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XVIIF.N THE ItOVN COME HOME.
THERE'S a happy time coming
When the boys come home.
There's a glorious day coming
When the hoys come home.
We will end the dreadful story.
Of this treason dark and gory.
In a sun-burst of glory
When the boys come home.
The day will seem brighter
When the boys come home;
For our hearts will he lighter.
When the boys come home.
Wives and sweet-hearts will press tliem
In their arms, and caress tliem.
I And pray God to bless them.
When the bovs come home.
'
The thinned ranks will lie proudest
When the boys come home.
And their cheer will ring the loudest
When the boys come homo.
The full ranks will be shattered,
And the bright arms will be battered, 1
And the battle standard tattered.
When the boys come home.
Their bayonets may be rusty
When the lays come home,
Vnil their uniforms dusty
When the boys come home ;
]tut all shall see the traces
Of Rattles royal graces
111 the brown and bearded faces
When the hot s conic home.
'
i mr love shall go to greet them
When the boys conic home,
> bless tliem and to greet tliem
When the hoys conic home.
And the fame of their endeavor
Time and qjiange shall not dissever
From th> nation's heart forever
When the boys come home.
■lrite from ihr 2\vuui.
PLEASANT V.U.I.KV. KEAS HAPPEKS FEKBY, I 1
Jft'V. IN, INM. t |
i l, ~U \\ H I ; —AN WO arclintilly "brought
up stmuling" tit the dismounted camp, 1
wili ivc you ili tails of the last Saturday's
light, giving - my individual experience in it, .
which will be more interesting to you than
general details of the battle.
You rein<■tuber my hist letter was ended .
bluntly with a sentence half finished. It
was tin-ii that the order sounded "Saddle
up 1" and our attention thus arrested
was soon stimulated by the sound of tiling .
a!u x the picket line. Hie enemy had at
tac lus on the right.
We were drawn up in reserve near the
lines, where we waited till dark and the
i neiny withdrew.
At aii ut 8 o'clock in the evening our
brig-.ide • I cavalry, (the 2nd, of the 3d
i'iv. inulor (,'ustar) was sent out on ;i reeon
n Usance to find the enemy's camp. We
found it about five miles out, charged their
pieki ts and drove them with speed upon
their hastily formed line of battle, showing
the enemy to be in some force. This, our j
■ Vet accomplished, we returned to camp
with a few prisoners.
\i A morning unniistakeable prepara
tions wen- made for battle. Onr line was
i rrii< 11 and joined with that of tfie Ist brig- ,
adc on our right reaching to the North ;
Mountain. The lines united on a high
ralgo that lay between the body of the two
brigades. The enemy advanced upon our ,
pickets, out with occasional sallies from |
both parties, the lines remained substantia
ally the same till afternoon. The order ]
was then ivct ived to advance, and the j
whole lint- moved steadily forward. At j
this moment Lieut. Arthur Tileston, a brave .
young officer of the sth \. V., assigned to ;
the A All •1. called me out to ride along the (
lines with aim on a circuit of inspection.—
J'r.iud of his selection of so important a ,
service i followed him as he rode forward
at a brisk rate, part of the time far advance .
ot our skirmish line. Reaching the lines of (
the Ist brigade, we founc it .just commenc
ing a furious charge, and joining in we
II hi veil with it, most hugelv cnjoviii"* the
sight of the flying Johnnie.-, as they sped
tr ai on - ;ul \'ance 1 ike chaflbelove the wind
Thus we drove them till the order came to
1 all hack, and then supposing the 2nd brig
ade had charged up the other valley as far,
preserving the line unbroken, Lieut. Tiles
ton thought to join it by simply crossing
lite ridge. ' H
Accordingly wo rode leisurely over thro'
the woods, emerging from the hills on the 1 ,
other side in 1 nil view of what we supposed
to be our brigade drawn up in line of battle. \
On we rude into the same field where a
-mailer party—a squadron of cavalry—was 1
m-iving, led by a i/i'i'i/ man on a grey horse.
Lieut, raid I, " that man on the grev
horse looks like a Reb." * '
My God ! said lie " they are all rebs," '
at tin- same th| U . wheeling lii.s horse ; and '
iiten for the first time we noticed that body
ol men as jndi■ itn ,] s;iW them in all :
sorts of dress —some i u ,„ ir j Q l
.-te\, some in yellowish hoim'spun and otli- '
'is in dirty rags, which was go insulting !
t< mr sense of propriety and taste in nni- !
■ t tiling- soldiers, that we hastily retired in
disgust ! * 1
It v. ,M |. .-siMy the kitnl of disgust how- '
' ; that ain iii feels when getting out of a '
tight place.) 1
' ''•'"'lung again the Ist brigade, we j
1 ! it tibout three tniles, then re-
Own f 1 ''T'' betrihd our j
the re '"A 'l"' 1 '" s °fc to approach it from
„ alas! how sjiort sighted is
man . l.itik. ,r i ,i • , .
