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WHEN THE HOYS COME HOME.
THESE' s a happy time coining
When the boys come home,
There's a glorious day coming
When the boys come home,
We will end the dreadful story,
Of this treason dark and gory.
In a snn-lmrst of glory
When the boys come home.
The day will seem brighter
When the boys come home ;
For our hearts will lie lighter.
When the boys come home.
Wives and sweet-hearts will press tlicm
In their arms, and caress them.
And pray God to bless them.
When the boys come home.
The thinned ranks will he proudest
When the boys come home,
And their cheer will ring the loudest.
When the boys come home.
The full ranks will be shattered,
And the bright arms will be battered.
And the battle standard tatte red.
When the boys come home.
Their bayonets may be rusty
When the boys come home,
And their uniforms dusty
When the hoys come home ;
1 hit all shall see the traces
Of Battles royal graces
In the brown and bearded faces
When the boys conic home.
( air love shall go to greet them
When the boys come home,
To bless them and to greet theui
When the hoys come home.
And the fame of their endeavor
Tiim and ghange shall not dissever
From tin nation's heart forever
When the lioys eonie home.
fCctto turn Hi? 2Vnui}.
PLEASANT YAIXEY, HUB HAWKHS FEBBY, I
NVv. is, IKBI. ,
DEAKWIFK :—As we are finally "brought
upstanding" ;tt tin; dismounted camp,!
wiii give you details 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.
Ynii remember my last letter was ended
liliim ly with a sentence half finished, it
was then that the order sounded "Saddle
up !" and our attention thus arrestee 1
was sin m stimulated by the sound of firing
along the picket-line. The enemy bad at
tar-;. -d lis on the right,
\\ <• were drawn up in reserve near the
lines, where we waited till dark and the
At about S o'clock in the evening our
brigade of cavalry, (the 2nd, of the ffil
'■Y, under U'ustar) was sent out on a recon
ctiissniiee to find the enemy's camp. We
found it about five miles out, charged their
picki ts and drove them with speed upon
their hastily formed line of battle, showing
the enemy to be in some force. This, our
object accomplished, we returned to camp
with a few prisoners.
Next morning uninistakeable prepara
tions were made for battle. Our line was
formed and joined with that of tile Ist brig
ade on our right reaching to the North
Mountain. The lines united on a high
ridge that lay between the body of the two
brigades. I'he enemy advanced upon our
pickets, but with occasional sallies from
both parties, the lines remained substanti
ally the same til! afternoon. The order
was tlieu reci ived to advance, and the
whole line moved steadily forward. At
lids moment Lieut. Arthur Tileston, a brave
young officer of the sth N. V., assigned to
the 22nd, called me out to ride along the
lines with him on a circuit of inspection.—
i'roud 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
of our skirmish line. Beaching the lines of
the Ist brigade, we found it just commenc
ing a Furious charge, and joining in we
moved with it, most hugely enjoying the
sight of the flying Johnnie* as they sped
Inun on- advance like chaffbefore the wind.
Thus we drove them till the order came to
fall back, and then supposing the 2nd brig
ade had charged up the other valley as far,
pivs.-rving tlie line unbroken, Lieut. Tiles
ton thought to join it by simply crossing
Accordingly we rude leisurely over thro'
ike woods, emerging from the hills on the
other side in lull view of what we supposed
t" he our brigade drawn up in line of battle.
Du we rude into the same field where a
••• ncr party—a squadron of cavalry—was
tuoviiig, led by a grey man on a grey horse.
Lieut." raid 1, " that man on the grcv
horse looks like a Rob."
