'4'1' .. .,:•....-.'...._:.„......J Ci t111(j_.....*.:::',.1......-......- 'SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXX, NUMBER 6.1 ÜBLISIIED EVERY MURRAY MORNING. Office in Carpet Hall, Nurat-west corner of f_-Front and Locust streets. Terms of Subscription. Lae Copyperannum , i f paid i n advance. If not paid within three monthsfrom commeneementof the year, Coats ra Copp. 'No subscription received for n less time than six 4710111iI4; and no paper will be d6eontinued until all orrearagre sure paid,UniCSS at the op tio !tort he pub _ ir7Moncyinaybercinittedbymail a It liepublisii er,a risk. Rates of Advertising, gc l utire[6 I Ines] one week, three weeks, each+ubseque niinsertion, 10 [l2:ines] one week, _ three weeks, 1 00 each subsequen iinsertio it. 25 Large radvertisementsi it proportion. A liberuldiseouut will be muds to quarterly,halr c arty oryearly.advertisers,who are striett)eourtoed o their httsitiess. Entry. Enceladus UT U. W. untoraLLow :Under Mount Et' ita he lies; it is slumber, it is not death; •For be struggles at tunes to arise; And above hint the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery brrath The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his 'wadi) 13at the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, -To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Euceladus will arise. And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear, At the ominous •owtds they hear, And tremble, and mutter, "At length:" Ah we! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair! Where the burning elliaCroi, WO a s From the lips of the overthrown iineeladus, fill the air! %%Item ashes are heaped in - drifts Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he start, and lifts lits head through the blackened rifts VI the crags that keep loin down! See, see! the red light shines! 'Tie the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm•wind shouts through the pines, Of Alps anal of Appenities, “ltineeludu-, arise!" garttiono. From the London Journal By Midnight Train to Paris bold it true, whateer befall; I feel it when I sorrow tnn•t; *Rs better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at ull."—Tcoorsoti It was Christmas eve—l remember it well —a dreary day as ever December brought us. Our Tart of the country is not a cheer ful one in winter; it is in the north, and high up, and not much sheltered; the snow falls early and lies late there, and the wind and the wintry rain sweep over the hills in a wild, hopeless, pitiless way, that those who are not used to it find it very hard to keep up their spirits against; and even I, who am used to it, can't afford to Le idle those days, and sit looking out of the win dow on the driving rain, and the cloudy hills, and the splashy pools that are not more muddy than the low dull sky. If ever I do, I get thinking over days gone by, and the hopes they carried with them; and the present, so drearily different to that I used to think it would be; of the future that looks, when I am in this mood, and think about it, very much like the prospect I see out of doors--as dull, and indistinct, as hopeless. However, T must comeback to my Christ mas eve, and keep on straight to my story. I was alone, fur the first time in my life, at that period of the year. My brother, with whom I lived, had been obliged seine weeks previously to go to Paris on business. lie was agent to Lord Somerleigh, on whose estate we lived, and who resided much abroad. It was a cruel disappointment to both Frank and me that he could not be at home for Christmas, and I'm afraid I did not bear it as patiently as I might have done: for I was then quite a girl, and Frank who was a good many years older, spoiled me as a father is apt to spoil an only child, so that it was a rare thing to me to have my wishes crossed. I had got through the morningprdly well, ;fur there was always plenty to do in our lit tie household, and I had many resources in ;the way of books, drawing, and music; but when the evening came on, there arrived, .under cover of the darkness, such a legion .vf blue devils, that I could not stand up : against them. 0 the wind, shrieking, and ',howling, and wailing! and the rattling of doors and the huisk of the sleet against the :window! Then there would come in draughts .that, despite the glowing fire, blew chilly between toy shoulders and about my ankles, and caused the curtains to wave in a way that it made me very uncomfortable indeed to look on; and worst of all, Linda, Frank's pet setter, whom J had got in to keep me company, became troubled in her mind, and would sit for a few momenta looking glootri ily into the fire, with her damp nose twitch ing till it gave out a low whine, and then she would walk to the door, and snuff under it, and look back at me and lie down with a flop, and get up again and walk to mad fro restlessly, and listen, and even come now and then to utter a low growl; all of which demonstrations on her part, so added to my nervous discomfort that I had a great mind .to call up