, .. , ! we think that tlie critical
| I f ] >\ flay's hat tie with us was
' \' n j" it was, and if I should
and as often •' tiim-s, ! •]
niy last summer's ex- t
JZ. <>. GOODRICH, I*nl)lixliei-.
void Ml- XXV.
periencc, still would the vivid impressions j
I received in that next half hour, remain en- j
j during and iiulelliblc.
j My horse was very tired, and for a long j
j time had required much urging. The Lieut,
i was mounted on a fine animal, as free as j
i the air and swift as the whirlwind, so that ;
I in spite of all my efforts I was falling to the j
I rear, along with a few other stragglers from j
I a squadron of cavalry that was moving up j
j the road ahead.
j .VI! at once a cavalryman dashed by mel
exclaiming, " See that lot of Johnnies in ;
the road behind us !" and sure enough,there j
I was a squadron of them in full charge up-1
on us not forty rods olf ! Each sorry strag- j
gler now clapped spurs to his horse and ]
| " closed up" sooner I think than they ever j
j obeyed an order, but though 1 dug my poor j
horse's flanks with all the energy possible j
: under the pressue of circumstances, he fell j
i behind and only just cleared his distance— j
S that is lie, just passed u dor cover of the j
j squadron mentioned as the rebs were about I
jto close on us. Not seeing an officer at j
i iirst 1 sung out " Fall in line !" but Lieut. |
! Tileston was there, and hastily forming the |
! men, he furiously charged the rebs in turn, j
i driving tliem back in disorder upon their
reserve, which now came to their support >
I—a whole icgimeiit of them—plunging up- I
|on tin? flank of our little squadron, like a i
! host ol vultures settling upon their prey. —
; A right about, a hasty skedaddle was all i
| that could be expected under such circum- 1
; stances, and such it was. The fearless j
! Lieutenant, further in advance than all on !
j the charge, was so nearly cut olf in the ro
j treat that in sailing through he knocked
i them right and left, but once out, Itis gay i
! steed soon out-distanced the swiftest of
j them.
Thus they retreated and left "Corporal <
Parkhurst in the hands of the enemy." So j
j the Lieut, reported when he reached the j
I regiment, and so he honestly thought, for
i last he saw of me was far in the rear with i
j the Johnnies dashing up close upon my heels i
i while the greatest speed I could muster in j I
j inv animal was a good sober trot. ! i
On coming into camp late at night, 1j •
! found quite an earnest conversation going i i
on with regard to my capture. Approach- i
i ing a squad of comrades gathered around j ;
: afire, I overheard the remark: ]
; • " Well, they can't keep Parkhurst, lie ;
gave them the slip once and will do it I'
again," and at that point of the eonversa- ■
tion, 1 appeared to their astonished vision, I
and received their hearty congratulations, i
My escape was on this wise: Seeing |
the rebs gaining fast upon me, I exerted '
my utmost to make my horse fed that it j
was a great emergency—an urgent case,
but he eoti/d'nt tn'e ')/, and not even the j
sharp reports coining alarmingly near, nor ; 1
the whistling bullets could make him see j J
it—so seeing but one chance left, with the I
speed of lighning 1 seized it, determined to j
escape or die in the attempt. Snatching -
my blanket from the saddle in which were .
rolled niv clothes and other valuables, 1
dismounted, bounded over the stone-wall
and made the best time possible for the !
nearest woods. These Virginia wall-fences !
are famous obstacles to cavalry, and while i
my blood-thirsty enemies were finding a
place to get through, i was gaining time. ;
Reaching the wood, i skulked around the '
edge of the hill, found a rock projecting
from a low place, with a crevice offering a
good hiding place, into which I dropped |
panting and out of breath. I was none to !
soon, for in a moment the party passed by I
in full pursuit, surprised no doubt at the j
swiftness of foot that had enabled me to i
get out of sight so soon
When all was quiet, 1 left my blanket in j
the rock to pick up some other time, and 1
with my trusty carbine found the nearest
point of our lines as soon as possible.
1 blamed the quartermaster for getting j
me into trouble, for the day before the bat- j
tie, an order having come t<> the 22nd to j
turn over all the serviceable horses to the j
Ist X ermont, ho selected the best for the j
teams, among which was mv own, giving j
me a poor miserable pimj in its place.
But the poor quartermaster was himself
captured, so I'll withdaw my censure for
he'll suffer enough.
Next day we expected to renew the bat-j
tie. and seeing the whole force ut cavalry j
moving out with artillery and everything j
fully equipped for tlio light, 1 felt that 1
could not stay in the rear, so 1 borrowed a i
horse and joined the command. When i
near my hiding place ol' the day before, I
made a detour with my chum—Mr. .Stone, '
and picked up my blanket where 1 had left !
it. The enemy had retired beyond Cedar j
Creek, so there was no engagement. j
Next day, the 14th, our best horses were j
turned over, and oil arriving here the con- j
demiied ones were disposed of. but. we are j
soon to be remounted on good horses to re
turn to the front in lighting order.
\ our Affectionate Husband,
H. S. I'ARKIU'KST,
(V>. M. 22ml N. Y. C.