"My God !" said he " they are all rebs,"
at tin- same time wheeling his horse ; and
'men for the first time we noticed that body
•■I men as idirulual* t and saw them in all
'""'is of dress—some in our blue, some in
■ ), some in yellowish homespun and oth
iii dirty rags, which was so insulting
■"U sense of propriety and taste in uni
• miiting soldiers, that we hastily retired in
i •' p issihly the kind of disgust how
' ' that a man f. els when getting out of a
M' l r "'Udung again the Ist brigade, we
• h:iek with it about three iniles, then re
|h(' l'idge and came in behind our
•ding quite safe to approach it from
, . But. alas ! how spurt sighted is
Litile did we think that the critical
"f thai day's battle with us was
! an< '- i/'U W. it was. and if I should
:! [•" -•.11 farty 1 il.i'-s,
•'s olten repeat my last situuner's ex-
FT TiannMn—W !■ —HIM Mill ||ia| I 111 1 1 Will imwn H— ■ 111 mil ——IIIW—— III W——— I I . . •
U. <>. (iOODBICH, I'libliKl.ei'.
perience, still would the vivid impressions
received in that next half hour, remain en
during and indellible.
My horse was very tired, and for a long
time had required much urging. The Lieut,
was mounted on a fine animal, as free as
the air and swift as the whirlwind, so that,
in spite of all my efforts 1 was falling to the
rear, along with a few other stragglers from
a squadron of cavalry that was moving up
the road ahead.
All at once a cavalryman dashed by me
exclaiming, " See that lot of Johnnies in
the road behind us !" und sure enough,there
was a squadron of them in full charge up
on us not forty rods oil'! Each sorry strag
gler now clapped spurs to his horse and
" closed up" sooner I think than they ever
obeyed an order, but though 1 dug my poor
horse's Hanks with all the energy possible
under the pressue of circumstances, he fell
behind and only just cleared his distance—
that is he, just passed under cover of the
squadron mentioned as the rebs were about
to close on us. Not seeing an officer at
first 1 sung out " Fall in line !" but Lieut.
Tileston was there, and hastily forming the
men, lie furiously charged the rebs in turn,
driving them back in disorder upon their
reserve, which now came to their support
a whole regiment of them—plunging up
on the Hank of our little squadron, like a
host of vultures settling upon their prey.—
A right about, a liasty skedaddle was all
that could be expected under such circum
stances, and such it was. The fearless
Lieutenant, further in advance than all on
the charge, was so nearly cut off in the ro
treat that in sailing through lie knocked
them right and left, but once out, bis gay
steed soon out-distanced the swiftest of
Thus they retreated and left "Corporal
I'arkhurst in the hands of the enemy." So
the Lieut, reported when he reached the
regiment, and so he honestly thought, for
lust he saw of me was fat in the rear with
the Johnnies dashing up close upon my heels
while the greatest speed I could muster in
my animal was a good sober trot.
On coming into camp late at night, 1
found quite an earnest conversation going
on with regard to my capture. Approach
ing a squad of comrades gathered around
afire, 1 overheard the remark:
• " Well, they can't keep I'arkhurst, he
gave them the slip once and will do it
again," and at that point of the conversa
tion, 1 appeared to their astonished vision,
and received their lieartv congratulations.
Aly escape was on this wise : Seeing
the rebs gaining fast upon me, I exerted
my utmost to make mv horse fee! that it
was a great emergency—an urgent case,
but he could 1 nt see it and not even the
sharp reports coming' alarmingly near, nor
the whistling bullets could make him see
it—so seeing but one chance left, with the
speed of lighning I seized it, determined to
escape or die in the attempt. Snatching
my blanket from the saddle in which were
rolled my clothes and other valuables, 1
dismounted, bounded over the stone-wall
and made the best time possible for tlie
nearest woods. These Virginia wall-fences
are famous obstacles to cavalry, and while
my blood-thirst} - enemies were finding a
place to get through, 1 was gaining time,
beaching 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
in full pursuit, surprised no doubt at the
swiftness of foot that had enabled me to
get out of sight so soon
When all was quiet, I left my blanket in
the rock to pick up some other time, and
with my trusty carbine found the nearest
point of our lines as soon as possible.
1 blamed the quartermaster for getting
me into trouble, for the day before the bat
tle, an order having come to the 22nd to
turn over all the serviceable horses to the
Ist Vermont, he selected the best for the
teams, among which was my own, giving
me a poor miserable plug in its place.
