CHAPTER III.

And there was arming in hot haste. BYRON.

The war meanwhile went on with increased ferocity. The tide of battle, which at first ran in Marion’s favor, had now turned, and his enemies were everywhere in the ascendant. The army of Greene was in North Carolina, occupied in watching Cornwallis. Lord Rawdon held Camden with a strong force. All the other important posts were in the hands of the British. Marion, for the first time disheartened, talked of retiring behind the mountains. Armed bodies of Tories, in the mean time, traversed the country, plundering at will, and hanging, without even the form of a trial, those of their unfortunate prisoners they had found in arms.

Mr. Mowbray had long contemplated rising in favor of his country again, and no time seemed to him so proper as the present, when all others were becoming disheartened. His daughter he knew to be in safety with her aunt, who had always maintained a strict neutrality: so there was nothing to withhold him longer from his purpose. He had accordingly secretly exerted himself to raise a troop among the young men of his neighborhood, and his recruiting had been attended with such success, that their rising only waited the removal of a large body of armed Tories who had lately infested the vicinity. On the first signal from Mr. Mowbray, they were to rendezvous at the Hall.

Mowbray Hall was one of those fine old mansions a few of which linger in South Carolina, fast fading monuments of the departing splendors of her old provincial nobility. The building stood at the head of a long avenue of trees, and was a large double house, with an immense hall in the centre. The outhouses had suffered considerably since the war began, and many of the fields lay bare and uncultivated; but the mansion itself was still in a remarkably fine state of preservation, and the architectural boast of the county.

It was a fine, clear morning when Mr. Mowbray stood on the steps of his house, to welcome the recruits who, in obedience to his long expected signal, were on that day to repair to the rendezvous. His feelings, as one stout yeoman after another rode up, were those of exultation, dashed a little perhaps with regret for having ever despaired of his country.

“How fortunate that Capt. Ball, with his Tories, has moved up the river,” said his lieutenant, who stood beside him. “We shall have time to discipline our men, and rally a greater number to our ranks. Our twenty tall fellows, though brave enough, could scarcely make head against his hundred troopers. We have a good week before us.”

“Very true; and we have assurances of nearly thirty more, provided we display our banner. Three days of quiet is all I ask. Then, I hope, we shall be able to give a good account of ourselves even if Ball’s Tories return,” said Mr. Mowbray.

“If we are gone when he comes back, my dear sir, he will wreak his vengeance, I fear, on our homes,” said the other, with something of a sigh.

“I hope you do not think of drawing back,” replied Mr. Mowbray. “In this cause a man must be willing to sacrifice father and mother, house and land, good repute, and all else he holds dear in the world. God help us!”

“I am with you till death,” said the lieutenant, thinking at that moment how much more his superior had to lose than himself: and affected by such heroic and self-sacrificing patriotism.

At this instant a horseman was seen galloping furiously down the avenue, and as he came onward, he waved his cap as if desirous to call their attention to something in the road which he had left. Mr. Mowbray looked in that direction, but a clump of woodland shut out the highway from sight; however, after a moment’s delay, the voice of one of the recruits called his attention to what seemed a cloud of dust rising above the tree tops. Almost at the same instant a number of troopers appeared at the head of the avenue. The approaching horseman now had reached the lawn.

“We are betrayed,” he cried, almost exhausted. “Ball’s Tories are behind, and have chased me for two miles. To arms—to arms!”

The time was too short to allow of barricading the house; but the great hall was speedily turned into a fortification. The doors at either end were closed, barred, and further defended by chairs and tables piled against them; while the entrances into the parlors were closed effectually in the same way. The great window at the head of the staircase, and the one at the other extremity of the upper hall were guarded by a proper force. These dispositions had scarcely been completed when the Tories galloped up to the lawn, on which they dismounted with loud shouts, and began instant preparations for the attack.

