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THE INVASION OF THE NORTH.
WE publish on
page 461 a
the CITY OF
HARRISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, lately
threatened by the rebels under
one of his corps commanders, and
now the head-quarters
Couch. It is a pretty city
on the east bank of the Susquehanna
River, communicating with Reading, Philadelphia, and Baltimore by
railway. Usually a very quiet spot, it
is now full of troops and bristling with
publish a page of
Street Scenes at
sketches by our
special artist, Mr.
The following cuttings from
the Philadelphia papers may
help to explain
We need not now blush for Philadelphia. She is steadily
at work in the great cause of defense of hearth and
home, and each hour sees order rising out of the confusion,
and patriotism taking the place of craven imbecility. Business is very generally
suspended, and tens of thousands of men are drilling, either for home
defense or joining the State
militia. The rapidity with which some of the regiments, such as those
raised by the Coal trade and
the Union League, are completed is extremely gratifying,
and makes every other regiment emulous of equal success.
There is but little unusual bustle in the streets, though the roll of the drum
is constantly heard.
THE COAL REGIMENT.
The action of the coal shippers of this city, in reference
to the regiment to be raised under their auspices, has been
both unanimous and determined. The large amount subscribed in support of this
regiment on Monday was nearly
trebled yesterday. In the afternoon representatives from the different
firms in the trade assembled at the head-quarters
of the regiment, in Walnut Street, above Second,
and proceeded to
Richmond in a body. The foremen of the different wharves
were notified to suspend work, and
all the men were assembled at one of the central piers, where stirring
and patriotic addresses were delivered, urging the necessity of immediate
action, and the advantages
to be derived by them in enlisting as a body in a regiment
where each would know his comrade, and whose welfare
would be the immediate care of their employers. The men
responded enthusiastically, and six full companies were immediately
THE UNION LEAGUE.
The brigade now being formed under the auspices of the
Union League is progressing finely. There is not the least
doubt that the number of men required will be obtained within a day or two. At
the different recruiting stations names are being enrolled rapidly, and the
general head-quarters at
Twelfth and Girard streets were crowded this
morning with men anxious to enlist. The four regiments to compose the brigade
will be entirely fitted out by the
members of the League.
THE MERCHANTS' REGIMENT.
The regiment organized under the auspices of the merchants
is full, and was reported for duty at the head-quarters of General Dana
yesterday afternoon. The regiment is commanded by Colonel Woodward.
ACTION OF THE COLORED PEOPLE.
A number of the colored men of this city met at the Bethel Church, Sixth Street,
above Lombard, yesterday, with regard to their enlisting for the State defense.
Mr. J. C. White presided, and Mr. John Wolf acted as Secretary.
Among those present were Fred Douglass and most of the colored clergymen
of the city. The following were adopted:
That inasmuch as we solemnly believe that God has no attributes that can take
part with the slave-holder
in this rebellion, we hold it to be our highest religions
duty to sustain our Government in the prosecution of
this war so far as it is conducted for the purpose of equal
rights, liberty, equality, and fraternity.
That we earnestly request all ministers of
the Gospel, preaching to colored congregations, to teach
their several charges that the days of our bondage in this
are at an end, and that God is saying to us, in the most
and take our place on the broad
platform of equal rights.
That we deeply feel for, and sincerely sympathize with, those of our race who
are flying from the chains and slavery of a rebellious horde, and, forced before
the march of a conscript army of marauders, have
sought a refuge in our midst; and that we hereby pledge
to them the protection of our homes and firesides, a part
of our personal property, and a share of our daily bread,
even to a portion of our last crumb.
It was proposed that the colored men present tender to
the Government their services for three months or the emergency. There being no
definite understanding as to
the terms on which colored men would be received into the
State service, the postponement of the consideration of the
subject to another meeting was suggested.
Mr. Douglass urged immediate action. He said those present could enroll their
names: if their services were not accepted, the responsibility would rest with
the authorities. A number of persons then signed the roll. Another meeting is to
be held this afternoon.
page 458 we publish a
MAP showing the theatre
of the conflict in Southern
Pennsylvania and Northern Maryland, and on
page 453 a View of the
BURNING OF THE BRIDGE AT COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA. This
operation is described
in the accompanying letter
from the author of
BURNING OF THE COLUMBIA
On Sunday, the 29th June, 1863, it was reported that
the Confederates were on the turnpike road from York to
Columbia (twelve miles), and were four miles from Wrightsville, at the west end
of the Columbia Bridge; but as there
had been many flying reports no attention was paid to this
one, until the citizens of both towns were startled by the
firing of musketry and artillery.
