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forward, followed by the militia-men. Then a confused conflict—a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus's Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep—that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, " Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle cry if you can! For look! there in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, " Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon ball.

Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Que' bee. That rider of the black horse was—Benedict Arnold.



Upon the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly darkey, with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, squatted on his bundle, toasting his shins against the chimney, and apparently plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding, upon inquiry, that he belonged to the Ninth Iltinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy losing regiments at the Fort Donaldson battle, I began to interrogate him upon the subject.

"Were you in the fight?"

"Had a little teste of it, sa."

"Stood your ground, did you?"

"No, sa; I runs."

"Run at the first fire, did you?"

"Yes, sa; and would hab run soona, had I know'd it war comin'."

"Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." "Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun." "Well, but have you no regard for your reputation?" "Yah, yah! reputation's nuffin to me by de side ob life." "Do you consider your life worth more than other people's?"

"It is worth more to me, sa."

"Then you must value it very highly?"

'" Yes, sa, I does; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, sa; for what would dat be wuth to a man wid the href out ob him? Self-preserbation am de fust law wid me."

"But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?"

"Because different men set different values upon deir lives; mine is not in de market."

"But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you died for your country."

"What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was gone?"

"Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?"

"Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities."


"If our soldiers were like you,traitors might have broken up the government without resistance.'

"Yes, sa; dar would nab been no help for it."

"Do you think any of your company would have missed you, if you had been killed?"

"Maybe not, sa; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let alone a dead nigga; but I'd a missed myself, and dat was de pint wid me."


They drive home the cows from the pasture,

Up through the long, shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat fields,

That are yellow with ripening grain.
They find in the thick waving grasses

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows;
They gather the earliest snowdrops

And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow;

They gather the elder-bloom white;
They find where the dusky grapes purple

In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hang ripest,

And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest

On the long, thorny blackberry vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,

And build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea-shells—

Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,

Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings;
And at night time are folded in slumber

By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest;

The humble and poor become great;
And so from these brown-handed children

Shall irrow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman—

The noble and wise of the land—
The sword, and the chisel, and palette

Shall b° held in the little brown hand,


THE BELFRY OF GHENT.—Rorert Magcihe.

Hast thou ever known the feeling

I have felt, when I have seen,
'Mid the tombs of aged heroes—

Memories of what hath been—
What it is to view the present

In the light of by-gone days;
From an eminence to ponder

Human histories and ways?

Once I stood with soul enchanted,

Lost in deep astonishment,
On the lofty, dark old belfry

Of the ancient town of Gnent.
From the height I looked below me,

Saw the quaint old city lie,
Full of glorious recollections,

Climbing up to memory.

Toilsome was the steep ascending,

By that broken flight of stairs;
But the end was like the pleasure

Oft derived from weary cares:
Like the steps that lift us upward

To the aim we have designed;
Like the stages leading onward

To the things we seek to find.

From that noble height of vision,

To that distant azure sky,
Thrill, my harp, the swellmg anthem,

Taught and tuned by memory!
Celebrate the deeds of glory;

Sing the hearts that throbbed and beat;
Sing the hands that stayed the throbbing;

Songs like these, my harp, repeat!

Tell the days of ancient heroes,

On a nobler errand sent—
Old Saint Bavon, once a soldier,

Now the patron saint of Ghent.
Show the tomb of St. Columba,*

Erin's and Iona's pride;
Let me gather leaves and flowers

From its green and mossy side.

[merged small][graphic]

Chime, ye merry ringing changes,

Booming through the liquid air;
Though ye tell that Time is passing,

Ye are what ye ever were!
Yes, the same sad midnight chiming,

Yes, the self-same peals by day;
Have ye not a voice that speaketh?

Tell me, therefore, what ye say!


"We speak of days long, long ago;

We speak of Time now given;
We speak of Time that's yet to come,

And say—Prepare for heaven!
Twice we tell the hours in passing—

First by due advertisement; *
Then we tell the hour's departure—

We, the bells of ancient Ghent.

"We have told the birth of princes;

Sounded forth the marriage bull;
We have sung the Miserere;

We have rung the last farewell;
Varied still, but true the tidings,

Sounding from our belfry floor;
Yet the time is coming, coming,

When our bells shall chime no more."

Yes, the day is hast'ning onward,

When all earthly tongues shall cease;
And the chimes that sung their praises,

Shall be stilled when all is peace.
Till that day sound forth your measures,

Ring your changes to the last;
And, amid the tomb of ages,

Tell the virtues of the past.

Still I saw the waking vision,

Read the memories of old,
Till the changes chimed the vesper,

And the hour of evening tolled.
Thus I mused, and thought, and pondered,

Lost in deep astonishment,
On the well-remembered belfry

Of the ancient town of Ghent.

•The clocks in Belginm usually strike the time twice—at the half-hour and the hour.

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