When Mr. Mowbray’s scanty troop was mustered, it was found to contain but ten exclusive of himself, for nearly half of the expected recruits had not yet had time to arrive. It was evident there had been treachery somewhere among them; for none but those who had enlisted knew of this rendezvous; and the sudden disappearance of the enemy two days before, it was now apparent, had been a feint. However, nothing remained but to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Mr. Mowbray walked around among his men, and himself saw that every thing was ready. He exhorted them, in a few words, to do their duty manfully. His short harangue was brought to a speedy conclusion by a loud cheer on the part of the assailants, and by a shower of bullets aimed at the hall window, as they advanced to the attack.

“Fire coolly—and waste no shot!” he said, sternly, himself handling a musket.

Four men fell at that first discharge; and, mad with rage and shame, the assailants strove to climb up the pilasters of the hall door; but they were beaten thence by the butts of the defenders’ muskets. The men, however, who achieved this were severely wounded by the rifles of the Tories, who, keeping watch, aimed wherever a head appeared. An effort was now made to break in the hall door. An axe was brought, and, after several blows, one of the heavy panels gave way. But the moment the wood fell crashing in, a volley poured through the aperture drove back the assailants, who, thus foiled at every point, retreated to the cover of the outhouses, as if to hold a consultation.

The little garrison was now mustered. One of its members had been shot dead at the great hall window, and several were wounded. The hurts were bandaged as well as possible, and the stock of ammunition was distributed more equally. Their slight successes had inspirited the men; they began now to talk of foiling the enemy; and when notice was again given of his approach they repaired to their posts with alacrity and exultation.

The Tories now seemed to have resolved trying a combined attack on all parts of the house. One party advanced toward the hall door in front—another made the circuit of the mansion to assail the one in the rear—and a third remained at one angle, as if contemplating an assault on the side when the rest should be fully engaged. Mr. Mowbray’s heart forewarned him of the result when he saw these preparations.

“They are breaking into the parlors,” exclaimed one of the men, rushing up the staircase, at the very instant that a new volley was discharged on the house from the assailants.

Mr. Mowbray listened and heard the dull crash of an axe, followed by the breaking of glass. The parlor shutters had merely been barred, and the parlors once gained it was only necessary to break down the doors leading to the entry, which were comparatively weak, and slightly barricaded. To desert the hall up stairs would be to seduce the Tories in front and rear from their cover, and throw open an entrance to them by the way they had first essayed. It became necessary, therefore, to divide his already small force, and, leaving a few to maintain the old positions, defend the threatened door with two or three trusty arms.

“We must sell our lives dearly,” he said, as he took his station behind the door, posting a man on each side.

The enemy was now heard leaping into the parlor, and simultaneously a general attack began on all sides. The bullets rattled against the wall; shouts and cries of encouragement rose on both sides. From the quick firing overhead Mr. Mowbray knew that his men in that quarter were actively engaged. The axe was now heard against the parlor door before him, and the frail wood quivered under every blow. Another stroke and the panel gave way. Instantly the musket of Mr. Mowbray was aimed through the aperture at the man who wielded the axe, who fell dead at the explosion. But another promptly seized the instrument, and, posting himself with more caution at the side of the opening, dealt such vigorous strokes that the door speedily fell in. As the planks crashed to the floor there was a general rush on the part of the Tories in the parlor, toward the aperture.

“Meet them bravely!” shouted Mr. Mowbray. “Strike home, and we drive them back.”

He fired a pistol as he spoke at the foremost assailant; but the Tory knocked up the weapon, and the ball lodged in the ceiling.

“Hurrah! we have them now,” shouted this man, who was their leader. “Revenge your comrades!”

“Stand fast!” cried Mr. Mowbray, the lion of his nature aroused.

