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GRAVES OF GETTYSBURG.
[NATIONAL CEMETERY AT
GETTYSBURG.—Harrisburg, July 31. Arrangements
have been made to purchase a part of the battlefield at Gettysburg for a
cemetery, in which it is proposed to gather the remains of our dead. The ground
embraces the point of the desperate attack made upon the left centre of our
army. Eight other States have already united with Pennsylvania in this project.]
LET us lay them where they fell,
When their work was done so well!
Dumb and stricken—leaving others
All the glorious news to tell.
All the yellow harvest-field,
Cursed with a crimson yield,
'Neath the thrusting in of
As the battle waxed or reeled!
They, with faces to the foe,
Lost to pain, and peace, and woe;
Armored in the inspiration
Of the old heroic glow:
Rushing grandly unto death!—
Eyes ablaze and 'bated breath—
Second-sighted for the future—
Here they piled the trampled
Here for Liberty they stood,
Writ their records in their
On the forehead of the epoch,
In a grand historic mood!
Let us lay them side by side,
In their awful martyr-pride:
They will slumber well and
Spite of wailings far and wide.
And their story shall be told
When this Present, gray and old,
Loses each distinctive feature
In the Future's ample fold.
Well, the work was fitly done!
Well, the day was proudly won!
But—this nook that bloomed with
There's no rarer 'neath the sun!
Let us lay them where they fell,
When their work was done so well!
In the martyr's noble silence,
Leaving us the tale to tell.
HOWARD GLYNDON. WASHINGTON,
August 2, 1863.
"There's a blue flower in my
The bee loves more than all—
The bee and I, we love it both,
Though it is frail and small."
"OH, jolly, jolly !"
That was Aggie French's way of
expressing satisfaction, and her companion looked up, expectant of news.
"My letter is from Georgina Ash,"
she explained. "You must have heard of her—the handsomest blonde you ever saw;
eyes half blue, half amber; and hair neither brown, nor yellow, nor red. but
just exactly gold. The fun is, Thorne used to be in love with her before he knew
little Alice Devon, and they said she jilted him—it was before he came to his
fortune—for a richer suitor. Any way she isn't married, and it will be curious
to see how Thorne will take her presence, here in this house, where there are so
few of us that we can't help being intimate. Of course he can't run away and
leave Alice, and we shall see what we shall see when my Lady Magnificent comes.
For my part, I never did believe first love a disease quite so easy to get over
as mumps and measles. I'm told Thorne had it hard. I like stories in real life a
great deal better than out of books—they're twice as spicy. I promise myself
rare fun in watching the romance."
Quiet Mary Everett sighed, a
little sadly, but did not answer. She loved Alice Devon, though their friendship
had been of weeks only, and the prospect of the coming "fun" was far from
Just then Alice came in, so
radiantly happy. Her brown hair tossed about her primrose cheeks, her soft,
innocent brown eyes sparkling with pleasure, and a few rare wild flowers in her
hand. Thorne was behind her, looking on as she exhibited her treasures with a
smile and an eye-glance which revealed more than he was aware of love and pride.
"See," cried the soft, clear
tones, "you've been hunting in vain for these little beauties all summer and
we've found them. Do you smell the sea-breath in them? We got them among the
rocks, where they look forever out toward the waves, and at high tide the water
comes up among, the roots. How blue they are, just like a bit of the summer sky!
I'm going for them often, and since they are mine by right of discovery, I'll
call them treasure-trove, for I don't like those poly-syllable botany names."
She was a pretty picture, in her
delicate morning dress, with her young, innocent girl's face, the round hat,
with its bunch of wild roses and meadow grass swinging from her arm, and the
blue flowers in her hand.
She and Thorne were happy enough,
both of them, to have moved any tender heart to let them dream on. But Aggie
French's heart was not tender. Not that she was so very cruel, only thoughtless,
fond of fun, and a little careless what wounds her self-indulgence might
inflict. She looked wickedly into Thorne's eyes and said—
"I had a letter from an old
friend of yours this morning—Miss Georgina Ash. She is coming here to-clay or
to-morrow. She does not know she will meet you. What a pleasant surprise it will
It was fortunate that Alice Devon
was busy just then with Mary Everett, who was asking her some question about
their morning ramble. She was spared from reading the signs which revealed so
much to Aggie French—the sudden quiver of Thorne's mustached lip, the bronzed
face a few shades paler, the smile that tried to be careless and failed. Little
Alice only heard the cool answer:
"Ah, I haven't seen her for five
years. She used to be a stylish, handsome girl. I wonder if she's faded?"