But the poor quartermaster was himself
captured, s<> l.'ll withdaw my censure for
he'll suffer enough.
Next day we expected to renew the bat
tle, and seeing the whole force of cavalry
moving out with artillery and everything
fully equipped for the light, I felt that 1
could not stay in the rear, so I borrowed a
horse and joined the command. When
near my hiding' place of the day before, 1
made a detour with my churn—Mr. .Stone,
and picked up my blanket where 1 had left
it. The enemy had retired beyond Cedar
Creek, so there was no engagement.
Next day, the 14th, our best horses were
turned over, and on arriving here the con
demned ones were disposed of. but we are
soon to be remounted on good horses to re
turn to the front in lighting order.
Your Affectionate Husband,
H. S. I'AItKHtTwST,
Co. sr. 22n.l N. Y. C.
Camp near Petebstjubo. I
Nov. 25, ISM. i
Mi:. EturoH : Thinking our thanksgiving
rather an interesting affair i seat myself to
pen you a few lines to give you a little dis
scription of it. We were not called togeth
er by the merry ring of the church bell
but by the harsh tones ot the war bugle.
Not in a comfortable church made cheerful
.by the bright faces of both sex of all ages
as in civil life, but behind a huge breast
work made to protect us from treacherous
foes. Bound poles for seats, marshaled
warriors for an audience. We were ably
addressed by Chaplain McAdams, of the
57th Penn'a Cavalry, a true patriot and
Christian. We had some things to be thank
ful for that friends at home did not. There
was none among us but that would rejoice
at a Union triumph. None but that is
thankful that the frog that would a wooing
go on the Chicago Platform, instead of be
ing waited by the .smooth waters of peace
into the ocean of power, has been forced
by the tide of public indignation up Salt
Biver and no deubt will do as other frogs
do, plunge into muck and mire, tlius hide
himself from the gaze of those whom he
lias disgusted by his coppery eroakings.—
Moth inks 1 see Seymour, Wood, Vallandig
harn and i'iolett standing around his mucky
grave with solemn countenances humming
a doleful air to the following words :
Hark from thu tombs a doleful sonml,
Mint; i'iirs attend the try,
Black treason killed poor little Mae.
J too must surely die.
But T am deviating from my subject. The
Thanksgiving closed by singing the long
meter Doxology followed by the benediction.
TO WAX DA. BRADFORD COUNTY, I'A., DECEMBERS, 1864.
Before the election every loyal heart felt
| anxious in regard to the decision to begiv
jen by the Ballot Box. The first returns
[ were like? the grey streak shooting up from
| the Eastern horizon after a long and dreary
1 night proclaiming a speedy return of the
| gonial rays of the sun, to make all Nature
I 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 ? Will the people
■j thus decide in the coining election ?" No !
; the question has been answered by loyal
thousand* in the negative.
; We will continue to sing " America,"one
jof Doctor Mason's noblest procloniations,
| and one that is dear to every American
heart. We will do honor to W. B. Bradbury
Iby singing " The Star Spangled Banner,"
| and G. T'. Boot, by singing " The Bed,
j White and Blue."
A feeling of confidence prevails univers
ally in the army since the election of honest
Desertions are becoming frequent since
the news has reachedßebeldomthat tyranny
and oppression has been so unanimously
rebuked by the great mass of the people.
Copperheads can no longer raise their trait
orous heads, with any b ipes of charming
the Nation by their songs of peace, which
means war, dissolution, and blood shed, fol
lowed by a Despotism, upon the very soil
our forefathers dedicated to Freedom.
The elfcct of the great decision is being
felt deeply by our aristocratic foes. Sher
man is • arching on. Spring will find the
Southern Army demoralized, and disearten
ed. The time is soon coming when a man
that has any conscience left will blush
when asked if he supported the Chicago
platform, if he lias been guilty of such
The world moves. The day of deliver-
I ance is not far distant. Discord is already
i manifest in the Kebel Congress. Jeff. A Co.,
i wants Sambo to light for the South. The
I Southern planter will not submit to that as
Ihe has no confidence in the confederacy
i and if lie would, Sambo will not fight
against Clem in the Union Army as lie too
is forceably impressed with Massy Linciun.
