What mother, with long watching eyes and white lips cold and dumb,

Waits with appalling patience for her darling boy to come? Her boy! whose mountain grave swells up but one of many

a scar

Cut on the face of our fair land, by gory-handed war.

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, are all unknown to fame;

Remember, on his lonely grave there is not e'en a name! That he fought well and bravely too, and held his country dear,

We know, else he had never been a Georgia Volunteer. He sleeps-what need to question now if he were wrong or right?

He knows, ere this, whose cause was just in God the Father's sight.

He wields no warlike weapons now, returns no foeman's thrust

Who but a coward would revile an honest soldier's dust?

Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll, adown thy rocky glen, Above thee lies the grave of one of Stonewall Jackson's

men.

Beneath the cedar and the pine, in solitude austere, Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies a Georgia Volunteer.

THE BACK-LOG; OR, UNCLE NED'S LITTLE GAME.

INNES RANDOLPH.

It was a rule at Thornton Hall,
Unbroken from Colonial days,

That holiday at Christmas-tide

Was measured by the Christmas blaze;

For till the back-log burned in two,
The darkies on the place were free
To dance and laugh, and eat and drink,
And give themselves to jollity.

And mighty were the logs they brought,
Of weight that six stout men might bea
All gnarled and knotted, slow to burn:
For Christmas comes but once a year.

Old Ned had cut the log that year,

Old Ned, the fiddler, far renowned,
Who played at every country dance
That happened thirty miles around.
He cut the log; for days his face

Showed gleams of merriment and craft,

He often went behind the house

And leaned against the wall and laughed, And called the other darkies round

And whispered to them in the ear, And loud the ringing laughter broke: For Christmas comes but once a year.

At twilight upon Christmas Eve

The log was borne on shoulders strong Of men who marked their cadence steps With music as they came along; And Ned, with air of high command, Came marching at the head of all, As he had done for "thirty year," On Christmas Eve at Thornton Hall. He led the chorus as they marched, The voices ringing loud and clear From lusty throats and happy hearts: For Christmas comes but once a year. Though briskly blazed at Christmas Eve That fire with flames and embers bright, Until the antique fireplace lit

The paneled walls with ruddy light—
Although the spacious chimney roared
Like woodlands in autumnal gales,
And lion andirons of bronze

Were red-hot in their manes and tails,
That back-log, incombustible,

Lay quite unkindled in the rear,
Or only slightly scorched and charred:
For Christmas comes but once a year.

Wide open swung the great hall door
Before the east was gray with dawn,
And sleighs with argosies of girls

Came jingling up across the lawn;
Came youths astride of prancing steeds,
Came cousins to the tenth remove,
With cousin greetings by the sweet
Lip services that cousins love.

The silver tankard went around
To every lip with brave good cheer,
According to the ancient rites:

For Christmas comes but once a year.

They feasted high at Thornton Hall,
The Christmas revel lasted long:
They danced the Old Virginia reels,
And chanted many a jovial song.

The old folk prosed, the young made love:
They played the romps of olden days,

They told strange tales of ghost and witch,
While sitting round the chimney's blaze.
But though the pile of light-wood knots
Defied the frosty atmosphere,

The back-log still held bravely out:

For Christmas comes but once a year.

And at the quarters merry rang

The fiddle's scrape, the banjo's twang;
How rhythmic beat the happy feet!

How rollicsome the songs they sang!
No work at all for hands to do,

But work abundant for the jaws,
And good things plenty, smoking hot,
Made laughter come in great yaw-haws!
They frolicked early, frolicked late,
And freely flowed the grog, I fear,
According to the settled rule:

For Christmas comes but once a year.

So passed the merry Christmas week,

And New Year's morning came and passed;

The revel ceased, the guests went home,
The back-log burned in two at last.
And then old master sent for Ned,
Still mellow with protracted grog,
And asked him where in Satan's name
He picked him out that fire-proof log:
And Ned, with all that dignity

That drink confers, contrived to speak,

"I tuk and cut a black-gum log,

And soaked it nine days in de creek.
I fears it was a wickid thing,

I'm feared to meet de oberseer;

But den you mus' remember, sah,

Dat Christmas comes but once a year.”

