sink in the grave at last to rest,
And the grass grows over us green.
The freezing dread comes over us all,
As splendid pomp gives way to the pall,
And death's sure power.

But soon the stage is filled again,
And pleasure thrills through every vein-
Excitement wild and turmoil reign
In man's brief hour.

'GONE HOME!"'

BY THE LATE D. HARDY, JR.

SHE's gone in her beauty,
In silence to rest,

Like snow-drops are folded

Her hands on her breast;

She lies like a statue

Of some Grecian art, With cheeks that are pallid, And a cold hushed heart.

A smile is still resting

Upon her sweet face,
As if angels had touched it
With holier grace.

With us, through life's mazes,
No longer to roam,
Our loved one hath left us,
But only "gone home!"
And now she is singing,

With the angelic throng,
With voice like the prelude
To some pleasant song.
Her robe must be spotless,
With her to accord,
For blest are the sleepers
Who die in the Lord!

A grave we will make her
Adown in our heart,
Whose sacredness never
From us can depart;
We'll watch it most fondly,
Will guard it with care,
And Hope's cheering rainbow
Shall rest on it there;
The flowers, that will ever
Their petals unroll,

Shall be wet by the fountains
That gush from the soul.

"CATCH THE SUNSHINE."

BY NANNIE OH!

"Through a crack in the shutters darted a solitary sunbeam, falling directly across the babe's coverlet. The little one had probably been awakened by it, and was evidently highly delighted with the bright intruder. Both hands were outstretched to grasp the golden pencil that broke into fragments in the dimpled fingers.

"Catch the sunshine,' was all that Hattie said, as she kissed both mother and child."-LADY'S BOOK, January, 1858.

THROUGH a tiny crevice darting,

Glanced the sunshine's golden ray,

Falling, like a flash of glory,
Where the baby sleeping lay.

Soon the brightness so unwonted

Opened wide those laughing eyes,
Gazing on the "bright intruder"
With a look of gay surprise.

See, the pearly "dimpled fingers"
Strive to catch the airy toy;
While the rosy lips are parting,
Giving sounds of baby joy.

Oh! the roguish, laughing sunshine,
How it breaks and ripples o'er;
Almost grasped, yet ever darting
Farther than it was before.

How the little angel baby

Sports with summer's rosy light,
Wildly crowing, ever gleesome,

Never thinking of the night.

Let us seek to "catch the sunshine;"
In the effort we may find

Joy itself in many a measure,

With sweet smiling peace of mind.
Take with childlike faith and trusting
Every blessing freely given;
Treasure up the heart's fair sunshine,
Feeling 'tis a gift of heaven.

THE POET'S MISTRESS.

BY R. V. SHELDON, ESQ.

I KNOW a little hand,

"Tis the softest in the land,
And I feel its pressure bland
While I sing:

Lily white and resting now,
Like a roseleaf, on my brow,
As a dove might fan my brow
With its wing-

Well I prize, all hands above,
This dear hand of her I love.
I know a sparkling eye-
How quick it is to spy-
Yes, much quicker e'en than I,
What I'd have:
Twinkling like a star in heaven,
Veiled with sadness it was given,
As a talisman 'twas given
Me to save.
Well I prize, all eyes above,
This dear eye of her I love

I know a little lip

Very sweet it is to sip
From off that crimson lip
Kisses sweet.

It returns them without grief,
Blushing (as a maple leaf,
When its lifetime now is brief)
Mine to meet.

Well I prize, all lips above,

This dear lip of her I love.

I know a little waist;

'Tis by all the fairies graced;

They have there their own form placed, Honored they.

When it in my arm is prest,

Wild with pleasure there 'twill rest,
Like a dove upon my breast,

All the day.

Well I prize, all waists above, This dear waist of her I love

I know a little foot:

Very cunningly 'tis put
In a dainty little boot,
Where it hides.

Like a shuttle it ever flies
Back and forth before mine eyes,
Weaving music for mine eyes

As it glides.

Well I prize, all feet above, This dear foot of her I love.

I know a little heart;

It is free from courtly art,
And I owe it, every part,
For all time.

Ever it beats with music tone,
Ever an echo of mine own,
Ever keeping with mine own
Holy chime.
Well I prize, all hearts above,
This dear heart of her I love.