Friends of the Union, in Bradford, be of
I good cheer. The same God that led his
; people through the lied Sea, is about to
anchor the great Ship of State in the port
j of peace.
- - - -
THE COUNT PESARO.
A VENETIAN STORY.
I'esaro was once a very great name in
Venice. There xvas in former times, a Don
I'esaro, and embassadors to foreign courts
belonging to the house. In the old church
of the Frairo, upon the further side of the
Grand Canal, is a painting of Titian's in
which a family of the I'esaro appears kneel
ing before the blessed Virgin. A gorge
ously sculptured palace between therialto
and the Golden House is still known as the
I'esaro Palace ; but the family wli'ch built
it, and the family which dwelt there lias long
since lust all claims to its cherubs and grif
fins ; only the crumbling mansion where
lives the old Count anil bis daughter, now
boasts any living holders of the i'esaro
These keep mostly upon the topmost floor
of the house, where a little sunshine finds
its way, and plays hospitably around the
flower pots which the daughter had arrang
ed upon the ledge of a window. Below—
as I bad thought—the rooms were dark and
dismal, 'i'he rich furniture which belonged
to them is gone—only a painting or two,
by famous Venetian artists, now hung upon
the wall. They are portraits of near rela
tions, and the old gentleman, they say, lin
gers for hours about them in gloomy si
So long ago as the middle of the last cen
tury the family had become small and re
duced in wealth. The head of the family,
however, was an important member of the
State, and was expected (such things were
never known in Venice) to have a voice in
the terrible Council of Three.
This man, the Count Giovanno I'esaro,
whose manner was stern, and whose affec
tions seemed all of them to have been ab
sorbed in the mysteries of the State was, a
widower. There were stories that even the
Countess had fallen under the suspicions of
the Council of the inquisition, and that the
silent husband could not or would not guard
her f rom the cruel watch which destroyed
her happiness and shortened her days.
She left two sous, Antonio and Enrico.—
By a rule of the Venetian State, not more
ihau one son of a noble family should marry
except his fortune was great enough to
maintain the dignity of a divided house
hold. The loss of Cauilia and the gaming
tables of Bidotto together had so far di
minished the wealth of the Count I'esaro
that Antonio alone was privileged to choose
a bride, and under the advice of a State,
which exercised a more than fatherly in
terest in the matters, lie was very early be
trothed to a daughter of the Cantarini.
But Antonio wore a earelesand dissolute
habit of life ; be indulged freely in the li
centous intrigues of Venice, and showed
little respect for tlie ties which bound him
to a noble' maiden whom lie had scarcely
Enrico, the younger sou, destined for the
Church, had more caution, but far less gen
erosity in his nature, and covered his disso
luteness under the garb of sanctity, lie
chafed into a bitter jealousy of bis brother,
whose privilege so far exceeded his own.—
Fra l'aola, bis priestly tutor und companion
was a monk of the order of Franciscans,
who, like many of the oligarchy, paid little
attention to his vows, and used tlie stolen
lntisk to conceal the appetite of a debased
nature. With his assistance Enrico 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
attaching to the affianced lover of their no
Affairs stood in this xvise in the ancient
house of I'esaro when (it was in the latter
part of the eighteenth century) one of the
iast royal ambassadors of France estab
lished himself in a palace near the church
Sa.n Zaccaria, and separated only by a nar
row canal from that occupied by the Count
The life of foreign ambassadors, and most
of all, those accredited from France, was
always jealously watched in Venice, and
many a householder, who was so unfortun
ate as to live in the neighborhood of an am-
REGARDI.ESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
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 I'esaro family undis
turbed. Perhaps it was the designs of the
mysterious powers of the State to embroil
the house of I'esaro in criminal correspon
dence with the Envoy of France—perhaps
Fra l'aola, who had free access to the I'esa
ro himself held a place in the terrible Coun
cil of Three.