('AMP NEAR PETEKHBUBO, (
Nov. 25. 1804. I i
Mu. EIUTUK ; Thinking our thanksgiving <
rather tin interesting affair I seat myself to I
pen you a lew lines to give you a little dis- 1
scriptiun ut it. \\ e were not called togeth- i
or by the merry ring of the church bell
but by the harsh tones ot the war bugle. j
Not in a comfortable church made cheerful i
by the bright faces of both sex of all ages i
as in civil life, but behind a huge breast-j
work made to protect us from treacherous
foes. Round poles for seats, marshaled
warriors lor an audience. \\ e were ably i
addressed by chaplain McAdains, of the
57th I'enn'a Cavalry, a true patriot and j
Christian. We had some things to be thank- •
till for that friends at home did not. There j
was none among us but that would rejoice i
at i Union triumph. None but that is ,
thankful that the Frog that would a wooing
go on the Chicago i'latfonn, instead of be
ing waited by the-smooth waters of peace
into the ocean ot power, has been forced
bv the tide ol public indignation up Salt i
River and no doubt will do as other frogs ;
do, plunge into muck and mire, thus hide j
himself ironi the gaze of those whom he i
has disgusted by his coppery croakings.—
Mi-thinks | sec Seymour, Wood, Vallandig
ham and i'iolett standing around his mucky I
gtaye with solemn countenances humming!
a doleful air to the following words :
iLnk from the tombs a doleful sound,
Mine ears attend the cry,
Black treason killed poor little Mae.
1 too must surely die.
But T am deviating from my subject. The
Thanksgiving closed by singing the lorn-!
meter Doxology followed by the benediction. I
TOWAXDA. IUIADFOHI) COUNTY, PA., DECEMBERS, IBfi4.
Hot'ore the election every loyal heart felt
t anxious in regard to the decision to begiv
jeu by the Ballot Box. The first returns
were like the grey streak shooting up from
| the Eastern horizon after a long and dreary
j night proclaiming a speedy return of the
j genial rays of the sun, to make all Nature
j gay and joyous, peaceful, and happy.
We no longer ask ourselves as we pass
j the lonely mound of a sleeping comrade,
j " Did he die in vain ? AYill the people
■j tints decide in the coming election ?" No !
; the question has been answered by loyal
■ thousand* in the negative.
i We will continue to sing " America,"one
j of Doctor Mason's noblest proclomations,
j and one that is dear to every American
heart. We will do honor to W. B. Bradbury
j by singing " The Star Spangled Banner,"
land G. F. Bout, by singing "The Red,
| White and Blue."
A feeling of confidence prevails univers
j ally in the army since the election of honest
I Abraham.
I Desertions are becoming frequent since j
i the news has reaohedßebeldomthat tyranny j
j and oppression has been so unanimously i
j rebuked by the great mass of the people. \
Copperheads can no longer raise their trait- j
j orous heads, with tiny h ipes of charming i
I the Nation by their sougs of peace, which]
| means war, dissolution, and blood sited, fol- j
lowed by a Despotism, upon the very soil j
j our forefathers dedicated to Freedom.
The efl'eet of the great decision is being
felt deeply by our aristocratic foes. Sher
man is marching on. Spring will find the
Southern Army demoralized, and disearten
j ed. The time is soon coming when a man !
I that lias any conscience left will blush
when asked if lie supported the Chicago j
platform, if he has been guilty of such j
cowardly acts.
The world moves. The day of deliver
ance is not far distant. Discord is already
manifest in the Rebel Congress. Jell'. A Co.,
wants Sambo to light for the South. The
Southern planter will not submit to that as
he it its no confidence in the confederacy j
and if he would, Sambo will not light
against Clem in the Union Army as he too
is forceably impressed with Massy Lincuin.
Friends of the Union, in Bradford, be of
good cheer. The same God that led his
people through the Red Sea, is about to
anchor the great Ship of State in the port !
of peace.
Select oh\
THE COUNT PESARO.
A VF.VKTIAV STORY,
IVsaro was once a very great name in j
Venice. There was in former times, a Don ,
Pesaro, and embassadors to foreign courts I
| belonging to the house. In the old church
|of the Frairo, upon the further side of the !
I Grand Canal, is a painting of Titian's in
which ti family of tbel'esaro appears kneel
ing before the blessed Virgin. A gorge
ously sculptured palace between thcrialto
i and the Golden House is still known as the
Pesaro Palace ; but the family wh'ch built
; it, and the family which dwelt there has long i
since lost all claims to its cherubs and grif
; litis ; only the crumbling mansion where 1
j lives the old Count and his daughter, now 1
boasts any living holders of the Pesaro
name. I
These keep mostly upon the topmost flour i
lof the house, where a little sunshine finds i
I its way, and plays hospitably around the 1
flower pots which the daughter hadarrang- -
jed upon the ledge of a window. Below— 1
ias I had thought—the rooms were dark and
dismal. The rich furniture which beloiisred <
! ' 1 • X •
jto tnein is none —only a painting or two, t
by famous Venetian artists, now hung upon
i the wall. They are portraits of near rela- i
i tions, and the old gentleman, they say, lin- .
I gers for hours about them in gloomy si- <
j lence.