The force of the Confederates was about 2000, including
horse, foot, and artillery—ours about 1400, composed of infantry
and cavalry, without artillery. The rebels showed themselves
well acquainted with the country, and instead
attacking our rifle-pits on the front or west, they appeared from the wooded
hills on the north and south.
Our men stood their ground well until the six or eight
pieces of artillery opened with shot and shell, when they
broke and ran for the bridge, which they entered as the infantry of the
enemy were endeavoring to intercept them.
it was at this point that we lost a number of prisoners; stated by some to be as
as two hundred—but
as stragglers have been coming in pretty freely this number
is probably exaggerated. When
the rush was made to enter the bridge, the gates are said to have been
closed to p'ecent the enemy from
following the fugitives to Columbia.
The rebels had stationed guards upon the by-roads, with
which they were well acquainted, and it was asserted that
an officer who accosted a farmer was recognized by the
latter as a person who had passed a night with him some
time previously. It is also stated that one of the principal
officers of the invading force was the engineer who located
the railroad between York and Harrisburg, and who may
therefore be presumed to be acquainted with the fordings.
The bridge had been prepared for partial destruction by
cutting away most of the supports, removing some of the
outside boarding, and sawing through the roof, so as to allow
a span or two to drop into the river; while toward the
western end a pier was charged with gunpowder with the
expectation that it would be blown up and the dependent
spans thus dropped. But when the period of destruction
arrived, three reports were heard in quick succession, followed
by a cloud of smoke, which led us to believe that some of the cannon guarding
the entrance at Columbia had been taken to this part of the bridge and
fired at the entering rebels. But
the pier withstood the explosions,
and in a panic the bridge was rashly fired, although defended
with some half a dozen cannon at the eastern end.
The artillery firing of the enemy commenced about seven o'clock in the evening,
lasting about twenty minutes; by
eight o'clock the flames
were visible, and spread
in both directions, probably
at the rate of five minutes to a
span, although the arches and frame-work stood burning after the roof and
weather-boarding had disappeared.
This bridge was about a mile and a quarter long, built
upon good stone-piers, the spans being about 175 or 200
feet in length. Besides two roadways and railways, it had
upon the south or down-stream side a double towing-way
for the Susquehanna and Tide-water Canal.
Our view is a night sketch from the north, the smoke
tending toward the west or Wrightsville end of the bridge, and also
northward up the river. The night was calm, the river unruffled, and at its
present low stage having various
exposed rocks and islets, which present a sombre
appearance in contrast with the glare of the conflagration.
The fire did not extend to the towns, except that some
lumber at Wrightsville was destroyed; but the fire was prevented from spreading
the Confederates themselves. They might have destroyed a large amount of
a saw-mill to prevent the rebuilding of several bridges they
burned the next day, as well as half a dozen iron furnaces
between Columbia and Marietta, where the Susquehanna
is within half a mile in width. The proprietors expected a bombardment, as our
soldiers have destroyed all the Southern iron-works in their reach as
contraband of war.
RALPH HAZLITT, SOLDIER.
"THEN you do
not love me?"
"Why should I? You love yourself too
well to need any other love."
"You mean because I am
not fighting?" The speaker
smiled a little, bitterly. "So you
think I lack courage,
Grace? We will talk no more about
love to-day. Of course
no woman gives
her heart to a man whom she does not think brave enough to die for her, if need
were. If you think I
hold my life too dear no
wonder that you can not trust me."
There was something in his
words and his tone that at once puzzled Grace Ashland, and pained her. Perhaps
she would have liked him to urge
his suit, instead of so
quietly withdrawing it. If he
could but have explained to her why he,
young, strong, professedly patriotic, wore no uniform! She knew in her
heart that she longed to think well of him—why would he not help her? But he had
silenced her. What could she say more?