For a few seconds the melee was terrific. Now that the foe had effected an entrance, the defence of the other posts was no longer necessary, and the followers of Mr. Mowbray crowded to his assistance. On the other hand the Tories poured into the parlor, and thence struggled to make their way into the hall. Inch by inch they fought their road with overpowering numbers; and inch by inch, with desperate but unavailing courage, the Whigs gave ground. The clash of swords, the explosion of pistols, the shouts of either party were mingled in wild disorder with the oaths and shrieks of the wounded and dying. Swaying to and fro, now one party, now the other giving ground, the combat raged with increasing fury. But numbers at last prevailed. When most of his followers had fallen, Mr. Mowbray, however, still remained, wounded yet erect, struggling like a noble stag at bay.

“Surrender, and we give quarter!” shouted the Tory leader, who, throughout the conflict, had seemed desirous rather of taking him prisoner than slaying him.

Mr. Mowbray thought of his child and faltered: but remembering that the enemy never showed clemency he said, striking at his adversary,

“Never, so help me God!”

But that moment of indecision sealed his fate. The Tory leader made a sign to his followers, two of whom rushed in on the old man; and, as he spoke, his sword was knocked from his hand, and himself overthrown and bound.

Two days after he was led in triumph into the streets of Georgetown, nor was it concealed from him that his life had been spared only that he might expiate his rebellion on the scaffold.

His captor immediately repaired to Major Lindsay’s quarters, where he remained for nearly an hour. When left alone, Major Lindsay exclaimed, “My information was true, then; he has been caught with arms in his hands. So far all goes well. That proud beauty is now mine, for she will marry me to save her father’s life.”

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

MIRIAM.

BY KATE DASHWOOD.

Oh Harp of Judah! long thy thrilling strain Hath slumbered ’mid the gloom of centuries— Save when some master-spirit woke again Thy silent chords of thousand symphonies. Not thine, his swelling anthems loudly ringing— Oh Maid of Judah! with thy prophet-song, And sounding timbrel’s voice, all proudly flinging Thy warrior-notes Judea’s hills among! Oh voiceless harp! fain would my soul-wrapt ear Catch some faint echo from thy silent strings. And, as these trembling fingers half in fear Sweep o’er thy slumbering chords—lo! there up-springs Strange spirit-music, tremulous and low As half-breathed sigh—to fitful silence hushing Those thrilling strains my unskilled fingers know Not to control. But hush! again their gushing Swells like loud battle-peal on fierce blasts rushing.

Night! o’er thy mountains, oh Gilboa! where The mighty spear of Saul was rent in twain. And haughty Israel’s curse was branded there— The blood of her first king—dark as the curse of Cain! Night—on Mount Moriah! o’er his solemn brow Those sentinels that guard the halls of Heaven As brightly keep their wakeful vigils now As when He knelt ’neath their pure beams at even, And prayed in agony that we might be forgiven.

Moonlight o’er Galilee! the sparkling wave That bounded as the sunbeams kissed its breast, Are now all motionless and silent, save Their low, hushed murmurs where the soft winds rest. Night o’er lone Samaria! thy dark hill’s crest Fades proudly into gloom. Still linger there Thy maidens at “The Well” His feet have prest; Still floats their broken music on the air At eve, blent with the wave’s low murmured prayer.

Thy moon rides slowly o’er thy hills, oh Galilee! Proud Queen of Heaven! bound to her far-off throne Behind the Syrian mountains—and thy sea, Oh lone Tiberias! where of late she shone, Mirrors the stars upon thy bosom—stars of voiceless Night. The dark Chaldean, from his cloud-hung tower, Keeps his lone vigils by thy waning light, For Israel keepeth Feast of solemn power,[1] When thy bright beams shall fade at morning hour.

The stern Chaldean turns him from his lore Where he hath writ the mighty destiny Those stars revealed. Now seeks he thy dim shore, Tiberias! the spirit-minstrelsy Of unborn Ages breathes upon his lyre In soul-wrapt flame. But hush! the far-off notes Of timbrel-echoes ’mong the hills expire, As ’twere some seraph’s song o’er earth that floats And fades away in air—when lo! proud Miriam stands Before him and his prophecy commands.

[1] The “Feast of Tabernacles,” which lasted seven days.