So long ago as the middle of the last con- i
tury the family had become small and re- I
duccd in wealth. The head of the family, ;
however, was an important member of the
State, and was expected (such things were I
never known in Venice) to have a voice in t
the terrible Council of Three.
This man, the Count Giovunno Pesaro, <
whose manner was stern, and whose atfec- '
tions seemed till of them to have been ab- J
soi bed in the mysteries of the State was, a 1
widower. There were stories that even the t
Countess had fallen under the suspicions of 1
the Council of the inquisition, and that the :
silent husband cotdd not or would not guard i
her from the cruel watch which destroyed ;
her happiness and shortened her days.
She left two sons, Antonio and Enrico.— i
By a rule of the Venetian State, not more t
th.an one son of a noble family should marry 1
except his fortune was great enough to J
maintain the dignity of a divided house- i
hold. The loss of Candia and the gaming ;
tables of Ridotto together had solar di- (
lninished the wealth of the Count Pesaro <
that Antonio alone was privileged to choose t
a bride, and under the advice of a State, 1
which exercised a more than fatherly in- t
terest in the matters, he was very early be
trothed to a daughter of the Cantarini. <
But Antonio wore a carelesaiul dissolute <
habit of life ; he indulged freely in the li- )
ceutous intrigues of Venice, and showed 1
little respect for tlie ties which bound him t
to a noble" maiden whom lie had scarcely 1
seen. 1
Enrico, the younger son, destined for the
Church, had more caution, but far less gen
erosity in his nature, and covered his disso <
lateness under the garb of sanctity, he 1
chafed into a bitter jealousy of his brother,
whose privilege so far exceeded his own.— ■ t
I ra 1 aula, his priestly tutor and companion !
was a monk of the order of Franciscans, t
who, like many of the oligarchy, paid little
attention to his vows, and used the stolen
niTtsk to conceal the appetite of a debased 5
nature. With his assistance Eurico took
delight in plotting the discomfiture of the
secret intrigues of his brother, and in bring- '
ing to the ears of the Cantarini the scandal t
attaching to the affianced lover of their no- t
ble daughter. 1
Affairs stood in this wise in the ancient
house of Pesaro when (it was in the latter j
part of the eighteenth century) one of the i
last royal ambassadors of France estab- j
lished himself in a palace near the church t
San Zaccaria, and separated only by a nar- 1
row canal from that occupied by the Count I :
Pesaro. _ U
The life of foreign ambassadors, and most 1
of all, those accredited from France, was 1
always jealously watched in Ate nice, and i
many a householder, who was so unfortun- 1
ate as to live in the neighborhood of an am- i
REOAHDLKSS OK DENUNCIATION FROM ANY Qt'AKTF.K.
bassador's residence, received secret orders
to quit his abode, and only found a cause in
its speedy occupation by those marked
spies of the Republic who passed in and
out of the ducal palace.
The Inquisition, however, had its own
reason for leaving- the Pesaro family undis
turbed. Perhaps it was the designs of the
mysterious powers of the State to embroil
the house of Pesaro in criminal correspon
dence with the Envoy of Prance—perhaps
I ra Paola, who had free access to the Pesa
ro himself held a place in the terrible Coun
cil of Three.
The side canals of Atenice are not wide,
and looking across where the jealous Ateuii
tiau blinds do not hide the view, one can
easily observe the movements of an oppo
site neighborhood. The rooms of the palace
of the ambassador were carefully screened;
but yet the water door, the grand hall of
entrance and the marble stairway that as
cended from it, and the quick eye of Eurico
j did not fail to notice a little figure, that
i from day to day glided over the marble
j steps, or threw its shadow across the niar
, Me hall.
Blanche was the only daughter of the am
j bassador, and besides her there remained
Itu him no family. She had just reached the
•J age when the romance of life is strongest;
j and the music stealing over the water from
I floating canopies, and masked figures pass
{ ing like phantoms under the shadows of
palaces, and till the license and silence of
Venice, created for her a strange charm,
both mysterious and dangerous. The very
j seoerecy of Atenetian intrigues contrasted
j very favorably in her own romantic
thoughts with the brilliant profligacy of the
j court of Versailles.
j Nor was her face or figure such as to
pass unnoticed even among the most at
tractive of the Venetian beauties. The
brothers Pesaro, wearied of their jealous
strife among the masked intriguantes who
frequented the table of the Ridotto, were
kindled into wholly new endeavor by a sight
of the blooming lace-of the western stian-
The difficulties which hedged till approach
served here (as they always serve) to
quicken ingenuity and to multiply resour
ces. The State was jealous of all com
munication with the families of ambassa
dores ; marriage with an alien on the part
of a noble family was scrupulously forbid
den. Antonio was already betrothed to
the daughter of a noble house which never
failed of means to avenge his wrongs.—
Enrico, the younger, was, in the eye of the
State, sworn to celibacy and the service of
the Church.