So she sat there; an unwonted color staining her cheek, and something in
her eyes that made Ralph
Hazlitt smile, a strange,
He watched her a few moments,
then he took a book and began
reading. It was Macaulay's
"Lays of Ancient Rome."
How his cool, gray eyes kindled, what a flush mounted to
his swart cheek as he
read, what I think no coward could
bear to read,
"How well Horatius kept the bridge,
In the brave days of old!"
When he shut the book he
looked at his auditor.
"Those were proud days, Grace, and proud men.
I think even
I could fight with the
inspiration of such an example—I mean if I read one of those ballads just at the
last, and went in before I had time to get cool. Now you must sing to me. I
don't know when I'll have
such another lazy morning, and I mean to enjoy
A little secret self-reproach made Miss Ashland obedient.
It was always a pretty sight to see
her at the piano. She had a certain piquant beauty of her own, though it was a
style that not every one recognized. Her features were not classical; her face
was pale, always pale, except some strong emotion hung out its pink signal for a
moment at her cheeks. The chief charm was in her eyes—dark, large, hazel eyes,
that told her secrets against her will—eyes into which you looked and read her
soul. They would be sweet when she loved—they were brave and truthful always.
When she sang they kindled with a light which glorified her face into something
more potent than beauty.
She was in no mood for music at first. She sang for a while with patient
compliance just what he called for, then her mood changed, and the spell of her
own power enchained her. Her fingers wandered over the keys half unconsciously,
and almost forgetting his presence, she sang out her thoughts—fitful snatches of
mirth, or pathos, or passion. At last the chords swelled under her fingers to
full, rich melody; a strain sultry with tropic heat, burning with such sunshine
as gilds the hot sands of the desert. Then across the sun-bright day seemed to
sweep the fierce, mighty storm-wind of the East, and through its tempest broke
the tones of her voice, chanting an old Bedouin song, such as some wild Arab
lover might sing at the feet of his dark-eyed mistress:
"From the desert I come to thee,
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love but thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Was that the voice of her soul answering Ralph Hazlitt? He would not ask her
to-day, but having heard that he cared to hear no more singing. When she struck
the last note she turned from the piano. He took her hand and looked into her
eyes with a long, sad gaze; a look such as we give to the beloved whom we may
never see again. For a moment he held her fingers in a firm clasp. Then he said,
very quietly, "Good-by, Grace!" and was gone.
Two days afterward Miss Ashland received this letter:
"When you read these lines, Grace, I shall be far away. I have enlisted. I am
going to do my work—the work I have longed for all these months of inaction. I
will tell you now why I did not go before. In the six
months you have known me have you heard any thing of my family? Do you
chance to know that all the near
relatives I have on earth are three children? They are at
school now, at a sort of child's school, but they come to
me every vacation, and I am their sole friend. They were
the legacy of my only sister. My parents died many years
ago. There were only us two left, Maud and I. When she married I thought
it would leave me alone. But she
made me go with her to her new home. She never suffered me to have a lonely
hour, scarcely to feel for a moment
that her heart held any dearer love than the one she
had given me from childhood. After her three children were born, just
when the youngest had got old enough to lisp her father's name, the husband
died; and then I understood how
strong a tie had bound her to him. She
pined for him, like a homesick child. One day she said to
" 'I am tired, Ralph, I must go to William. I shall
leave you the children. He needs me more than they do, for they have you.
He comes to me in my dreams and
calls me. You will never let my babies feel that they are orphans.'
"After that she faded, gently and painlessly as a flower
fades—an atmosphere of sweetness about her to the last.
One night I left her, not weaker than usual, suffering no
pain. The next morning I found her with a smile frozen upon her face,
token of the soul's joy at its release. She
was with William, and the children were mine. They have been mine four years.
"Such and so sacred is the tie which has kept me at home hitherto. If I fell,
they would be indeed orphans. Have I been wrong? I do not know. Your words awakened
a doubt. I think I ought to have been ready to trust
them to God. I am ready now to trust them to Him and to you. You have
sent me into the fray; and whatever
ties you may form in the future, I know I can trust to your
sense of justice that those children shall never want care or love. Of
wealth they have enough—for tender watchfulness they can only look to you.