THE CHALDEAN’S PROPHECY.

“Daughter of Judah! on thy brow Thy kingly line is proudly blent With Israel’s faith, and woman’s vow— Now love, now pride—each lineament. Thine is the faith thy fathers bore— A heritage despised, contemned— The fearful curse still lingers o’er Israel’s outcast tribes condemned. Thine is their faith—but dost thou deem _Thy soul is with the Nazarene_?”

“False Prophet! had Ben Ezra’s ear But heard thy lying prophecy, Thou stand’st not, Heaven-daring here, To mock our Faith thus impiously! For Israel’s Lord is still our God! And Israel’s outcast tribes shall turn Back to these hills our fathers trod, And fallen Judah cease to mourn. False Seer! thy words I heed them not— Those stars are dim thine eyes have sought.”

. . . . . .

Darkness o’er the Eternal City!—gloom O’er her thousand palaces! and Night, Deep, solemn Night! broods ever o’er the tomb Of her vast temples, fallen in their might. Still to their broken shrines worn pilgrims come— And ’neath their mighty columns, sunken low, The fierce Bedouin seeks his midnight home, And treacherous lurks where footsteps chance to go. Proud Rome! thy thousand hills are silent now— Where waved the “Imperial Eagle” o’er their brow.[2]

Yet o’er her mighty temples’ fallen shrines Still sleeps the sunshine ’mid the shadows there; There many a wearied pilgrim-wanderer finds A peaceful rest from Life’s dark toil and care. And there awaiteth many a scattered one Of Israel’s people—till the joyful day Shall see the long “lost tribe of Judah” come Once more to thy blest land, oh Palestine! for aye, And here, ’mid fallen Rome, Ben Ezra bides— _Miriam is not_—earth hath no joy besides.

. . . . . .

America the blest! all proudly to thy shore Fled Rome’s _imperial eagle_! thy fair land Sleeps e’er ’mid bloom and sunshine; evermore Thy Freedom’s holy cause shall firmly stand. Our noble sires! their true hearts’ incense rose Here upon God’s free altars; _let us keep_ _Their memories holy!_ Room at our shrines for those Who seek, like them, a rest from bondage deep. And Miriam! was that prophecy a dream? _Thy soul—thy faith is with the Nazarene._

[2] The emblem banner of Rome.

* * * * *

THE NIGHT WATCH.

A TALE.

News, fitted to the night. Black, fearful, comfortless and horrible. KING JOHN.

On a cold December night, in the winter of 183-, four persons were assembled in an upper chamber of an old out-house in one of the crooked streets at the “North End” of Boston. This was in former times the most fashionable part, the court end, as it were, of the town, and the house of which I speak had been the residence of one of the old colonial governors, and bore traces of its former magnificence, now almost effaced by the ravages of time and neglect.

It was a dark and tempestuous night. The wind howled mournfully through the narrow streets and around the tall houses of the “North End,” and the few passengers who were abroad wrapped their garments tighter about them, and hurried to seek shelter from the cutting blast. Within doors the aspect of things was more cheerful. An old-fashioned wood fire burned brightly on the hearth; the heavy folds of the crimson curtains excluded every breath of cold air, and the usual conveniences of comfort and luxury were distributed through the apartment. The company, consisting of myself and three female friends, were drawn closely up to the cheerful blaze, apparently as comfortable as possible. The cause of our meeting here was this. A neighbor, one Mr. Helger, had died very suddenly the day before. He had formerly been engaged largely in trade, but meeting with reverses which soured his disposition, and cast a shade of gloom over his character, he had withdrawn entirely from the world, and lived all alone by himself in this large house. We, being neighbors, had offered our services to watch with the corpse, as was the custom. The room in which we were had been the apartment of the deceased, and was fitted up with much taste, and even luxury, but all the rest of the house was bare and unfurnished, and was said by the neighbors to be haunted. The corpse was placed in a room just across the entry, so that we could hear a noise or disturbance if there should be any. Refreshments had been provided, and we had nothing to do but to make ourselves comfortable, and amuse ourselves until morning should release us from our duty.