But the bright eyes of Blanche, and the
piquancy of licr girlish, open look, were i
stronger than a forced betrothal, or the
mockery of monastic bonds. Alitsie from
musicians stole til night through the nar
row canal where rose the palace of the
Pesaro. Flowers from unseen hands were
floated at morn upon the marble steps upon
which the balconies of the Pesaro palace
looked dnyyn ; and always the eager and
girlish Blanche kept watch through the
kindly Atenetian blinds for the figures which
stole by night over the surface of the wa
ter, and for the lights which glimmered in !
the patrician house that stood over against j
the palace of her father.
A French lady, moreover, brought with j
her from her own court more liberty for j
the revels of the Ducal palace, and for the !
sight of the halls of the Riditto, than be- {
longed to the noble maidens of Venice. It
was not strange that the IVsaro brothers
followed her thither, or that the gondoliers
who attended at the doors of the ainbassa- <
dor were accessible to the gold of the Ate
netian gallants.
In till his other schemes Enrico had 1
sought merely to defeat the intrigues of i
Antonio, and the pride of an offended broth- J
cr, an offcast of the State. But in the pur- :
suit of Blanche there was a new and livelier J 1
impulse. His heart was stirred to a depth ;
that had never before been reached ; and to <
a jealousy of Antonio was added a defiance
of the State which had shorn him of privi- j
leges, and virtually condemned liiin to an
aimless life. 1
But if Enrico was more cautious and dis- 1
erect, Antonio was inure bold and daring, i
There never was a lady, young or old, i
French or Atenetian, who did not prefer 1
boldness to watehfullness, audacity to cau- ]
tion. And therefore it was that Enrico— <
kindled into a new passion which consumed i
all the old designs of his life—lost ground
iu contention with the more adventurous 1
approaches of Antonio. t
Blanche, with the quick eye of a woman,
and from the near windows of the palace of 1
the ambassador, saw the admiration of the t
heirs of the Pesaro house; and looked with 1
greater favor upon the bolder adventures ;
of Antonia. The watchful eyes of Eurico i
and of the masked l-'ra Paolo, in the gath- 1
erings at the Ducal hall, or in the saloons 1
of the Ridotto, were not slow to observe the
new and dangerous favor which the senior <
heir of the Pesaro name was winning from 1
the strange lady. c
" It is well," said Eurico, as he sat clos- :
eted with his saintly adviser in a •chamber t
of the Pesaro Palace, "the State will never 1
permit the heir of a noble house to wed i
with the daughter of an alien ; the Contor- f
ni will never permit this stain upon their
honor. Let the favor which Blanche of 1
France shows to Antonio be known to the <
State, and Antonio is—" i 1
" A banished man," said Fra Paolo, soft- 1
cuing the danger of the assumed fears of i
his brother. 1
"And what then !" pursued Eurico, doubt
full. t
" And then tie discreet Enrico attains to <■
the right and privileges of his name." t
" And Blanche ?" i
" Ateu know the law of the State, my
son."
" A base law !" f
" N'ot so loud," said the cautious priest;
" the law has its exceptions. The ainbassa- .
dor is reputed rich. If his wealth could be
transferred to the State of Atenice all would
be well." _ 1
" It is worth a trial," said Enrico, and he
pressed a purse of gold into the hand of the
devout Fra Paolo.
The three Inquisitors of the State were
met in their chambers in the Ducal Palace. 1
Its floor was of alternate squares of black i
and white marble, and its walls were tape- 1
stried with dark hangings sets off with sil- i
ver fringe. They were examining, with 1
their masks thrown aside, the accusations <
which a servitor had brought in from the
Lion's Mouth, which opened in the wall at 1
the head of the second stairway.
I Two of the inquisitors were dressed in
I black, and the third, who sat between the
J others—a tall, stern man—was robed in
crimson. The face of the last grew troub
led as his eye fell upon a strange accusa
tion affecting his honor, and perhaps his
safety. For even this terrible council cham
ber had its own law among its members,
and its own punishment for indiscretion.—
Moie than once a patrician of Venice had
disappeared from the eyes of men, and a
mysterious message cainc to the Grand
Council that a seat was vacant in the Cham
ber of the Inquisition. .
Tlis accusation that now startled the
member of the Council, was this :
" Let the State beware ; the Palace of
Pesaro is very near the Palace of France!
" OxK OK THE COXTARINI."
The Count Pesaro (for the inquisitor was
none other,) in a moment collected his
thoughts lie had remarked the beautiful
daughter of the ambassador ; he knew of
the gallantries which had filled the life of
his son Antonio ; he recognized the jealousy
of the Contarini.
But in the members of the fearful court
of Atenice, no tie was recognized but the tie
which bound them to the mysterious author
ity of the State. The Count Pesaro knew
well that the discovery of any secret inter
course with the palace of the ambassador
would be followed by grave punishment of
his son; he knew that any conspiracy with
that son to shield him from the State would
bring the forfeit of his life. A'et the in
quisitor stiid, "Let the spies be doubled."
And the spies wore doubled ; but the fa
ther, more watchful and wakeful than all,
discovered that it was not one son only, but
Roth who held the guilty communication
with the servitors of the embassador's pal
ace. There was little hope that it would
long escape the knowledge of the Council,
j But the Council anticipated their action, by
sacrificing the younger to the older ; the
gondolier of Enrico was seized, and he
brought to the chamber of torture.