The side canals of Venice are not wide,
and looking across where the jealous Yeni
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
did uot fail to notice a little figure, that
from day to day glided over the marble
steps, or threw its shadow across the mar
Blanche was the only daughter of the am
bassador, and besides her there remained
to bini no family. She had just reached the
age when the romance of life is strongest;
and the music stealing over the water from
lloating canopies, and masked figures pass
ing like phantoms under the shadows of
palaces, and all the license and silence of
Venice, created for her a strange charm,
both mysterious and dangerous. The very
seocrecy of Venetian intrigues contrasted
very favorably in her own romantic
thoughts with the brilliant profligacy of the
court of Versailles.
Nor was her face or figure such as to
pass unnoticed even among the most at
tractive of the Venetian beauties. The
brothers I'esaro, wearied of their jealous
strife among the masked intriguante * who
frequented the table of the Bidotto, were
kindled into wholly new endeavor by a sight
of the blooming face, of the western sti an
The difficulties which hedged all 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
doros ; 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
But the bright eyes of Blanche, and the
piquancy of her girlish, open look, were
stronger than a forced betrothal, or the
mockery of monastic bonds. Music from
musicians stole at 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 do\yn ; and always the eager and
girlish Blanche kept watch through the
kindly Venetian Minds 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
the palace of her father.
A French lady, moreover, brought with
her from her own court more liberty for
the revels of the Ducal palace, and for the
sight of the halls of the Hiditto, than be
longed to the noble maidens of Venice. It
was not strange that the Pesaro brothers
followed her thither, or that the gondoliers
who attended at the doors of the ambassa
dor were accessible to the gold of the Ve
In all his other schemes Enrico had
sought merely to defeat the intrigues of
Antonio, and the pride of an offended broth
er, an offcast of the State. But 111 the pur
suit of Blanche there was a new and livelier
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
leges, and virtually condemned him to an
But if Enrico was more cautious and dis
creet, Antonio was more bold and daring.
There never was a lady, young or old,
French or Venetian, who did not prefer
boldness to watch fullness, audacity to cau
tion. And therefore it was that Enrico—
kindled into a new passion which consumed
all the old designs of his life— lost ground
in contention with the more adventurous
approaches of Antonio.
Blanche, with the quick eye of a woman,
and from the near windows of the palaceof
the ambassador, saw the admiration of the
heirs of the Pesaro house, and looked with
greater favor upon the bolder adventures
of Antonia. The watchful eyes of Enrico
and of the masked Era Paolo, in the gath
erings at the Ducal hall, or in the saloons
of tlie ltidotto, were not slow to observe the
new and dangerous favor which the senior
heir of the Pesaro name was winning from
the strange lady.
"It is well," said Eurico, as he sat clos
eted with his saintly adviser in a •chamber
of the Pesaro Palace, "the State will never
permit the heir of a noble house to wed
with the daughter of an alien ; the Cont-or
ni will never permit this stain upon their
honor. Let the favor which Blanche of
France shows to Antonio be known to the
State, and Antonio is—"
"A banished man," said Fra Paolo, soft
ening the danger of the assumed fears of
"And what then !" pursued Eurico, donbt
"And then tie discreet Enrico attains to
the right and privileges of his name."
" And Blanche ?"
" You know the law of the State, my
" A base law !"
" Not so loud," said the cautions priest ;
" the law has its exceptions. The ambassa
dor is reputed rich. If his wealth could be
transferred to the State of Venice all would
" 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.
Its lloor was of alternate squares of black
and white marble, and its walls were tape
stried with dark hangings sets off with sil
ver fringe. They were examining, with
their masks thrown aside, the accusations
which a servitor had brought in from the
Lion's Mouth, which opened in the wall at
the head of the second stairway.
Two of the inquisitors were dressed in
black, and the third, who sat between the
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.—
Mote than once a patrician of Venice bad
disappeared from the eyes of men, and a
mysterious message came to the Grand
Council that a seat xvas vacant in the Cham
ber of the Inquisition. ,
Ths accusation that now startled the
member of the Council, was this :
" Let the State beware ; the Palace of
I'esaro is very near the Palace of France!