The time flew by very quickly in pleasant chat, and when, during a lull of the storm, we heard the neighboring clock on the steeple of the North church strike the hour of twelve, we were all surprised at the lateness of the hour.

“’Tis now the very witching time of night, When church-yards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to the world,”

said I; “can’t some of you ladies tell a genuine, old-fashioned, terrific ghost-story for our edification? Surely, Mrs. Johnstone, you must know one; you always have plenty of interesting stories.”

The lady addressed thought a moment in silence, and then replied, “I can tell you a ghost-story, and what is more, vouch for its reality, for the incident happened to myself. It was a good many years ago, but it is as distinctly imprinted on my memory as if it took place yesterday.” A ghost-story, told by one of the actors in it, could not fail to be interesting; so we drew our chairs nearer the fire, assumed a listening attitude, and the lady began.

“You must know, in the first place, that I was married at a very early age, and a year or two after, left my native place, and went with my husband to live in the interior of Vermont. The country was little settled at that time, being mostly covered with unbroken forests. I felt the change of situation very strongly. I had lived all my life in the midst of a large city, surrounded by a numerous family of brothers and sisters. We had gone into society a good deal, and had been in the habit of seeing many people, and engaging in all the amusements of the day. My present residence was in the midst of dense forests, the next neighbor lived two miles off, and the nearest town was on the Connecticut, more than ten miles from our farm. The house stood on one corner of the clearing, not more than a hundred yards from the woods, through which, on stormy nights, the winds howled in mournful and sad tones. In winter the deep snows cut off all communication with the other parts of the country, and sometimes we did not see a stranger for months. To this lonely spot I had removed, after having always been accustomed to the noise and bustle of a city, and it was not strange that it should seem gloomy to me.

“One day in autumn, in the month of November I think it was, my husband told me that he was going to take his men and go over to the next town for some necessary articles, and he was afraid that he should not be able to get home that night. So away he went, and left me alone in the house, with the exception of my infant child. I had brought a black woman with me from home, but the change of situation did not agree with her. She had been taken ill, and had died about a fortnight before the time of which I speak. On account of the difficulty of procuring servants, I had not been able to get another woman to supply her place, so I was entirely alone.

“After supper I sat by the kitchen fire some time, till at last I dropped asleep in my chair. I was awakened by the shrill sound of the tall, old-fashioned clock, striking the hour of ten. The candle had burned low in its socket, and the expiring embers diffused a faint glow through the room. I jumped up, rubbed my eyes, and prepared to go to bed. I took the light and was leaving the room, when somebody knocked at the outside door of the house. I was a little startled that any one should knock at the door at that time of night, but presently I thought that my husband had changed his mind and returned home after all. I went and opened the door, but nobody was there. I shut the door, rather surprised, and sat down by the fire.

“To understand my story clearly, you must know the arrangement of the room in which I was. On one side was the door leading into the open air, on the opposite side, the doors leading to the parlors, etc. On the third side of the room was the fireplace, and on the fourth, the door of a bed-room in which black Charlotte had slept, and where, as I have said, she died a fortnight before. This door was a little way open. I went and shut it, and had hardly done so, when the knocking was repeated with startling distinctness, and a moment after I saw the door of the bed-room slowly open, and remain ajar. I went again to the door and looked out, but, as before, I could see no one. I then shut the door of the bed-room and latched it fast. I began to feel frightened, for I could find no one who could have knocked at the door, nor could I account for the mysterious opening of the bed-room door. All the stories of ghosts and witches that I had ever heard came into my head, and hundreds of imaginary horrors beside. I made up my mind, however, that if I should hear the knocking again, I would go into the bed-room and see if any thing was there. I listened. All was quiet, and I could hear nothing but the beating of my own heart. A third time the knocking was repeated, slowly and distinctly, and a third time the haunted door slowly opened. I seized the candle and rushed in. I looked every where, but nothing was to be seen. I came out, shut the door behind me, and then went out into the open air. No one was in sight. There was a storm coming up, and the wind howled mournfully through the branches of the tall trees. To my excited fancy every thing looked strangely and differently from its usual appearance. By the dim light of the waning moon, which was half obscured by the driving clouds that shrouded her disk, I fancied I saw something moving in the deep shadow of the trees. I shuddered and closed the door. I went up stairs and looked at my child. He lay calmly sleeping in his cradle, and his deep breathing was the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the house. I felt more assured after looking at the innocent face of the little boy. I felt that even if God should permit an evil spirit to work its will for a time, he would never allow it to harm a thing so holy and innocent as that little child. I endeavored to calm my mind by the reflection that I had always treated the dead woman with kindness, and if it was really her ghost that was haunting the house, it would have no reason to injure me. But my heart grew sick within me when I heard again—‘Knock! knock! knock!’ and saw the door of the haunted room slowly open as before.”