Jane from the kitchen, even .though I know $ill• Ilawkins, to whom she was to be married the day after New Year's Day, had come in to see her, and I was very unwilling to disturb their tete-a-tete, which even Bossy, our other servant, had respected by going up to bed before her usual time. Suddenly Linda's vague uneasiness as sumed a more definite form; she trotted briskly to the window, listened, snuffed, and then burst forth into a violent fit of barking, which was echoed by Hero and Nop. out side. St SO MO A good deal startled, I opened the door, and stood by it, ready for all emergencies, for I must tell you it was a rare thing in deed for any stranger to be about there at that time in the evening, and the dogs never barked at any one but strangers; then there came a violent peal at the door bell I stood on the landing and listened over the banis ters, while Bill Hawkins, followed by Jane, went to the front door. CEI "Doant 'ee open it Bill," she whispered loudly, "until 'ee knows who it be." "Bother, lass!" was all Bill's rejoinder, as he drew back the bolt and turned the key. "A telegraphic messge for Miss Grey," I heard a strange voice uttered. My heart smote me—it could only be from Frank— and I ran down and met Bill on the stairs, took the paper from him, and rushed back to the light to read itt— "Your brother is very ill," it said; "we lope not in danger, but would advise you, if possible, to lose no time in coming to him. The followed directions about trains, steam boats, etc." Of course there was but the one thing to be done. Jane and I hurried a few clothes into a trunk, Bill engaged to have the dog cart at the door before five o'clock in the morning, and hardly stopping to undress, I threw myself into my bed, and after tossing about through some weary hours of un speakable suffering and anxiety, I fell asleep barely nn hour before Bossy, warned by Jane came to call me. At any other time, the thought of taking such a journey alone, and a great part of it at night, would, in itself, have been suffi cient to fill me with extreme anxiety, not to say alarm. I had never traveled by myself in my life, I had never crossed the sea; but now my mind was so filled With a forebod ing terror and anxiety about my dearest dear Frank, that I hardly thought of these things. I might have taken Bessy, but I knew that once away from home, she was en unhelpful little body, and besides I was so utterly ignorant of the probable amount of my traveling expenses, that I was afraid, perhaps, with two of us, my money might run short, and then what should I do! Before the clock struok five we were off, Bill Hawkins and I, in the dog-cart, meeting the cutting wintry wind as it swept across the wold. [Atlantic Monthly It was a good twelve miles to the railway station, and though old Jack put his best foot foremost, what with the hills and the heaviness of the roads, it took ns well on to two hours to get there. However, I was in time for the train, that was all feared about, and soon was whirled off miles and miles away from the farthest bit of country that my longest rides or drives had made me ac quainted with. Then, indeed, I began to feel "a lone lorn creature," and as I had the carriage all to myself, I indulged—truly indulged is the word under some circumstances-in a hearty fit of crying. In due time we reached. London. At the station I met old Mr. L—, Lord Somer leigh's lawyer, and a sort of friend—one of those people we call friends because we have been in more or less close contactwith them all our lives—of Frank's. He told me it was feared Frank's illness was small-pox. "A bad case?" I asked. 'Le shook his head—he could not say; he was afraid so, because delirium had set in almost immediately. It was the physician who had written to him and sent ,me the telegraphic message. Mr. L— gave me the passport he had procured for me, took me somewhere—l don't know whore—to eat something—which I couldn't eat; saw me back to the railway station, and again I was in the train on my way to Dover. This time I wan not alone in the carriage, There were three persons beside myself; a husband and wife, who had evidently had a quarrel on the way to the station, and who kept up small bickorings most of the jour ney. The man I should say had begun the battle; he was fat, red and of a generally choleric and appoplectie aspect; but the wo man must have been a rare ono to perpetu ate such diferences. She was lean and sal low, with a hard black eye, and slit of a mouth that went down at the corners, and a determined would-be victim look and man ner, unspeakably hard to be borne with.— Opposite to me, in the corner, sat a young man of about five-and-twenty, fair, and curly-haired, with a clear kindly blue - eye, and a face as pleasant to look on as ever you sew. I am free to confess that when I was able to collect my thoughts and take a little no tice of what was going on about me, I had a rogue satisfaction in having him opposite to me, instead of one of those others. I suppose I looked very dreary and woe begone, for occasionally I accidentally en countered my neighbor's eye glancing at ins with a certain amount of pitying interest.