silence, and the woman went to the loft, whence she could see all that was passing outside. About a dozen of the horsemen were posted around the house; but the remainder, dismounted, had gone to the edge of the woods, and were felling a well-grown sapling, with the evident intention of using it as a battering-ram to break down the front door. The woman, in a low tone, explained the situation; and the scout said: "It 'r' my only chance. I must run fur it. Bring me yer red shawl, Rachel." She had none, but she had a petticoat of flaming red and yellow. Handling it as if he knew how such articles can be made to spread, the scout softly unbarred the door, and, grasping the hand of the woman, said: "Good-bye, Rachel. It 'r' a right sorry chance; but I may git through. Ef I do, I'll come ter night; ef I don't, git ye the dispatch ter the Cunnel. Good-bye." To the right of the house, midway between it and the woods, stood the barn. That way lay the route of the scout. If he could elude the two mounted men at the doorway, he might escape the other horsemen; for they would have to spring the barn-yard fences, and their horses might refuse the leap. But it was foot of man against leg of horse, and “ a right sorry chance." Suddenly he opened the door, and dashed at the two horses with the petticoat. They reared, wheeled, and bounded away like lightning just let out of harness. In the time that it takes to tell it, the scout was over the first fence, and scaling the second; but a horse was making the leap with him. The scout's pistol went off, and the rider's earthly journey was over. Another followed, and his horse fell mortally wounded. The rest made the circuit of the barn-yard, and were rods behind when the scout reached the edge of the forest. Once among those thick laurels, nor horse nor rider can reach a man, if he lies low, and says his prayer in a whisper. The Rebels bore the body of their comrade back to the house, and said to the woman: "We'll be revenged for this. We know the route he'll take, and will have his life before to-morrow; and you-we'd burn your house over your head, if you were not the wife of Jack Brown." Brown was a loyal man, who was serving his country in the ranks of Marshall. Thereby hangs a tale, but this is not the time to tell it. Soon the men rode away, taking the poor woman's only wagon as a hearse for their dead comrade. Night came, and the owls cried in the woods in a way they had not cried for a fortnight. "T'whoot! t'whoot!" they went, as if they thought there was music in hooting. The woman listened, put on a dark mantle, and followed the sound of their voices. Entering the woods, she crept in among the bushes, and talked with the owls as if they had been human. "They know the road ye'll take," she said; "ye must change yer route. Here ar' the bullet." "God bless ye, Rachel!" responded the owl, "ye'r' a true 'ooman!" -and he hooted louder than before, to deceive pursuers, and keep up the music. "Ar' yer nag safe?" she asked. "Yes, and good for forty mile afore sun-up." 66 Well, here ar' suthin' ter eat: ye'll need it. Good-bye, and God go wi' ye!" "He'll go wi' ye, fur He loves noble wimmin." Their hands clasped, and then they parted, he to his long ride; she to the quiet sleep of those who, out of a true heart, serve their country. Augustine Joseph Hickey Duganne. BORN in Boston, Mass., 1823. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1884. BETHEL. WE mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed, And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed; And out, through the mist and the murk of the morn, With hearts bounding bravely and eyes all alight, As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night; Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched, As ye dance with the damsels to viol and flute, So we skipped from the shadows and mocked their pursuit; For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by a breeze, And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, Ay! trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breath "Column! Forward!" For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the glades. While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas, Through green-tasseled cornfields our columns were thrown, Oh! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers, When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath "Column! Forward!" 1861. Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name, And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air, George Horatio Derby. BORN in Dedham, Mass., 1823. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1861. MUSICAL REVIEW EXTRAORDINARY. [Phænixiana, or, Sketches and Burlesques, by John Phoenix. 1855.] THE PLAINS. ODE SYMPHONIE PAR JABEZ TARBOX. THIS glorious composition was produced at the San Diego Odeon, on the 31st of June, ult., for the first time in this or any other country, by a very full orchestra (the performance taking place immediately after supper), and a chorus composed of the entire "Sauer Kraut-Verein," the "Wee Gates Association," and choice selections from the "Gyascutus" and "Pike-harmonic" societies. The solos were rendered by Herr Tuden Links, the recitations by Herr Von Hyden Schnapps, both performers being assisted by Messrs. John Smith and Joseph Brown, who held their coats, fanned them, and furnished water during the more overpowering passages. "The Plains" we consider the greatest musical achievement that has been presented to an enraptured public. Like Waterloo among battles, Napoleon among warriors, Niagara among falls, and Peck among senators, this magnificent composition stands among Oratorios, Operas, Musical Melodramas and performances of Ethiopian Serenaders, peerless and unrivalled. Il frappe toute chose parfaitement froide. "It does not depend for its success upon its plot, its theme, its school or its master, for it has very little if any of them, but upon its soul-subduing, all-absorbing, high-faluting effect upon the audience, every member of which it causes to experience the most singular and exquisite sensations. Its strains at times remind us of those of the old master of the steamer McKim, who never went to sea without being unpleasantly affected,-a straining after effect, he used to term it. Blair in his lecture on beauty, and Mill in his treatise on logic (p. 31), have alluded to the feeling which might be produced in the human mind. by something of this transcendentally sublime description, but it has remained for M. Tarbox, in the production of The Plains, to call this feeling forth. The symphonie opens upon the wide and boundless plains in longitude 115° W., latitude 35° 21' 03" N., and about sixty miles from the west bank of Pitt River. These data are beautifully and clearly expressed by a long (topographically) drawn note from an E flat clarionet. The sandy nature of the soil, sparsely dotted with bunches of cactus and artemisia, the extended view, flat and unbroken to the horizon, save by the rising smoke in the extreme verge, denoting the vicinity of a Pi Utah village, are represented by the bass drum. A few notes on the piccolo call the attention to a solitary antelope, picking up mescal beans in the foreground. The sun, having an altitude of 36° 27', blazes down upon the scene in indescribable majesty. "Gradually the sounds roll forth in a song" of rejoicing to the God of Day: "Of thy intensity And great immensity Which swells out into "Hey Jim along, Jim along Josey," then descrescendo mas o menos, poco pocita, dies away and dries up. Suddenly we hear approaching a train from Pike County, consisting of seven families, with forty-six wagons, each drawn by thirteen oxen; each family consists of a man in butternut-colored clothing driving the oxen; a wife in butternut-colored clothing riding in the wagon, holding a butternut baby, and seventeen butternut children running promiscuously about the establishment; all are barefooted, dusty, and smell unpleasantly. (All these circumstances are expressed by pretty rapid fiddling for some minutes, winding up with a puff from the ophicleide, played by an intoxicated Teuton with an atrocious breath-it is impossible to misunderstand the description.) Now rises o'er the plains, in mellifluous accents, the grand Pike County Chorus: "Oh we'll soon be thar In the land of gold, Gee up Bolly! Whoo up! whoo haw! |