LINES TO MISS E. H. H.

BY G. R. CALVERT.

I AM musing, Nellie, musing
On the happy days of youth,
When the heart knew no abusing,
And the mind had no refusing

Of the good and guileless truth.

I am pausing, Nellie, pausing
O'er a sweet and classic face;
And the thoughts that it is causing-
Ah! they well might bring a pausing
To the noblest of our race.

And a spirit stands beside me

Pointing onward all the while; Sure no wrong can e'er betide me When a hand like thine will guide me, And a sweet and sunny smile.

Oh, the day were dark without thee,

And the noon were more than night, Were your image not about me

To reanimate and cheer me

With its holy spirit light.

"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE."

BY H. C.

I TOOK thee, in thy youthful prime,

The husband of my heart to be; I promised, in my marriage vow,

Forsaking all, to keep but thee;

I vowed, through good and ill report,

That I would love, would serve, obey,

Would keep, through sickness and through health; That vow I will renew to-day.

I will not leave thee, now disease

Has thinned thy form and paled thy cheek,
And sorrow and this prison cell

Have made that vigorous arm so weak.
I will not leave thee! much thou need'st
Some gentle hand to tend thee now,
To soothe the fever in thy veins,

And wipe the cold sweat from thy brow.

I will not leave thee! though the world
Has called thee by a felon's name,
And scorn's cold finger points thee out
The worthless child of guilt and shame.

I will not leave thee! though this cell

Be all the home thou call'st thine own;
Though wealth and honor, friends and fame,
At fate's dissolving touch have flown.

I will not leave thee! in one heart
Faith in thy innocence remains,
And not a thought of cold distrust

Has chill'd love's fervor in my veins.

I hear the world's condemning voice:
What is the world's harsh voice to me!
Did I not, at the altar, vow,
Forsaking all, to keep but thee?

I would not leave thee did I know

That all the world's reproach were true

That, 'neath some great temptation's power,
Thy soul had lost its native hue;
Had dyed itself with darkest guilt,

Had plunged, without remorse, in crime;
Not even then would I forsake-

Thine, and thine only, for all time.
Death only parts us; when he comes,
I will, I must yield thee to him,

And, though my presence might not take
A terror from that monarch grim,

I might point out some ray of hope
To guide thee to that world above,
Where we poor weary ones of earth
May dwell in the All-Father's love.

Like the fond hopes once mine own,
She, alas, has flown:
Hopelessly disconsolate

For her coming now I wait!

She will sing there nevermore! Where's the dream of earthly bliss Imaged in life's morning smile, That I now as sadly miss

As the earth the raindrop's kiss,
When the noon of summer heat,

With its fervid glow the while,
Sears the verdure at my feet?
She that gave the dream its spell,
Whom I loved so well-

Like a weary lamb from play-
She, alas, has passed away!

And the dream comes nevermore! So it is with every song,

So with all our brightest dreamsThose that bless us make us strong For the rugged path we throng! Like a living joy they come,

Till it sometimes even seems
Heaven had met us in our home.
But the things we dote on most,
Make our fondest boast-
Like the stars at dawn of day,
They, alas, soon pass away,

And we know them nevermore !

TO MY COUSIN HELEN.

BY HELEN HAMILTON.

THOU dost not call my mother thine,
Our homes lie far apart;
Yet do I hold a sister's love

For thee within my heart.

I know too well thou canst not give
A sister's love to me;

Two sisters thine affection share,
I give mine all to thee.

Yet love me, dear one! I have been
Mid all my pleasures lonely;

I cannot claim a sister's kiss,
But from thy dear lips only.
Next to my parents, thou to me
Art dearest upon earth;
Oh, let us sisters be in love,
Though sisters not by birth!

NEVERMORE!

BY LILLIAN.

WHERE's the bird that used to sing Early at my window-sillFolding there her dewy wing

For a morning offering,

Like some angel dream of night,

Making all my being thrill

With enrapturing delight?

THE WAR WREATH.
LET us weave a wreath for the war-god now,
To honor his fame and to deck his brow.
With dead men's hair let the wreath be bound,
When dipped in blood from the ghastly wound.
A maiden dishonored, unable to flee,
And childless parent its device shall be.
Let us paint with the art a Corregio claims,

A beautiful hamlet destroyed by the flames.
The ruthless ball, in its course through the air,
Tearing the limbs of the young and the fair.