— it was bitterly cold, and I was not as well provided as I might have been with wraps; besides which, I had never got thoroughly orer the chill of my early morning's drive. "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING. SEPTEMBER 3, lie saw me shiver, I suppose; for without speaking, be unstrapped a railway wrapper he had placed beside him, and quite simply and naturally, not only insisted on lending it to me, but helped to envelope me in it, with as much skill as care. "Are you going to cross over this eve ning?" he asked. "Yes." "And on to Paris?" "Yes," I said again; and somehow, by the time we got to Dover, I had told him the object of my journey, and various de tails thereanent. I suppose it was very foolish, and that some people would have been much scan dalized: but I felt it a comfort to speak to anybody that looked and spoke kindly, and I was barely nineteen, and unused to the world's waysl He was going to Paris, too, and he asked me, as if it were a favor, to look after me, and see to my luggage, and get me through the Custom House, and all the rest of it. "I have sisters of my own," he said, "one, I should think, about your age, and you must let me do for you what I would do for her." We had a rapid passage, and happily I was not a bit sick; and was able to stay on deck all the time. My new friend would not hear of taking back his wrapper; but finding me a shelter ed corner to sit in, be rolled me up in it from head to foot, and came every few min utes to see how I was getting on. It was quite dark by the time we landed. He helped me through every difficulty; in sisted on getting me some dinner at Calais, and in due time we started by the night train for Paris. We had a carriage all to ourselves. "You are tired to death," my friend— might I not call him my friend?—said; "put up your feet and let me cover you up —so; and now lie back in the corner and go to sleep." I did as he bade me, quite passively, and all but the going to sleep—l couldn't man age that all at once. The thought of, and the fear for Frank, lulled during a little space, came back upon me and tormented me without ceasing; and though I shut my eyes and tried to shut my mind against them, they haunted me and kept me long waking. All this time my friend read quietly by the light of the lamp, and I could see him now and then glance at me to knew if I were asleep, and I pretended to be, as a child - does when its mother has bidden it slumber. At last, fairly worn out, to sleep I went in earnest, I don't know for how long—it seemed a great while—and then woke up out of a terrible dream, composed of all sorts of horrors—sickness, death, tossing on weary waves, torn by mad rushing trains, never arriving at my destination—all the circumstances of my mission and journey jumbled up into a tangled maze of impossi ble terrors. I caught myself, when I woke, still sob bing and gasping, and there, bending towards me, full of pity and anxiety, was the kindly face of yesterday, for it was now in the first hours of the morning, and the kindly voice came soothingly on my ear. I started up, considerably ashamed of myself. "I beg your pardon!" I exclaimed, rub bing my eyes; "I'm afraid I have disturbed you." "Oh, no; I can seldom sleep when traveling. I'm afraid you're not rested, you have slept so uneasily—try to compose yourself again." "No, I've done with sleep now; I'd rather wake any time than have such horrible dreams again. Dear, dear! when do you think we shall get there?" "Not for some hours yet. What shall we do to lighten the time for you! Could you read, do you think? Here is a very amusing book." I tried to read, but in vain; the dint light, the tremulous movement, the fatigue, and the anxiety, all made it a labor instead of a relief to me. My neighbor quietly, and without speaking, took the book out of lily band. •'I see that won't do. Toll sae, where is your brother staying in Paris?" "In the Rue do Martigoon; do you know where that is?" "Oh, well; I am going very near there myself. But you must let me take, you to your brother's first. Hare you ever had the small-pox?" "No, never." "You have been voecinated, of course; but have you been lately?—since your child hood?" "N o. n "It is a great risk," he said, deliberately. "I wish you could be vaccinated first." "Ah, but that's impoesiblel I'm not the least afraid; and they say that's the best preservation. At any rate, what will be, will, you know." "You are a brave little lady; you are not afraid either fur your life or your pretty face." I drew up a little; somehow I did not like that last word; it seemed—what shall I say?