The father could not stay the judgment
which pronounced the exile of his son, and
'at night Enrico was arraigned before the
three inquisitors ; the mask concealed his
judges ; tied the father penned the order by
which his younger son was conveyed upon
a galley of the State, to perpetual exile on
the Island of Corfu.
The rigor of the watch was now relaxed,
and Antonio, fired by the secret and til
most hopeless passion which he had rea
son to believe was returned with equal fer
vor, renewed his communicati in in the
prescribed quarter. A double danger, how
ever, awaited him. The old and constant
jealousy of France, which appeared in all
the A'enitian councils, had gained new
force ; all intercourse with her ambassador
was narrowly watched.
Eurico, moreover, distracted by the fail
ure of a forged accusation which had re
acted to his own disadvantage, had found
means to communicate with the scheming
Fra Paolo. The suspicions of the Cantari
ni family were secretly directed against the
neglected Antonio. His steps were dog
ged by the spies of a powerful and revenge
ful house. Accusations again found their
way into the Lion's Mouth. Proofs were
too plain to be rejected. The son of Pesa
ro had offended by discarding engagements
authorized and advised by State. He had
offended in projecting alliance with an
alien ; he had offended in holding commu
nication with the household of a foreign
ambassador.
The offense was great and (lie danger
imminent. An inquisitor who alleged ex
cuses for the crime of a relative, was ex
posed to the charge of complicity. He
who wore the crimson robe in the Council
of the inquision was therefore silent. The
mask no less than the severe control exer
ted over his milder nature, concealed the
struggle going on in the bosom of the old
Count Pesaro. The fellow councilors had
already seen the sacrifice of one son—they
could not doubt his consent to the second.
But the offence was now greater and the
punishment would be weightier.
Antonio was the last scion of the noble
house of which the inquisitor was chief, and
he rather triumphed at length over the Min.
isters of State ; yet none in the secret Coun
cil could perceive that triumph. None knew
better than a participant in that dreadful
power which ruled Atenice by terror, how
difficult would be any escape from its con
demnation.
It was two hours past midnight, and the
lights had gone out along the palace win
dows of Atenice.
The Count Pesaro had come back from
the chamber of the Council; but there were
ears that caught the fall of his stops as lie
landed at his palace door and passed to his
apartment. Fra Paolo had spread the ac
cusations which endangered the life of An
tonio, and still an inmate of the palace, lie
brooded over his schemes.
He knew the step of the Count; his quick
ear traced it to the accustomed door. Aga in
the step seemed to him to retrace the corri
dor stealthily, and to turn towards the
apartment of Antonio. The corridcr was
dark, but a glimmer of the moon, reflected
from the canal, showed him the tall figure
of the Count entering the chamber of his
son.
Paternal kindness had not been charac
teristic of the father, and the unusual visit
excited the priestly curiosity. Gliding after
he placed himself in the chamber and over
heard in those days in Atenice—the great
inquisitor sink to the level of a man and a
father.
"My son," said the Count, after the first
surprise of the sleeper was over, " you have
offended against the State," and he" enumer
ated the charges which had come before the
inquisition.
" It is true," said Antonio.
" The State never forgets or forgives,"
said the Count.
" Never when they have decided," said
Antonio.
" They know all," said the father.
" Who know all," asked Antonio earnest
ly-
" The Conncel of Three."
" You know it."
The (fount stooped to whisper in his ear. I
Antonio started'with terror ; he knew of
the popular rumor which attributed to his j
fathers great influence of State, but never
until then did the truth come home to him, '
that he was living under the very one of!
that mysterious Council, whose orders made
even tin- Doge tremble.
" Already," pursued the Count, "they de
termine your punishment; it will be se*
vere ; how sevwe I cannot tell ; perhaps—"
pei* Annum, in Auvance.
" Banishment ?"
"It may be worse, my son and the
Count was again the father of the child,
folding to his heart, perhaps for the last
time, what was dearer to him than the hon
or or safety of the State.
But it was not for the tearful sympathy
only that the Count had made this midnight
visit. There remained a last hope of es
cape The arrest of Antonio might follow
in a day or two Meantime the barges of
the State were subject to the orders penned
by either member of the Council.
It was arranged that a state barge should
be sent to receive Antonio upon the follow
ing night, to convey him a captive to the
Ducal Palace. As if to avoid obstruction
the barge should be ordered to pass by an
unfrequented part of the city. The spirit
of the quarter should receive counter or
ders to permit no boat to pass the canals.
In the delay and altercation Antonio should
make his way to a given place of refuge
where a swift gondola (he should know it
by a crimson pennant at the bow) should
await him to transport the fugitive beyond
the Lagoon.
Ilis own prudence would command horses
upon the Padua shore, escape might be se
cured. Further intercourse with the Count
w uld be dangerous, and open to suspicion;
and father and son bade adieu—it might be
forever.
A day more only in Venice, for a young
patrican whose gay life that made thirty
yeors glide fast, was very short There
were many he feared to leave ; and there
was one he dared not leave. The passion,
that grew with its pains, for the fair Blanche
had ripened into a tempest of love. The
young stranger had yielded to its sway ;
and there lay already that bond between
them that even Venetian honor scorned to
undo.
