The New Orleans crescent. [volume] (New Orleans, La.) 1866-1869, 1868-04-12
Yer the n. o. Sunday Crescent l ree1r.
OUR COURT-HOUsE SQUARE.

OUR COURTHOUSE SQUARE.
Most county seats, suppose. boast their Court
House Square, and doubtless am claiming no
thing curious or original for our village when
say it possesses similar dignity; yet msyhap
there are associations connected with this partcu-
lar square which may not be common or uninter-
esting to all. My neighbors recollect it as it
few years since-trim, cheerful and smooth shs-
ven-where children sported 10 the happy evening
cool, and maidens walked demurelY. listening to
that same old story. not less sweet because so
old. not less Elusive because told so low and
pleadingly. / loved to watch them all in those
days, for / was kinder to my fellows
afterwards, and more reyerent and considerate
towards that sex in which we find our truest
friends and counselors. | have often
questioned whether it would not cast some softer
influences about those whose part lies with the
hard work-day world, if sometimes they could
linger where guileless children were assembled,
and so experience those beautiful and tender
thoughts, which are the atmosphere Of youth and
innocence. 5fI az
But all this is changed now. The children play
still, as children must but not In the place;
nor it seems TO me, in the same blithsome way;
for the pretty square is torn and gone 10 waste,
and the white palings are sadly broken. Not
many months ago a tragedy was enactnR in the
! can distinguish the stain that flowed from poor
Harry Belton's heart, when we laid him In the
porch TO die. All but IL was cruel enough
10 hear his mother calling to him as he lay
there, dead, on the grsy old stonesi For
il seemed but yesterday when we had seen
her watching HIM with her sweet motherly pride.
regarding him the chief among his little play
mstes-so frank and beautiful and daring And
now we looked on at her praying for his young
SOU kneeling where In the other time she had sat-
and thought the sun fingered most fondly with
golden blessing on his head. Some kindly hand
has marked bis name upon the pillar, beneath
whose shadow he looked bis last on earth; and
there are none among the villagers so rough that
they can yet speak Of him. or the poor lady who
mourns him, without some unwonted cadence in
their voices, and strange compassion rising in
their hearts.
don't know why have fallen into this sad
strain. had meant to tell of my good neighbors
around the old square, and the ties that have
sprung mp amongst as as the years went on; but
these thoughts have risen first in retro
specton-perhaps because great sorrow
is the hottest property Of the heart. and
partly, too, because, though the days have not
dealt hardly by me, have come TO that time
when one is prone TO think most OF those whom
he hopes 10 meet again, and whose lives have i'm
parted 90 him some of its best and sweetest men,
cries.
And so l turn to Willie Dove, at whom some
used TO laugh. saying of him that he was bat
weak and childish thing. Though these were few,
ana WOILDy Hllt duOlcuCesJ Il TcCtll Nun now,
with his pale suffering face and clear eyes-so
deep and dreamy; and mind one how they said
he was not here for long. and would never grow
TO be Q man. He was always shy and gentle like
girl, and much more frail than one. but there
was that about him which made my thoughts ten
der when he was in them; and even his young
companions were kind and thoughtful to him, as
boys rarely are to those who may be weaker and
more helpless than themselves.
When the others we're romping In the square
he uou cifh ofo n m Qr hou
and playing such strange. sad music. that gave
me wondering sort of pain in listening. And
often noticed how his great, cleaning eyes dwelt
most on one Of the maidens who strayed beneath
the trees, until came in time to guess his secret.
aud the strong endurance with which he bore his
grief. And sometimes, when the rowd was gone,
and sat on my gallery in the mellow moonlight,
1 would hear the music stealing out again, and his
voice singing some weird but lovely harmony that
moved me with force could not master. II was
always simple enough, but, ever running through
and under it, caught melancholy minor strain
which seemed to touch some chord Of dim remem-
brance in myself-as though had heard itin days
beyond all recollection. The words he sang most
often seem weak and meaningless as | read them
from the faded sheet before me, but | can feel
again that thrill of nameless pain which assailed
me when ! first heard him, in his dark lonely
room, waiting ont his utter love and hopeessness.
There were those who caught the song In pass
ing, and would say that he was poor, foolish
creature, after all and Of small account on earth.
But they never meant it, and were among the sad
dest in the throDg that stood around his grave
among the flowers, and beside the little stream
where he had loved to sit through long autumn
afternoons; and remember gratefully, how, in
his lfe few Of rs could ever speak long Of Willie
Dove without unconsciously turning of to things
of heaven.
will copy what / have Of his song, though
can't tell where it came from:
In the dark. in the dew,
All my heart goes out 10 you,
And murmur from the clear
Lit lake falls on mine ear,
With song, oh, Lovel Of you
In the dark, in the dew. - r--
In the dark, in the dew. - q.
All my heart bows down TO you;
And the silence far and near
Holds music may hear.
For it thrills, oh Love with you
In the dark, in the dew.
In the dark, in the dew, ..-
All my heart cries out TO you,
All my soul grows faint with tears
And the currents Of the years
Float me forth. oh Love. from you, ..a
Thro' the dark. thro' the devil
And saw afterwards that he knew then (as
was the truih) that he was indeed floating from
his love. Ave. and from the world above which