—out of place. not in keeping with the rest of his manner. Ile saw I 'was annoy ed, and within the. nest five minutes con• trived by voice and look and manner to apologise without a word of actu. I excuse. We talked on till, as we drew near Paris, two or three other passengers got in at a station where we stopped. One of these, a smart, but dirty young man, took a place next my friend, and nearly opposite to me, and after staring at one for some time, said aloud to his companions: "Elle est jolie, 1' Anglaise." ("The En glish girl is pretty.") My friend colored up furiously. "Monsieur, mademoiselle n' est pas sourde, et, de plus, elle comprend le francais." ("Sir, the young lady is not deaf, and she under stands French.") "Pardon, monsieur—je n' orals aueune in tention d' offenser mademoiselle—pardon!" ("I beg your pardon, sir; I had no intention of offending the young lady."' And thereanent my dirty neighbor with drew himself from observation by pulling his traveling-cap over his eyes and feigning to court slumber, while his companions talked apart to each other and laughed, ap parently much amused at his discomfiture. At last we reached Paris, and then, for the first time, I began quite to realize my position, to feel that I was about to see Frank, to know to what end my voyage had served, to learn whether I was to rejoice or tremble; and so overpowering was the sen sation that I shivered from head to foot, and could hardly answer the brief ques tions my friend put to me. '•Poor child!" lie said, "try to compose yourself; I'll put you into a fiacre, and you keep there quite quiet till I come to you. Give me your keys; I'll go and see to your luggage." There I sat by myself, I can't say how long—not long, I dare say, but it seemed a weary time to me—feeling about as miser• able as I had ever felt in my previous life. Since then I have had a larger experience of terrible hours, but that was the first very dark one to which my memory now goes back. But it brightened with the re turn of the welcome face and voice, that came on me as those long known and trusted. He directed the coachman where to go, and then stepped in beside me. "Thank you, you aro very, very good!" was all that I could say; "what should I have done without you?" He smiled upon me—he had a beautiful smile. "I only wish I could do more foryou—be of real comfort and help to you. Promise me one thing," he said, turning to me sud denly; with earnest eyes and voice; "pro mise that this shall not be our last meeting —that you will let me see you again!" "I promise." "Your hand upon it?" I laid my hand in his, without the least mistrust, and he held it for a moment, pressed, and then resigned it. "May I call to-morrow?—next day?" "Next day, please—l shall be so occupied to-morrow." "So it shall be." We spoke no more till the fiacre clattered up to the number indicated in the Rue de Martignon. My friend jumped out and rang the bell. "Who am I to ask for?" he said, coming back to the coach-door. "Mr. Grey." With a sharp click the little door in the middle of the porte-cochere opened as if of itself, and my friend stepped through it and disappeared, despite my cry after him to let me out. I had called to the coachman to release me, when he returned, with a a face that made me shiver. "Well?—tell me!" "Your brother is very ill; prepare your self to find him, so." "Not dead? Oh, my God! not dead?" "No, no, really—give me your arm, I will help you up stairs." I had need of it to climb those weary four flights up which he supported me. At the door we met Dr. It—. "I thought it right to send fur you, Miss Grey," he said, "but I cannot lot you see your brother at this moment; the risk— worn out as you must be, and coming from the outer air—would be too great; besides, he is not conscious—would not recognize you." "I must see him! Oh, I must! what have I come all this weary way for else?— And who can tell how long—" A violent burst of tears checked further speech, and my friend spoke gently but firmly:— "Come in and sit down for a moment." lie took me into the little sitting-room pointed out by Dr. It —; there were Frank's books, his writing-case—a dozen little me morials of him—placed me on the sofa and took a seat beside me, drying my eyes with his own handkerchief—it was perfumed with a certain scent he always used, the odor of which I cannot smell now without an agony of recollection—and soothing the violence of my emotion. "Wait just a few minutes," he said, when I became calmer, "while I speak to the doc tor. You shall see your brother as soon as possible." The two conversed apart for a little, and then Dr. It— retired. "He is gone to see if there be any change in your brother, and will admit you as soon as he is able." In about a quarter of an hour Dr. It-- led me into Frank's room. All Words are vain to express my impres. sion of the sight before me, and I pass it over in silence. I cannot say how long I remained by the senseless figure, which bore no shadow of resemblance to ray darling Frank—to any human creature; but when Dr. R— led me back to the sitting-room, dumb and speechless with terror and despair, I found my friend still there. From that time all became dim and ob scure to me, for the same night I was at tacked with the symptoms of the disease, and God knows how I struggled through it. By the time I was out of