MATT. F. WARD'S TRIAL FOR MURDER.

JOHN J. CRITTENDEN.

Gentlemen, my task is done, the decision of this case-the fate of this prisoner-is in your hands. Guilty or innocent -life or death-whether the captive shall joyfully go free, or be consigned to a disgraceful and ignominious death-all depend on a few words from you. Is there anything in this world more like Omnipotence, more like the power of the Eternal, than that you now possess?

Yes, you are to decide; and, as I leave the case with you, Οτ implore you to consider it well and mercifully before you pronounce a verdict of guilty,-a verdict which is to cut asunder all the tender cords that bind heart to heart, and to consign this young man, in the flower of his days and in the midst of his hopes, to shame and to death. Such a verdict must often come up in your recollections-must live forever in your minds.

And in after-days, when the wild yoice of clamor that now fills the air is hushed, when memory shall review this busy scene, should her accusing voice tell you you have dealt hardly with a brother's life,-that you have sent him to death, when you have a doubt whether it is not your duty to restore him to life, oh, what a moment that must be! how like a cancer will that remembrance prey upon your hearts!

But if, on the other hand, having rendered a contrary verdict, you feel that there should have been a conviction, that sentiment will be easily satisfied; you will say, “If I erred, it was on the side of mercy; thank God I incurred no hazard by condemning a man I thought innocent." How different the memory from that which may come in any calm moment, by day or by night, knocking at the door of your hearts, and reminding you that in a case where you were doubtful, by your verdict you sent an innocent man to disgrace and to death! Oh, pronounce no such, I beseech you, but on the most certain, clear, and solid grounds! If you err, for your own sake, as well as his, keep on the side of humanity, and save him from so dishonorable a fatepreserve yourselves from so bitter a memory.

I am no advocate, gentlemen, of any criminal licentiousness, I desire that society may be protected, that the laws of my country may be obeyed and enforced. Any other state of things I should deplore; but I have examined this case, I think, carefully and calmly; I see much to regret, much that I wish had never happened; but I see no evil intentions and motives, no wicked malignity, and, therefore, no murder-no felony.

There is another consideration of which we should not be unmindful. We are all conscious of the infirmities of our nature, we are all subject to them. The law makes an

allowance for such infirmities. The Author of our being has been pleased to fashion us out of great and mighty elements, which make us but a little lower than the angels, but he has mingled in our composition, weakness and passions. Will He punish us for frailties which nature has stamped upon us, or for their necessary results? The distinction between these and acts that proceed from a wicked and malignant heart is founded on eternal justice, and in the words of the Psalmist, "He knoweth our frame--He remembereth that we are dust." Shall not the rule He has established be good enough for us to judge by?

Gentlemen, the case is closed. Again I ask you to consider it well before you pronounce a verdict which shall consign this prisoner to a grave of ignominy and dishonor. These are no idle words you have heard so often. This is your fellow-citizen-a youth of promise-the rose of his family-the possessor of all kind, and virtuous, and manly qualities. It is the blood of a Kentuckian you are called upon to shed. The blood that flows in his veins has come down from those noble pioneers who laid the foundations for the greatness and glory of our State; it is the blood of a race who have never spared it when demanded by their country's cause. It is his fate you are to decide. I excite no poor, unmanly sympathy-I appeal to no low, groveling spirit. He is a man-you are men-and I only want that sympathy which man can give to man.

I will not detain you longer. But you know, and it is right you should, the terrible suspense in which some of these hearts must beat during your absence. It is proper for you to consider this, for, in such a case, all the feelings of the mind and heart should sit in council together. Your duty is yet to be done; perform it as you are ready to answer for it, here and hereafter. Perform it calmly and dispassionately, remembering that vengeance can give no satisfaction to any human being. But if you exercise it in this case, it will spread black midnight and despair over many aching hearts. May the God of all mercy be with you in your deliberations, assist you in the performance of your duty, and teach you to judge your fellow-being as you hope to be judged hereafter!