" ONE OF THE CONTAIUNI."
The Count I'esaro (for the inquisitor was
none other,) in a moment collected his
thoughts He had remarked the beautiful
daughter of the ambassador ; be 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 Venice, no tie was recognized but the tie
which bound them to the mysterious author
ity of the State. The Count I'esaro knew
well that the discovery of any secret inter
course with the palace of the ambassador
would be followed by grave punishment of
bis son ; fie knew that an}' conspiracy with
that son to shield him from the State would
bring the forfeit of his life. Yet the in
quisitor said, "Let the spies be doubled."
And the spies were doubled ; but the fa
thcr, more watchful and wakeful than all,
discovered that it was not one son only, but
both 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.
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 ; and the father penned the order by
which bis 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 al
most hopeless passion which he had rea
son to believe was returned with equal fer
vor, renewed his communicati >n in the
prescribed quarter. A double danger, how
ever, awaited him. The old and constant
jealousy of France, which appeared in all
the Veuitian councils, had gained new
force ; all intercourse with her ambassador
was narrowly watched.
Enrico, 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. Ilis 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 I'esa
ro had offended by discarding engagements
authorized and advised by State. ITe had
offended in projecting alliance with an
alien ; he had offended in holding commu
nication with the household of a foreign
Hie offense was great and the 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 xvas 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 I'esaro. The fellow councilors had
already seen the sacrifice of one son—they
could not donbt 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
lie 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 Venice by terror, how
difficult would be any escape from its con
It was two hours past midnight, and tho
lights had gone out along the palace win
dows of Venice.
The Count I'esaro had come back from
the chamber of the Council ; but there were
cars that caught the fall of his steps as he
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 Court; his quick
ear traced it to the accustomed door. Again
the step seemed to him to retrace the corri
dor stealthily, and to turn towards the
apartment of Antonio. The corridor 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
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 Venice—the great
inquisitor sink to the level of a man and a
"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
" It is true," said Antonio.
"The State never forgets or forgives,"
said the Count.
" Never when they have decided," said
" They know all," said the father.
" Who know all," asked Antonio earnest
"The Councel of Three."
" You know it."
The Count stooped to whisper in his ear.
Antonio started'with terror ; he knew of
the popular rumor which attributed to his
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 the T>oge tremble.
" Already," pursued the Count, "they de
termine your punishment: it will be se*
vere ; how severe 1 cannot tell: perhaps—"
per Annum, in Atlvance.
" 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 hud 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 he 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
His 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
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
In hurried words, hut 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, lie claimed that sacrifice 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
ever. He prayed her as she loved him, and
by the oaths already plighted upon Vene
tian waters, to meet him on the further
shore towards Padua. He asked the old
token from the palace window opposite,
which had given him promise in days gone.
The keen eyes even of Fra Paolo did not
detect the little crimson signal which hung
the following day from a window of the pal
ace of the ambassador ; hut the wily priest
was not inactive. He plotted the seizure
and ruin of Antonio, and the return of his
protector Enrico. An accusation was drawn
that day from the Lyon's Mouth without the
Inquisition, which carried fear into the
midst of the Council.
" Let the Three beware !" said the accu
sation, "true men are banished from Venice
and the guilty escape. Eurico Pesaro lan
guishesin Corfu and Antonio (if traitorous
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 then i.
"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
were cautiously guarded ; orders were giv
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
be known through what channel he had
been warned of the secret action of the
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 tlm chamber where
Fra I'aola watched) had gone out in the
Pesaro Palace. The orders of the father
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
signal of the opposite palace had not been
unnoted, and Blanche would meet and cheer
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 flamed upon the
barge of the State. His oarsmen stuck
A moment more and the barge was beside
tliem ; a masked figure, bearing the sym
bols of that dreadful power, which none
might resist, and live, had entered the gon
dola. The commission he bore was such
as none must refuse to obey.
The fugitive listened to the masked fig
" To Antonio Pesaro—accused justly of
secret dealings with the embassador of
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
lie great or small, who has warned him of
his danger, and made known the secret re
solve of the State."