"I have enlisted for three years, or for the war. I leave you free. I would not
tell you that I was going, and ask again for your love, lest you might, in a
moment of enthusiasm, bind yourself
by some pledge which you would regret hereafter. Love where your heart
leads you. Be happy. I ask of you but the one thing which I have a
right to demand—care for my children—security that they
would not be left bankrupt of love and protection by the
loss of the life which I offer at your instance—oh how willingly!—to
my country. For myself, I may say it now, for
if I die I will not leave it unsaid, I love you, as you sang—
"' With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
"If we meet no more till we meet beyond sun and stars,
I shall be then, as now, yours, RALPH HAZLITT."
Grace Ashland trembled as she read the letter. What had she been doing? How
could those children forgive her for having sent away their only friend? How
could she forgive herself? What, if he fell, would ever heal the wound in her
heart? for she knew now that she loved him. Well, there was one solace: she
could do his will faithfully, wait for him, be true to him. If their next
meeting was indeed to be beyond sun and stars, she would be able to go
fearlessly to his side and say,
"Here am I and the children you left to my care. Receive your own."
How noble he had been through it all; doing his duty with such silent, brave
courage; staying at home for those children's sakes, and never saying one word
in self-justification! And she, whom he had honored so with his love, had
taunted him with loving himself, his life, his ease. Yet he had forgiven her. He
was hers still. She pressed the letter, with wild, unuttefable throbs of grief
and passionate tenderness, to her heart and lips. She called by a hundred
endearing names—oh, if he could have heard them!—her love, her life, her hero!
When he had been gone a week she went to see the children—her soldier's legacy.
Two little gentle girls, Maud and Alice, and one brave, sturdy boy, named Ralph
for his uncle. Here she found her path already made smooth. Mr. Hazlitt had
written to the principal of the school that the children were to be, during his
absence, under the guardianship of his particular friend Miss Ashland, who would
be guided by her own judgment as to the length of time they would remain there.
To the children he had written a long, loving letter, softening as best he could
their present loss of him, and bidding them to love, in his stead and for his
sake, his friend Miss Ashland, to whom he had confided them.
So she found her welcome ready. She made plans with them for the future. She
promised to come and see them as often as their uncle had done, and whenever it
was vacation they were to stay with her. The child's school where they were was
excellent in its way, but she saw that they would soon need more thorough and
systematic instruction. It would be a responsibility she hardly cared to take to
remove them and establish them in another place. She thought that, at the end of
six months, when their school-year was out, and the long vacation came, she
would write to their uncle and solicit his counsel. Till then she would be
silent. She longed sometimes to send him just one little line to tell him how
wholly she was his; but a maidenly impulse restrained her. He had not asked for
any reply to his letter, nor had he renewed in it his prayer for her love. He
had seemed to prefer leaving her free. She could not offer her heart to him
unasked, even though she knew that she held his own.
Before the six months were over came the news that he was killed. He had fallen,
as a soldier should, in the front of the fray: fallen, oh, she well knew how!
with courage in his heart, a glow on his cheek, a glint as of sharp steel in his
gray eye. If he had only kissed her once in his life, she thought she could have
borne it better. Oh, if he could but have known how she had loved him! She would
have given half the universe now if she had but followed the dictates of her
longing, and written to him that through life and death she was his. But a
thought soothed her—a thought so blessed, so foreign to her mood, that it seemed
almost like the suggestion of another: perhaps he knew all now. Spirit eyes
could see farther than mortla ones. He was in a world where there were no more
secrets. She had but to do faithfully the work he had left her, and some day she
would go to him.
It was medicine to her pain. She grew strong, as if she had breathed air from
the heaven where he was. She bethought herself tenderly, of the children. Ought
she not to be helping them bear their sorrow?
Their year was nearly out. She went and brought them home. Her love was all they
had left. Surely they needed it now. Maud and
Alice sorrowed with a still, deep, unchildish grief that it was pitiful to see.
Ralph dashed the tears from his eyes and threw back his hair with a gesture so
like his uncle that it thrilled Miss Ashland's heart, and vowed that he would
grow up to avenge Uncle Ralph—he would be a soldier too.
Two weeks after the news came of Mr. Hazlitt's death Miss Ashland was summoned
to an interview with his attorney. She found that he had been to the seat of war
on a fruitless search for the body; for the dead man had been to him both friend
and client. It had been impossible to identify any grave, he said, except those
of some of the officers; for half our dead had been left for the rebels to bury.