In hurried words, but with the fever of
his feelings spent on the letter, he wrote to
Blanche He told her of his danger, of the
hopelessness of his stay, of the punishment
threatened. He claimed that sacrfice of |
her home which she had already made for
her heart. Her oarsmen were her slaves. '
The lagoon was not as wide as the distance !
which a day might make between them for-
i ever. lie prayed her as she loved him, and j
i by the oaths already plighted upon Vene
tian waters, to meet him on the further
shore towards Padua. He asked the old j
token from the palace window opposite, |
which had given him promise in days gone.
The keen eyes even of Fra Paolo did not j
detect the little crimson signal which hung j
the following day from a window of the pal- j
ace of the ambassador ; but the wily priest
was not inactive. He plotted the seizure '
and ruin of Antonio, and the return of his i
protector Enrico. An accusation was drawn
that day from the Lyon's Mouth without the j
Inquisition, which carried fear into the
midst of the Council.
" Let the Three beware !" said the accu
sation, ''true men are banished from Venice j
and the guilty escape. Eurico Pesaro lan j
guishesin Corfu and Antonio (if traitorous j
counsels avail him) escapes to night.
"Let the Council look well to the gondola
with the crimson pennant, which at mid
night passes to the Padua shore."
The Inquisators wore their masks ; but
there was doubt and distrust concealed un
der them.
"If treason is among us, it should be
stayed speedily," said one.
And the rest said, " Amen !"
Suspicion naturally fell upon the council- |
or who wore the crimson robe ; the doors j
were cautiously guarded ; orders were giv- j
en that none should pass or repass, were it ,
the Doge himself, without a joint order of
the three. A state barge was dispatched !
to keep watch upon the Lagoon; and the
official of the Inquisition bore a special
commission. The person of the offender,
was of little importance provided it could |
bo known through what channel be had j
been warned of the secret action of the i
Great Council. It was felt that if their se
crecy was once gone, their mysterious pow
er was at an end. The Count saw his dan-
ger and trembled.
The lights(save one in the chamber where j
Fra Paola watched) had gone out in the
Pesaro Palace. The orders of the lather ,
were faithfully observed. The refuge was ,
gained and the gondola with the crimson
pennant, with oarsmen passed quickly tow
ard the Padua shore. Antonio breathed !
freely. Venice was left behind ; but the 1
signal of the opposite palace had nut been
unnoted, and Blanche would meet and cheer
the exile.
Half the Lagoon was passed, and the
towers of St. Mark were sinking upon the !
level sea, when a bright light blazed up in
their wake. It came nearer and nearer. — |
Antonio grew fearful.
He bade the men pull lustily. Still the :
strange boat drew nearer ; and presently
the towers of St. Mark llamed upon the !
barge of the State. His oarsmen stuck
with terror.
A moment more and the barge was beside |
them ; a masked figure, bearing the sym
bols of that dreadful power, which none
might resist, and live, had entered the gon- j
dola. The commission he bore was such
as none must refuse to obey.
The fugitive listened to the masked fig
ure.
" To Antonio Pesaro—accused justly of
secret dealings with the embassador of i
France, forgetful ofhis oaths and his duty
to the State, and therefore condemned to
die—be it known that the only hope of es
cape from a power which has an eye and
ear in every corner of- the Republic, rests
now in revealing the name of that one, be j
he great or small, who has warned him of
his danger, and made known the secret re- i
solve of the State."
Antonio hesitated ; to refuse was death,
and perhaps a torture, which might compe 1
j his secret. On the other hand, the Count,
j his father, was high in power ; it seemed
scarcely, possible that harm could come ;
| nigh to one holding place in the Great Comt
j cil itself. Blanche, too, had deserted her
| home, and periled life and character upon
! his escape. His death, or even his return
] would make sure her ruin.
The masked figure presented to him a
tablet, opon which he wrote in faltering
hand the name of his informant—"TheCount
■ Pesaro."
But the Great Council was as cautious in
| those day as it was cruel. Antonio poss
i essed a secret which was safe in no place i
in Europe. Ilis oarsmen were bound. The ,
barge of State turned toward Venice. The (
gondola trailed after,; but Antonio was no
longer within. A splash of a falling body
"" • l'lM'l TREE
..
I Murk, swept dow,.
This* 'lays aft'-r tth.
| council received a vorbai
[ chair in the Inquisition was -w
i tlii ;rf waa needed a new
crimson robe.
But for weeks did the patricians of Ven
ice tniss the stately Count Pesaro from his
haunts at the Brogolio and the tables of the
Kidotto, And when they knew at length,
from the windows of his palace, and his
houseless servitors that he was gone, they
shook their heads mysteriously, but never
said a word.
The wretched Fra Paolo, in urging his
claim tor the absent Enrico, gave token
that lie knew of the sin and shame of the
Count Pesaro. Such knowledge no private
man might keep in the Venetian .State and
live. The poor priest was buried where no
inscription might be written, and no friend
might mourn.
