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'SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXX, NUMBER 6.1
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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