Antonio hesitated ; to refuse was death,
and perhaps a torture, which might compe 1
bis secret. On the other hand, the Count,
his father, was high in power ; it seemed
scarcely, possible that harm could come
nigh to one holding place in the Great Coun
cil itself. Blanche, too, bad 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—"ThcCount
But the Great Council was as cautious in
those day as it was cruel. Antonio poss
essed a secret which was safe in no place
in Europe. His 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 hodv
and a lpw cry of ugoriy. werei deadened by
tnonrush of the oars as the barge of St.
Mark, swept down to the silent city.
Tliree days after the Doge and his privy
council received a verbal message that a
chair in the InqifisUion was vacant, and
there wan needed a new wearer for the
Hut for weeks did the patricians of Ven
ice miss the stately Count Pesaro from his
haunts at theßrogolio and the tables of the
Kidotto, And when they knew at length,
from the windows of his palace, and bis
houseless servitors that iie was gone, they
shook their heads mysteriously, but never
said a word.
The wretched Pra Paolo, in urging his
claim lor the absent Enrico, gave token
that he knew of the sin and shame of tin-
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
In thoße feeble days of Nenice 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 uging with him on only son, who was
The old man sought to gc&thcr such re
mains of the Pesaro estate, as could he
saved from the greedy hands of the Gov
ernment ; and he purchased rich masses
for the souls of the murdered father and
lie died when Venice died, leaving as a
legacy to his son a broken estate and the
bruised heart, with which hi; had mourned
the wrong done to his kindred. The boy
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 conquer
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 had floated proudly in all
seas, drew them to the shrine in the water,
where the ashes ol'their fathers mouldered.
Others wandered hither in seeking vestige
of old inheritance ; or it might be, traces
of brothers, or of friends long parted from
Among these,there came, under the guar
dianship of a great French general, a pca
sive girl from Avignon, and yet she sj ok<
well the language of Italy, and her nam*
was that of a house which was one great
in Venice. She sought both friends and in
Her story was a singular one. Her grand
father was once royal embassador to the
State of Venice. ITor 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 of
the State. As she approached the rendez
vous upon the fatal night, she found in the
distance a flaming barge of St. Mark, and
presently after, heard the cry and struggles
of some victim of State cast into the La
iler 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 abhorrences
of the Venetian name would permit no re
conciliation and no 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
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 Kepub
lican General of Provence, to seek what
friends or kindred yet to be found in the
Island Pity, where her father had once lived
and her mother had loved, 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 warm
ed toward one whose story seemed to lift a
crime from off the memorv of Ids father.—
There was no question of inheritance, for
the two parties joined their claim, and
Blanche became Countess Pesaro.
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
i Count now lives. And there the daughter
j Blanche left him to arrange flowers on the
I ledge of the topmost windows, where a
j little sunshine finds its way.
The broken gentleman lingers for hours
! at the portrait of the old Count, who was
j the Inquisitor, and of Antonio who bad
a wonderful escape ; and they say that he
; has. inherited the deep self-reproaches which
j his father cherished, and that with stern
I and silent mourning for the sins and weak
nesses which have stained his family name,
j he strides with his vacant air through the
j ways of the ancient city, expecting no
! friend but death.— [He Mareel's " Seren
j Stories, icith Basement anil Attic."
i * ""7
To COOK CABBAGE. — Jut line, 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 tablespoooful of
good sweet butter.
any rebel drummer loses bis drum
in battle,let him pound away upon his own
belly, which will no doubt be hollow enough
to answer every purpose.
A man who was imprisoned for big
amy complained that he had been severely
i dealt with for an offence which carries its
FRIENDSHIP. —Oh, friendship ! thou divin
est alchemist, that man should ever profane
A little wrong done to another is a
great wrong done to ourselves.
HEIGHT OK CHARITY. —Unlacing a young
lady's corset to enable her to sneeze.
i man who said "to-morrow never
i comes," probably never had a note to pay.
Do thou unto others as thou would have
' others do unto thee.