Here Mrs. Johnstone stopped talking, and listened intently, as if she was trying to catch some distant sound.

“I certainly heard it,” at length she said. “I hear it now—I certainly hear a noise as of some one moving in the death-chamber. Let us go in and see if any thing is there.”

So saying she arose, took a candle in her hand, and went across the entry to the neighboring apartment. Presently she shrieked and ran back into the room where we were, with her face as pale as death, and said, in a very excited tone—

“Oh! such a sight as I have seen! The corpse sat upright in his coffin, and seemed as if trying to speak to me.”

“You want to frighten us, Mrs. Johnstone,” said I. “First you tell an awful story about a mysterious knocking, and then, to increase the effect, you come in and tell us this. I am sorry to say that I don’t believe a word of it.”

“It is no time for jesting now, young man,” rejoined she. “God forbid that I should sport with such an awful thing as death. But as true as I hope for salvation I saw Mr. Helger sitting erect in his coffin, and such a look as he gave me—it will haunt me till my dying day. But, if you don’t believe me, go and look for yourself.”

I hastily seized a candle, and went to the room where the corpse was laid. The rest of the company followed at a little distance. Just as I approached the door I thought I heard a step in the inside of the room, as of one coming to meet me. I said nothing, however, and took hold of the door-handle to open the door—but to my horror it was grasped on the inside and violently turned. I seized the door and held it to with all my strength, while it was pulled strongly against me by whatever infernal shape was in the room. The women screamed dreadfully and dropped the lights, which went out, leaving us only the dim light from the fire in the opposite room. The storm without howled round the old house with redoubled fury. It was a fearful scene. I felt faint and sick—my strength gave way—I let go the door. Mr. Helger, in his grave-clothes, stood in the door-way, deathly pale, his face streaming with blood, and his features distorted by a ghastly grin. We turned and ran frantically down stairs, tumbling over each other in our haste.

Just as we were running out of the house we heard Mr. Helger behind us. We ran up the street all the faster, the women screaming at the top of their voices. The noise and hubbub at last woke up a watchman, who had been peaceably slumbering in a sheltered corner. That functionary, wrathful at being disturbed from his nap, arrested our farther progress with his hook.

“An’ what the divil wud yees be doin’ wid yerselves here, the night?” inquired he, in a decided brogue.

This pertinent question brought me to my senses. I pulled some money from my pocket, and told the son of Erin to come back with us and he should be well paid for his services. We went back toward the house, and there, near the door, we found Mr. Helger, lying exhausted and fainting on the ground.

We raised him up and carried him back into the house, and put him into bed; and then I despatched Pat for a physician. He soon returned, bringing one whom he had roused from his slumbers. The physician took out his lancet and bled the patient, and, having administered the usual remedies, I had the satisfaction of hearing him say that he thought it probable in a few days Mr. Helger would recover, and be as well as ever. He advised us to remain with him, however, that night, and give him hot drinks from time to time. I paid the physician and the watchman for their trouble and dismissed them.