danger, Frank was dead and laid in hie foreign grave, and I was utterly alone in the world. "Lord Somerleigh has seat to inquire for you many times," Dr. R— said, when I was able to attend to attend to anything, "and to know what be can da to assist you; he begs you will be frank, and say whatever you desire. lie is in groat trouble himself —Mr. Yorke has taken the disease. I feared it was only too probable he might." "Mr. Yorke?" I looked up for esplana ties. "lie would come constantly to the house —into the lodging itself—while you were ill; so was continually renewing the chances of infection." Mr. Yorke—Lord Somerleigh's son--my friend—it all flashed across me at once:— Ile, too, then was .to be dragged into this horrible fate, and that through me, a stran ger, whose existence a month ago was un known to himl Dr. R— attended him also, and I had daily reports of him, fur which I waited with a sickening anxiety, the real naturo of which I could not conceal from myself. After an anxious and dangerous strugzle, however, the disease took a favorable turn, and he was declared on the road to re covery. Lord Somerleigh came and took me to his house, as soon as I could be moved. lie was a widower, but had two daughters, both living with him. They were very, very kind to me—God bless them—then, and have been ever since. "To-morrow you shall see Cecil, if you will," Lady Helena, the elder, said to me. "It is a great comfort to him to know you are in the house, poor darling boy!" She ended with a heavy sigh. Next day as I was lying on the sofa in her boudoir, Cecil Yorke was led in, with a deep green shade over his eyes; Lady Hel ena, met him at the door, and tenderly tak ing his disengaged hand, conducted him to my couch, placed a chair fur him, and in silence she and her sister left the room. For some moments neither of us spoke, so intense was our agitation. At last lie said:— "Give me your hand—let me feel you." I hold it out to him; he strectched his— not in the direction of mine—but vaguely, gropingly. laan , the truth in an instant— he was blind! Yes, utterly, hopelessly blind. Cut off in the prime and pride of his youth, his strength, his beauty, from all that might make the future bright and desirable—from all life's best hopes, gifts, enjoyments. "I had hoped," he said, "to have asked the possession of this little hand—that is over now." "Why over?" I struggled to say. "Have they not told you—do you not see —what I have become? Never, never more shall I see the light of heaven, or the light of my life—your sweet face; do not be an gry with me now," he added with a faint smile, "for calling it so." "And is that all that separates us?" "All?' "Yes; is there no other reason?—no other consideration or obstacle? Is it because that through me you have lost your sight, you give me up?" "Entirely—solely!" "Then I swear, oh, how joyfullil to be yours as long as we both shall live. Hush, I love you, ton thousand times better than I should have loved you strong, well, pros perous, happy! Life without you, wenn be a burthen intolerably to be borne: What! I, friendless, homeless, I may say, probably deprived of any good looks that may once have pleased you; I am not to esteem my self too proud, too blessed in being allowed to give my life the one object of rendering yours as endurable as it may be made?— No, if you reject me, all hope, all joy are taken from my future. My fate is in your hands." He could not throw me off; his father, whatever might have been his feelings ut.- der other circumrtances, had no objection to make under those thas existed, (Cecil was, moreover, only his second son,) and it was agreed that in a year—my darling brother's recent death made me demand that interval—we should be married. Meanwhile I was to return home as soon as my health should be entirely established, and Coon was e to come and spend much of the time of his probation at Ilollylands, his father' estate, to which my dearest Frank had been agent. The spring and summer and autum pas sed away, no matter now to toll how. There are passages in one's life, but that can never more be described in words. The memories of dead happiness, like the memories of dead friends, may be invoked by the heart, but not by the tongue. There is something awful in speaking to the dead aloud. IloHyland Rome was barely three-quarters of a mile from the cottage where Frank and I had lived since my childhood, and whioh Lord Somerleigb allowed me to remain in, till the period of my marriage shouldarrive; and the road between them was so plain and straight, that after traversing it so many $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE 859. times Cecil learned to find his way to the cottage alone. In summer, I did not mind his coming so, but as winter drew on with storms and wild weather, I felt nervousjahout it. But the only laughed. "The blind magnet finds its way to the pole in all weathers," he would answer. Again "The time drew dear the birth of Chrii.t.', and in Christmas week we were to be mar ried; Lord Simerleigh was