In those feeble days of Venice which
went before the triumphant entry of Napol
eon, when the Council of Three had learn
ed to tremble, and the Lion of St. Mark was
humbled—there came from Corfu, a palsied
old man whose name was Enrico Pesaro,
br nging with him on only son, who was
called Antonio.
NUMBER 28.
The old man sought to geather such re
mains of the Pesaro estate, as could be
saved from the greedy hands of the Gov
ernment ; and he purchased rich masses
for the souls of the murdered father and
brother.
He died when Venice died, leaving as a
legacy to his son a broken estate and the
bruised heart, with which he had mourned
the wrong done to his kindred. The bov
Antonio had only mournful memories of the
old Venice, where his family—once a fami
ly of honor and of great deeds—was cut
down ; and the new Venice was a complet
ed city.
In the train of the triumphant army of ll
ily, there came, after a few years, many
whose families had in past time been for
gotten. An old love for the great city,
whose banner bad floated proudly in all
seas, drew them to the shrine in the water,
where the ashes of their fathers mouldered.
Others wandered hither in seeking vestiges
of old inheritance ; or it might be, traces
of brothers, or of friends long parted from
them.
Among these,there came, under the guar
dianship of a great French general, a pra
sive girl from Avignon, and yet she spoki
well the language of Italy, and her nana
was that of a house which was one great
in Venice. She sought both friends and in
heritance.
Her story was a singular one. Her grand
father was once royal embassador to tin-
State of Venice. Her mother had fled at
night from her house to meet upon the
shores of the Lagoon, a Venetian lover,
who was of noble family, but a culprit <>f
the State. As she approached the rendez
vous upon the fatal night, she found in tin
distance a flaming barge of St. Mark, and
presently after, heard the cry and struggles
of some victim of State cast into the La
goon.
Her gondola came up in time to save An
tonio Pesaro !
The Government put no vigor in its
! search for drowned men ; and the two fu
gitives, made man and wife, journeyed
safely across Piedmont. The arm of St.
Mark was very strong for vengeance, even
in distant countries ; and the fugitive ones
counted it safe to wear another name, until
years should have made secure again the
title of Pesaro.
'1 he wife had also to contend with the
opposition of a father, whose abhovrences
of the Venetian name would permit in> re
conciliation and 110 royal sanction of the
marriage. Thus they lived, outcasts from
Venice, and outlawed in France, in the val
ley town of Avignon. With the death of
Pesaro the royal ambassador relented; but
kindness came too late. The daughter
sought him only to bequeath to his care the
child.
But Blanche Pesaro, child as she was,
could not love a parent who had not loved
her mother; and the royal ambassador who
could steel his heart toward a suffering
daughter, could spend but little sympathy
on an Italian child. Therefore Blanche
was glad under the protection of a Repub
lican (Jeneral of Provence, to seek what
friends or kindred yet to be found in the
Island City, where her father had once lived
and her mother had loved, .--he found there
a young Count (for the title had been re
vived) Antonio Pesaro, her own father's
name ; and her heart warmed toward him,
as to her nearest of kin. And the young
Antonio Pesaro, when he met this young
cousin from the West, felt his heart wann
ed toward one whose story seemed to lift a
crime from off the memory of his father.--
Tlicrc was no question of inheritance, for
the two parties joined their claim, and
Blanche became Countess Pes arc.
But the pensive face which had bloomed
among the olives, by Avignon, drooped un
der the harsh wind that whistled among the
leaning* houses of Venice. And the Count
who had inherited sadness, found lasting
and deeper grief in the wasting away and
death of Blanche, his wife.
She died on a dull November day, in the
tall, dismal house, where the widowed
Count now lives. And there the daughter
Blanche left him to arrange tlowers on the
ledge of the topmost windows, where a
little sunshine finds its way.
The broken gentleman lingers for hours
at the portrait of the old Count, who was
the Inquisitor, and of Antonio who had
a wonderful escape ; and they say that he
has. inherited the deep self-reproaches which
his father cherished, and that with stern
and silent mourning for the sins and weak
nesses which have stained his family name,
lie strides with his vacant air through the
ways of the ancient city, expecting uo
friend but death.— [ Ike Ma reel's " Seven
Stories, icith Basement and Attic."
To COOK CABBAGE. — Jut fine, add very
little water, cover closely and cook until
tender. Slowly drain through a colander,
season with salt and pepper to your taste,
and mix with thoroughly a tablespoouful of
good sweet butter.
any rebel drummer loses Ids drum
in battle,let him pound away upon his own
belly, which will no doubt be hollow enough
to answer every purpose.
fLesf" A man who was imprisoned for big
amy complained that he had been severely
dealt with for an offence which carries its
own punishment.
FRIENDSHIP. —Oh, friendship ! thou divin
cst alchemist, that man should ever profane
thee !
Stay- A little wrong done to another is a
great wrong done to ourselves.
HEIGHT OF CHARlTY. —Unlacing a young
lady's corset to enable her to sneeze.
tfcgj-The man who said "to-morrow never
cornea," probably never had a note to pax .
Do thou unto others as thou would have
others do unto thee.