She thought to herself that, for
old friends, her lover seemed to take very slight interest in the prospective
When they came in together again
from their afternoon walk, Thorne and Alice, some trunks were in the hall, with
G. A. painted in black letters upon their covers.
"The new guest, I suspect," Alice
said, lightly. Thorne was too self-conscious to reply. He bit his lip and was
When Aggie French heard him going
by her door, after he had left Alice, she put her head out with a malicious
"She's come—been with me a couple
of hours. Now she's in her own room, dressing for tea."
It was just at sunset when all
the party before-mentioned and a half dozen more were gathered in the low,
old-fashioned parlor ready to go in to supper. Mary Everett, who had never
before met Miss Ash, looked at her critically as she stood beside little Alice
Devon; the two having just been introduced to each other by Thorne, who,
whatever he might have betrayed when taken by surprise, was perfectly
There was no disputing that the
new-comer was the handsomest woman at "The Shoals." It was a grand, regal style
which swayed a power of its own. The tall, full figure; the matchless
complexion, with its coloring clear and bright as dawn; the great, magnetic
eyes; the tawny gold hair, filling the silken net full; the mouth so ripe and
tempting—all these, with the self understanding, the aplomb of twenty-five
years. In that stately presence little Alice Devon, with her seventeen years and
her primrose face, looked unformed and childish. But there was something about
her most sweet and tender and touching, which made Mary Everett think of a
rose-bud with the morning-dew still on; and glancing back to the other she
hummed, half under her breath, a snatch of an old nursery song:
"The sunflower with her brilliant
Looked lovely and tempting to the
Yet not one drop of honey he
In her wonder cup of gold and
She was false at heart, though
fair to see."
Aggie French had not arrived at
the entire truth about the separation between Miss Ash and Howard Thorne. She
had not jilted him. They had given each other up mutually. It was the fortieth
lover's quarrel, perhaps; for Miss Ash was of a tempestuous temperament, and
Thorne not over-patient. It was the one too many, at any rate; for they had
never made it up, and five years had passed without their seeing each other. In
the mean time some of Thorne's relations had died and left him a fortune, making
him better worth winning. Miss Aggie was mistaken, too, in thinking that her
friend came to "The Shoals" without knowing that her old lover was there. No
allusion to the knowledge had escaped her in her letter; but the certainty of
meeting him had been her sole motive. To do her justice, she did not know of his
engagement. She learned that for the first time in her two hours with Miss
French before tea. It dismayed her not a little. It was an obstacle she had not
foreseen, and she did not feel entire faith now in the success which had seemed
so certain before.
When they were introduced she had
looked at Alice anxiously. She was not blind to the youth and freshness against
which she must contend. She acknowledged to herself that the girlish face, with
the bunch of blue flowers (the treasure-trove) in the soft hair, had a sweet
charm of its own. She almost despaired—not quite.
For some days she held herself
rather aloof from Howard Thorne and his little betrothed. When any thing brought
her in contact with them she was playful sometimes, sometimes a little reserved
and sad, though kind always. There was so much variety in her moods that Thorne
grew interested before he knew it in watching them. He began to realize, now he
observed her more closely, how royally beautiful she was. She had been far less
so in the old days when he had thought the whole universe bounded by her smile.
Her manner had changed too. She had been imperious then—she was so still at
times; but oftener there was a tender, half pathetic softness in words and ways
which made him think she had grown sadder with the sad years. Had her life
missed him? There was a subtle flattery in the thought against which his vanity
was not proof.
He was not untrue toward his
little love in all these speculations, at least not consciously; but they were
dangerous. Very dangerous when, one day, he suffered himself, sitting idly and
alone on the piazza, to wonder what would have been the result of his meeting
again with Miss Ash if he had never seen Alice.