coming, over pur posely to be present at the ceremony, and Cecil's sisters to bo my bridesmaids. The winter had set in very stormily, and heavy rains had swollen the hill-streams in to torrents, and flooded the low lands in many places. The day that ushered in Christmas eve, was a terrible one. Wind, thunder and lightning, and sheets of rain, kept me nearly all night waking; and I resolved that ere the hour should ar rive that could, at the earliest, bring Cecil to me, I would do on my way to meet him, and prevent the possibility of coining alone. To me, ill-reared and hardy, weather was nothing; and before mid-day, despite wind and rain, I sallied forth into the direction of Ilollyland House. About half-way between it and my cot tage, one of the largest of our mountain streams crossed the road, and was spanned by an old „stone bridge. As I neared it, looking up through the beating rain, I stood aghast—the centre of the bridge was gone! Ou either side the piers of the ruined arch gaped, and between them rolled and roared the water, raging against the ob stacle itself bad formed in the mass of crumbled stone-work that encumbered its bed. "Oh, well that I have come!" I thought. "Probably Cecil knows not of this, and here will I take my stand till I see him." Near an hour I trolled there, sheltering myself as best I might behind the parapet of the bridge, still looking through the blinding rain and fog towards the path by which he must advance. At last I saw him, and springing up, and drawing as near to the edge of the chasm as I could with safety, I shouted a warning to him. lie paused for a moment; but I could see that from the roar of the water, and the wind blowing in my face, he could not distinguish my words, and I doubted even if he recognised my voice, for he still advan ced with a doubtful, puzzled air. Again I screamed to him to stop—to stop for God's sake! and again he paused and listened. Then, throwing myself en my hands and knees, I crawled to the very vibrating verge of the gulf, heedless of the stones and earth that crumbled down a few inches before me, and exerting all the force of my lungs in ono supreme effort, I shrieked out once more my warning. This time he recognised my vosce—but oh I to what puroso !—to shout my name, which the wind, that prevented his distinguishing my words, brought me— to spring forward with outstretched hands, and—O Fa'her of Mercies !—to disappear among the foaming waters ! Ills lifeless body was found before night, miles below the broken bridge, and buried the day after that fixed for our marriage. I have often wondered that his father and sisters did not hate me—that they could bear to look upon ma after all that I had ..been the means, however innocently, of bringing on them. And they knew what I felt. I suppose that great sympathy in so irretrievable a calamity made them forgive me. They have been very, very good to me—God bless them! —but—Well, well, thank God, we can none of 119 live forever! An Incident of Switzerland It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that the struggle for freedom com menced among the mountains of Switzer land. The cruel oppression of the Austri ans had at length aroused all the fire mid warlike spirit of a hardy race, and with in durnit tide courage they braved the power of the tyrants, and by a series of splendid vic tories, fought against fearful odds, they se cured to themselves the blessings of liberty. The people of Appenzell, the mountain country south of the lake of Constance, had not yet joinedjthe confederacy, but the ex ample of their brethren in bondage was not ' thrown away upon them. Undeterred by the warning, the Abbot of St. Gallen, who had gradually extended his power over the I people of Appenzell, grew more and more cruel and arbitrary in his exactions. The Abbot of St. Gallon, though he was a priest and should have been kind to his people, abused hie power over the Appen rollers. lie increased his tribute very I greatly, and appointed officers who were as cruel as himself. One day a poor man had a little butter and cheese which he wished to sell. His family had not tasted any for a long time, that they might send a trifle to market. Ile set out, however, quite sadly, t for the bailiffs at Schwmndi levied a heavy toll on milk, butter and cheese. "Ah," said he, "the toll will swallow almost all. All that we have labored so hard for. I will pass the toll house without paying. It is not just that the little I can earn for my poor children should be taken for the plea sures of the rich." When he arrived at the toll house he went straight by; but just as he stepped over a certain line two hounds, trained for the porpoise, seized savagely upon him.— They would have torn him to pieces had they not been taken off by the servants at the toll Louse. The people were greatly ex- [WHOLE NUMBER 1,515• cited, and said, "Are we no better than brutes, that they keep dogs to hunt us as they do deer?" At last they could bear it no longer; so they attacked the castles, and drove away the officers. The Abbot applied to Duke Frederick, who was then Duke of Austria, and he gathered a large army and advanced toward Appenz ell. The Appenzellers had no leader of dis tinction except among the nobles; and the nobles seldom took part with the people.