But he had received only too positive confirmation of the report of Mr.
Hazlitt's death; and now he had brought his will, which he had made the last
thing before he went away, to read to her, as the one chiefly interested.
"He leaves me the children?"
"Yes, and his fortune. They inherited enough from their parents. He only
bequeaths them, in addition, his house and grounds, that they may keep their
home-feeling still. He recommends that you establish them there, with some
suitable person to oversee the household and look after their welfare, and so
have them taught at home for a while. All else, save the homestead and a few
trifling legacies, you will perceive he bequeaths to his dear friend, Miss Grace
She scarcely heard the last clause of his remarks, her thought was so busy with
her plan for the future. She would surely have the children live at his home,
and she would live there with them—be sole and faithful guardian of their
interests. She would indeed fulfill his trust. No one would oppose her. She was
twenty-four, no longer a girl. Her parents had other children to make their home
cheery—they would let her, as they always had, follow her own course.
She was roused from her reverie by the lawyer's voice, offering stereotyped
congratulations, blended with expressions of sorrow for the dead. Then, at last,
she began to realize that he had left her sole mistress of all his possessions;
her of whose love for him he had never known. That was the heart she had lost in
losing him. Did the earth hold another as true? What was there in the universe
that could make up to her for it? Then her soul thrilled again to the thought of
the sure future, the love and the life beyond this world. It is not so hard to
wait when the end is sure. In the mean time she had her work.
It was July when she heard the news of his death. Early in September she had
made all necessary arrangements, and was living with the children—her
children now—in the home of Ralph Hazlitt. There was a certain joy, secret,
unshared, and yet most sweet, in living where he had lived; using daily the
things that he had used. She even chose his old room, and sat there nights,
watching through the window, whence she had drawn away the curtain, the
clear-shining September stars, and thinking of him who walked in the glory
beyond them, and waited for her.
So the weeks passed on. The October winds blew over the hills, and swept the
sere leaves before them like flocks of tiny birds, flame-colored and golden.
November came—the soft, hazy warmth of the Indian summer, with air of balm, and
sunshine floating dreamily down through a dim haze that seemed to bring it
nearer. She was growing content with life and its work, though she never for one
moment looked upon it as other than a life of waiting.
Once when nightfall came—it was then the late November—she saw the children in
their beds, heard their prayers, kissed their red, childish lips, with the dewy
softness on them, and then went back into the library, where he had always
passed his solitary evenings. A cheery fire burned on the hearth, and a shaded
lamp upon the table. The room was bathed in soft light. The curtains were
drawn—the easy-chair at the table, where he used to sit, held out its arms for
her. She sank into it, and lost herself in a reverie. She recalled the whole of
their last interview—every word, every look, every shade of meaning on his face.
"He knows me better now," she said at length, unconsciously speaking aloud.
"He knew you well then. Would he have left the children to you if he had not?"
What voice was that? She turned to see a tall thin figure standing there; to
meet gray eyes, cool and searching no longer, but full of a warmth that made her
cheeks crimson. She hardly knew how it was that she was drawn close into those
arms—felt those kisses on her lips which made her heart beat with such quick,
wild pulses. It did not seem strange to her for a moment. She scarcely
remembered that she had believed him dead—it seemed so natural for him to be
there and to love her. It was not until he asked, "So you resolved to live here
and be the children's guardian yourself?" that she remembered how she came
there, as she answered him, "Yes, it was the only way I had of giving you my
"You shall learn a better way now."
"You will not go back?"
"Not till I have taught you how to love me," he whispered, with his lips close
to her cheek. "When I go next time I shall leave my wife."
"But how came you here?"
"I thought that question would come by-and-by. I was left for dead on the field.
A rebel surgeon found me, who had been an old classmate of mine, and who
preserved an honest liking for me still. He nursed me back to life, and through
his influence I was paroled when I was strong enough to travel. When I am
exchanged I must go back. In the mean time remember who said we were to take no
thought for the morrow."
Two days after that there was a wedding, and Grace Ashland became in due form
mistress of Ralph Hazlitt's home. It was two months before he was exchanged and
went back to the war, and she had learned in that time to think having was
better than waiting.