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TERMS IN VARIABLY CASH. sOocivjj. 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 enemy withdrew. 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 the ridge. 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 disgust I i •' p issihly the kind of disgust how ' ' that a man f. els when getting out of a >'ht place.) 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'. VOLUME XXV. 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 them. 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 Abraham. 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 cowardly acts. 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. - - - - m\s. 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 name. 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 lence. 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 seen. 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 ble daughter. 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 I'esa ro. 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 ble hall. 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 ger- 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 the Church. 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 netian gallants. 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 aimless life. 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 his brother. "And what then !" pursued Eurico, donbt full. "And then tie discreet Enrico attains to the right and privileges of his name." " And Blanche ?" " You know the law of the State, my Soli." " 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 be well." " 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 ambassador. 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 demnation. 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 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 Venice—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 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 the Lagoon. 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 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, 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 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 flamed upon the barge of the State. His oarsmen stuck with terror. 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 ure. " 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 Pesaro." 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 crimson robe. 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 might mourn. 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 called Antonio. NUMBER 28. 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 brother. 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 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 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 them. 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 heritance. 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 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 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 own punishment. FRIENDSHIP. —Oh, friendship ! thou divin est alchemist, that man should ever profane thee ! 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.