— Tho wise men among them, uncertain what to do, were sitting in council, when a tall, fine looking man entered the assembly. A garland surrounded his high conical hel met, which bore the crest of his family; his hauberk of steel rings clashed as he walked, and golden spurs glittered on his heavy greaves. A green scarf trimmed with min iver or ermine, which was only allowed to the nobility, lay on his shoulders, from be neath which sparkled a gold chain. Ire bore a richly wrought shield upon his left arm, his right hand grasped a spear, while a sword in a superb scabbard was fastened to his wrist by a sash of netted green and gold. "I, Rudolph of Werdenberg," he said, "have been informed that the duke is rais ing troops to fight against you. The op pressed must hold together, therefore I come to you. You all know me. Behind these rocks is IVerdenberg, the inheritance of my fathers. My ancestors were 80T reign in the Reinthal. Austria has robbed me of everything. Nothing is left to me but my heart and my sword, These I bring tolyou. Let me remain among you, a free countryman of Appenzell, and live and fight with you." Then he threw off his knightly mantle, unbuckled his armor, and laying the pieces aside, one by one, put on the comon garb of a shepherd. This pleased the councillors. They shouted again and again. "Long live Ru dolf of Werdenbergl Long live the hero chief!" Soon the people came flocking to gether to learn the cause of the outcry, and they too caught up the tones and scut an echo far to the mountains. 'Finally they made him their commander; and then they did not fear Duke Frederick and his forces. As in our own revolution, the wives, daughters and sisters of Appenzell armed. fathers, husbands and brothers, though they wept bitterly as they did so, and clung around their necks, fearing they might never again meet alive. The last kiss had been given, the last words said. Some of those left behind went to the chapel to pray for their friends, some tried to cheer those more desponding than themselves, while some, utterly overwhelmed with sorrow, sank on the ground where they had last parted from their beloved ones. One little child would not be consoled. She had no mother, no brothers, no sisters. "They will kill my itther," she cried, "and I shall not be near to bathe his head, or to watch by his side. 01 - friends and neigh bors, 0! do let me go." "She shames us all," said a rosy-cheeked matron, from whose sparkling black eyes the tears were fast falling. "If we cannot fight we can do better. We can bear water to the thirsty, we can nurse the wounded, we can give new courage to the warriors.— Why do we wait? Come sisters, all; let us be doing." Every one caught her enthusinsm.—"We will put on shepherds' frocks," said they, "and we may be mistaken by the enemy for a reinforcement." They brought out all the old armor they could find in the arsenal, and an old, well worn banner, which they took turns in carrying. It was the 17th ofJune, the same day of the month on which our battle of Bunker Hill was fought. The rain fell heavily and their path lay up the side of a mountain. They sank in the serface of moist leaves, they climbed over fallen trees, they crept round huge rocks. But nothing discouraged them. Meantime the largest body of the Duke's forces began to ascend the Stross mountain. Upon the summit were the Appenzellers, barefooted, so that they could step securely upon ,the short, slippery grass. At first these only hurled down rocks and trunks of trees, but soon, shouting their battle cries, they threw themselves upon the enemy with tremendous force. The Austrians could not use their erose.bows, because the strings were wet and slackened; they could only use the sword and spear. Man fought with man, each side Actermined to conquer or die. Just then, and when the few troops of Appenzell might have been discouraged by the numbers of the enemy pressing on to supply the places of the fallen, the noble band of women and girls appeared on the brow of the hill opposite. They were rec ognized by husbands and brothers. A glad shout rent the air. It went from slope to slope, from height to height, from cliff to cliff. Again 'and again sounded that grand heart peal, like the rejoicing for a battle won. And the battle was won; for the Austrians, supposing that fresh troops were attempting to cut off their retreat, turned and fled. Blood colored the mountain streams, blood moistened the earth to the borders of Rhointhal. Six long hours the oembat and fight lasted, and then the Ap penzellers gathered together again on the Stress, and thanked God for their victors. With what :tender pride did the brave warriors press to their bosoms the wives, daughters and sisters, who were not afraid
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