Crown Mars with this wreath while ye sing a gay song,
For such deeds are the things which to war belong.

BROKEN MUSIC.

(Inscribed to her who inspired it.)

BY H. CLAY PREUSS.

THE beautiful form of spring-time
Is laid in its narrow bed,
And the winds are raving wildly

For the summer that 's cold and dead!

I feel that my circle of life

With the summer sadly closes,
For the hopes that clustered round it

Have perished with the roses.

I did not deem to wake again

My harp to earthly numbers,
For the fire was out within my soul,
And I longed for the silent slumbers.
But a glow comes richly o'er me,

Like the breeze of an eastern clime,
And the buried forms start up again
Which died with the summer time.
The bloom of the flowers, lady,

May never come back to me,
Yet fain would I weave a garland
Of sweet summer-thoughts for thee.

Oh, frail, too frail is the temple

For the fire that glows within,
And bright, too bright is the captive
For its prison of sorrow and sin.
To the soul that feels the immortal,
This life is a terrible thing,
And rough is the storm of its trials
To the bird of the delicate wing.
Yet I know that many bright hours
Will bud in the future for thee,

And the sunshine that follows the shadows
By contrast still brighter shall be:

I know that the spirits of angels

Have come from their beautiful spheres To guard and to guide thee, sweet sister, Through this valley of darkness and tears. Oh, rare are the gems of the spirit

Which Heaven intrusts to thy keeping, And rich is the harvest to garner

When the time shall arrive for the reaping: And oh! 'tis the prayer of the minstrel, Whose harp will soon die out in sighs, That thou may'st live out the angel Which gleams through those beautiful eyes.

SONNET.-SADNESS.

BY E. P. JOHNSON.

"My heart is sad! and yet I know not grief;
I feel no joy, and yet am free from pain;
My mind is heavy; like some drooping leaf,
Bending beneath a drop of summer rain
While it absorbs its moisture, to again
Show forth in brightened color on the day:
Even so I feel all sadness is not vain;
The spirit compassed in this form of clay
Must feel, at times, the gloom of darkness weigh,
To learn it how to prize its purer joys.
Oh, were our pleasures to have no alloy,

And we ne'er feel that satiety which cloys,
The bliss of earth, the spirit's pure delights,

Might seem a shadow of the joys that heaven itself invites.

WE pay my first, and sometimes grumble when
In doing so we find we're taken in;
And we receive it too-and mostly then
Can also say that we 've been taking in.
My second is the answer we should give

Often to the question "How d'ye do?"
But, failing, ask how does the kind friend live
Who takes such pleasing interest in you?

My whole, alas! is uttered but in pain-
The mournful prompting of a feeling heart-
By those who never perhaps will meet again,
And dread in sorrow they for ever part-

If uttered-but-indeed there is a time
Of such unnerving horrible distress,
That human suffering, soaring to sublime,
Alone in sighs and tears can me express.

ENIGMAS. 8.

Or old I was the shepherd's joy,
And now the poor delight
Their leisure moments to employ
With me each day and night.
While formerly I gave a sound
The peasant loved to hear,

In smoke is now my pleasure found,
Combined with pots of beer.

9.

In every light and everywhere
I'm all that you can see;
Though many cannot-some there are
Who clearly see through me.

A PUZZLE.

I AM composed of twenty-six letters.
My 21, 4, 22, 6, 8, 24, is needed by every one.

My 16, 9, 11, is a conjunction.

My 4, 25, 15, is known among cards.

My 2, 15, 18, 11, 14, is the fate of all.

My 14, 8, 21, 1, is what we all can have.

My 24, 8, 13, is a negative.

My 3, 23, 17, 17, is what we all have.

My 23, 19, 26, is known in winter.

My 12, 4, 24, 2, 20, 15, 10, 25, 12, 23, 1, 7, is an article of

dress.

My 11, 5, 9, 24, 20, is part of a tree.

My 7, 18, 24, is necessary in a southern climate.

My 5, 8, 18, 10, is heard in the thunder.

My 12, 8, 8, 21, is seen on Broadway.

My 19, 4, 16, 23, 24, 1, 13, is found in a lady's boudoir. My whole was known at the Battle of Cressy.