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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.
DE PINT WID OLE PETE.
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."
LITTLE BROWN HANDS— M. H. Krout.
They drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long, shady lane,
That are yellow with ripening grain.
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows;
And the first crimson buds of the rose.
They toss the new hay in the meadow;
They gather the elder-bloom white;
In the soft-tinted October light.
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
On the long, thorny blackberry vines.
They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And build tiny castles of sand;
Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings;
By a song that a fond mother sings.
Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great;
Shall irrow mighty rulers of state.
The noble and wise of the land—
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,
Memories of what hath been—
In the light of by-gone days;
Human histories and ways?
Once I stood with soul enchanted,
Lost in deep astonishment,
Of the ancient town of Gnent.
Saw the quaint old city lie,
Climbing up to memory.
Toilsome was the steep ascending,
By that broken flight of stairs;
Oft derived from weary cares:
To the aim we have designed;
To the things we seek to find.
From that noble height of vision,
To that distant azure sky,
Taught and tuned by memory!
Sing the hearts that throbbed and beat;
Songs like these, my harp, repeat!
Tell the days of ancient heroes,
On a nobler errand sent—
Now the patron saint of Ghent.
Erin's and Iona's pride;
From its green and mossy side.
Chime, ye merry ringing changes,
Booming through the liquid air;
Ye are what ye ever were!
Yes, the self-same peals by day;
Tell me, therefore, what ye say!
"We speak of days long, long ago;
We speak of Time now given;
And say—Prepare for heaven!
First by due advertisement; *
We, the bells of ancient Ghent.
"We have told the birth of princes;
Sounded forth the marriage bull;
We have rung the last farewell;
Sounding from our belfry floor;
When our bells shall chime no more."
Yes, the day is hast'ning onward,
When all earthly tongues shall cease;
Shall be stilled when all is peace.
Ring your changes to the last;
Tell the virtues of the past.
Still I saw the waking vision,
Read the memories of old,
And the hour of evening tolled.
Lost in deep astonishment,
Of the ancient town of Ghent.
•The clocks in Belginm usually strike the time twice—at the half-hour and the hour.