It was understood that Mr. Helger’s death had been very sudden, and it turned out that instead of really dying, he had only fallen into a deep trance, and on arousing from it had frightened us so dreadfully. We were all put in excellent spirits by this happy termination of our adventure—this restoration of the dead to life.

“Supposing you let us hear the rest of your ghost story now, Mrs. Johnstone,” said one of the ladies—“if that awful interruption hasn’t taken away all your desire to finish it.”

“Oh, no,” replied Mrs. Johnstone, “I will tell you the rest with much pleasure—perhaps it may turn out as well as our present adventure has.

“I believe I left off where the knocking was again repeated at the door. Well—the mysterious door again opened, but nobody was there. I felt desperate. I felt that my reason would give way if I should remain quiet any longer without doing something, and I determined that, if the knocking was repeated, I would take my child in my arms and run round the house, and see if any thing was there which could have produced these unaccountable sounds. I waited patiently till the knocking was repeated, and then went out of doors and ran round the house. The mystery was solved.

“The sheep had come down from the woods, through fear of bears, and were collected in a crowd behind the house. I stood looking at them, and presently one raised his fore-leg and knocked against the house. It is done with the bent joint of the fore-leg, and those who are acquainted with the habits of sheep know that it produces a sound exactly like the knocking of a human being at a door. I went back into the house, and in a few moments I heard the sheep knock, and saw the door open a moment afterward. The house, built in a hurry, as is usual in a newly settled country, had not been clap-boarded, so that the jarring of the knock was easily communicated to the bed-room door, and the latch being worn, it opened a little way by its own weight, and then remained fixed.

“Thus was the mystery cleared up, and you may conceive what a load was taken off of my heart. I went to bed and slept soundly till morning, when the glorious sun with his cheerful beams effectually dispelled all the phantoms and terrors of the preceding night.

“Next day my husband returned home, and I related to him all the circumstances of my fright. He praised me for the courage I had shown in going out to investigate the cause of the sounds, and said that he thought that few men would have been as brave as I was. And sure enough, on the very next night, my husband and I were sitting in the parlor, when suddenly the man-servant, a great strapping fellow, came running in, as white as a sheet, and cried out,

“‘Oh, Lord! we’re haunted! we’re haunted! Charlotte’s ghost has come to haunt us!’

“‘What do you mean, you foolish fellow?’ said my husband, ‘go back into the kitchen, and don’t let me hear any more such nonsense.’

“He went back again, somewhat abashed, but soon returned, almost frightened to death.

“‘I wouldn’t go back into that room again if you’d give me fifty dollars,’ said he; ‘it’s haunted. There was a dreadful knocking, but nobody was at the door, and then I saw Charlotte’s ghost open the door of the bed-room. Oh, Lord! what will become of us! what will become of us!’

“My husband took pity on him, seeing that he was so much alarmed, and showed him the cause of the phenomena. He was very much ashamed of his fright, and we heard no more of Charlotte’s ghost after that.”

Here Mrs. Johnstone finished her story, which we all declared was an excellent one, and praised not a little the courage she had shown. By this time the morning had dawned;

“Aurora’s harbinger, At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there, Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all, That in cross-ways and floods have burial, Already to their wormy beds are gone.”

* * * * *

TO THE HUSBAND.

Speak kindly to her, little dost thou know What utter wretchedness, what hopeless wo Hang on those bitter words—that stern reply— The cold demeanor and reproving eye; The death-steel pierces not with keener dart Than _unkind words_ in woman’s _trusting_ heart. The frailer being by thy side Is of a finer mould—keener her sense Of pain—of wrong—greater her love of Tenderness. How delicately tuned her heart! Each ruder breath upon its strings complains In lowest notes of sadness, not _heard_ but _Felt_. It wears away her life like a deep Under current, while the fair mirror of The changeless surface gives not _one sign_ _Of wo_. ELLA.

* * * * *

SENSE AND SYMPATHY.

BY F. E. F.