An Outcast | Page 3

Mr.
Midshipman Button, in his best uniform, inviting the admiration of the
fair, and making such a bow to all distinguished persons. Midshipman
Button, as he is commonly called, has come home to us, made known
to us the pleasing fact that he is ready to command our "navy" for us,
whenever we build it for him. There is Major Longstring, of the
Infantry, as fine a man in his boots as woman would fancy, ready to
fight any foe; and corporal Quod, of the same regiment, ready to
shoulder his weapon and march at a moment. We have an immense
admiration for all these heroes, just now; it is only equalled by their
admiration of themselves. The buzzards, too, have assumed an unusual
air of importance--are busy again in the market; and long-bearded
politicians are back again, at their old business, getting us in a state of
discontent with the Union and everybody in general.
There is a great opening of shutters among the old mansions. The
music of the organ resounds in the churches, and we are again in search
of the highest pinnacle to pin our dignity upon. Our best old families
have been doing the North extensively, and come home to us resolved
never to go North again. But it is fashionable to go North, and they will
break this resolution when spring comes. Mamma, and Julia Matilda
have brought home an immense stock of Northern millinery, all paid
for with the hardest of Southern money, which papa declares the
greatest evil the state suffers under. He has been down in the wilderness
for the last ten years, searching in vain for a remedy. The North is the
hungry dog at the door, and he will not be kicked away. So we have
again mounted that same old hobby-horse. There was so much
low-breeding at the North, landlords were so extortionate, vulgarity in
fine clothes got in your way wherever you went, servants were so
impertinent, and the trades people were so given to cheating. We would
shake our garments of the North, if only some one would tell us how to
do it becomingly.

Master Tom and Julia Matilda differ with the old folks on this great
question of bidding adieu to the North. Tom had a "high old time
generally," and is sorry the season closed so soon. Julia Matilda has
been in a pensive mood ever since she returned. That fancy ball was so
brilliant; those moonlight drives were so pleasant; those flirtations were
carried on with such charming grace! A dozen little love affairs, like
pleasant dreams, are touching her heart with their sweet remembrance.
The more she contemplates them the sadder she becomes. There are no
drives on the beach now, no moonlight rambles, no promenades down
the great, gay verandah, no waltzing, no soul-stirring music, no tender
love-tales told under the old oaks. But they brighten in her fancy, and
she sighs for their return. She is a prisoner now, surrounded by luxury
in the grim old mansion. Julia Matilda and Master Tom will return to
the North when spring comes, and enjoy whatever there is to be
enjoyed, though Major Longstring and Mr. Midshipman Button should
get us safe out of the Union.
Go back with us, reader, not to the dead-yard, but to the quiet walks of
Magnolia Cemetery, hard by. A broad avenue cuts through the centre,
and stretches away to the west, down a gently undulating slope. Rows
of tall pines stand on either side, their branches forming an arch
overhead, and hung with long, trailing moss, moving and whispering
mysteriously in the gentle wind. Solemn cypress trees mark the
by-paths; delicate flowers bloom along their borders, and jessamine
vines twine lovingly about the branches of palmetto and magnolia trees.
An air of enchanting harmony pervades the spot; the dead could repose
in no prettier shade. Exquisitely chiselled marbles decorate the
resting-places of the rich; plain slabs mark those of the poor.
It is evening now. The shadows are deepening down the broad avenue,
the wind sighs touchingly through the tall pines, and the sinking sun is
shedding a deep purple hue over the broad landscape. A solitary
mocking-bird has just tuned its last note, and sailed swiftly into the
dark hedgerow, down in the dead-yard.
A young girl, whose fair oval face the sun of eighteen summers has
warmed into exquisite beauty, sits musingly under a cypress tree. Her

name is Anna Bonnard, and she is famous in all the city for her beauty,
as well as the symmetry of her form. Her dress is snowy white, fastened
at the neck with a blue ribbon, and the skirts flowing. Her face is like
chiselled marble, her eyes soft, black, and piercing, and deep, dark
tresses of silky