Just then she cause up the walk
in her loveliest mood. Tenderness in a person to whom Nature has given the seal
of sovereignty moves us far more than in those gentler persons to whom it seems
indigenous. She looked sad, this Lady Magnificent, as Aggie French had dubbed
her. She was simply dressed, in a robe of fleecy white, with a few flowers stuck
for sole ornament in belt and bosom. Her eyes were downcast. There was a stain
as of tears on her cheek. Some impulse he should have resisted drew Thorne to
her side. Are there moments in all lives when our good angel forsakes us? Half
unconsciously he said to her,
"Miss Ashe—Georgina, we were
friends once —I do not like to see you sad."
The great amber eyes turned on
him a look of
mute reproach. After a moment she
said, with a trifle of the old petulance,
"I do not like to have my moods
noticed. It is not generous of you, with all you want in life, to look out from
the safe shelter of your happiness and watch how I bear loneliness and
"All I want in life!"
He repeated the words after her
dreamily, as if he were questioning himself whether indeed he had what he most
wanted in life. The past seemed to throb again in his heart—tingle in his
pulses. Were the days dead in which he had been this woman's lover? They had
turned, mechanically as it were, and were passing down the shaded path which she
had walked up alone. For a while neither spoke. What subtle magnetism was in her
presence that made it thrill him so just to walk by her side? He stole a look at
her at length. She was pale to the lips, and slow tears were stealing from under
drooping lids. A sudden mad impulse swayed him--a wild longing to read her
heart. He put out his hand and touched hers. He spoke with a tone that would be
"What is it ? I will know. Is it
any thought of the past, of me, which moves you?"
"She turned her eyes full of
reproach upon him.
"What right have you, Alice
Devon's lover, to the past or me? Be content with your own joy. It should be
piquant enough without the zest of enhancing it by contrast with my misery."
The mention of Alice Devon struck
a pang, sword-keen, to his heart. He was not a bad man; nay, he was perhaps
better than most men. He respected his plighted word—he loved Alice. Still he
had not strength enough to escape from the baleful spell which was closing round
"Your misery!" he cried. "Do you,
whom all the world envies, know what misery means? Tell me. I will know."
Again that long, reproachful look
from out those amber eyes.
"Howard, for shame! You must not,
you shall not torture use, now when all ties between us are over. Do you think I
would have parted with you in anger that last time if I had not thought your
love was strong enough to bring you back? We were both wrong—we ought to have
forgiven each other. But why talk of it? You are better off; and I—perhaps I am
not punished too severely for the share of blame that was mine."
Thoughts swam through his brain
deliriously. She, his youth's love, loved him—was suffering for him—had loved
him all the while. He looked at her, more beautiful than ever in her sorrow, her
tenderness. After all, was not the old love the true love?
"If I were free—" he began.
"Of what use would be freedom?"
she interrupted him, passionately. "You were free five years."
"But I did not see you. Oh,
Georgie! this is cruel. You should have come before, or not at all."
Just then steps crushed the sand
near them. Around a sudden turn in the winding path came Mary Everett, with
Alice, his Alice, clinging to her arm.
"We heard a few words—we could
not help it," Miss Everett said, with eyes of stern rebuke, leading her friend
Howard Thorne cursed his fate as
he saw his little love's pale face, with the heart-break settling over it,
almost like the shadow of death. He knew now where his heart was—saw what brief
madness had possessed him. He would have given half the universe to be able to
go to Alice's side and tell her the truth. But he dared not approach her. For
the first time in his life he felt like a coward. He stood and watched her,
silently, as she moved away—his darling, whom he had been mad enough to lose.
Then he turned, with a look in his eyes that made Georgina Ash tremble.
"I am free now; and, as you said,
of what use is freedom?"
Neither spoke again until his
cool good-by, when he had gone up the path with her to the house-door.
Then he rushed back into the
thick shrubbery, among the rocks, across to the sea. He was almost wild enough
to bury all, wrong, sorrow, shame, in those treacherous waters. He knew his fate
was sealed. There would be no hope for him. Alice was not unforgiving; but she
was true, and claimed truth—a woman, and would accept no divided heart. Explain
as he would he knew she would never believe him or understand him. She never
could know how it all came; and if he offered explanations she would believe
that only honor, only sorrow for her, held him; and those mad moments could
never be atoned for.
Just then he turned. He was
standing in the very nook where they had gathered the blue flowers. Some others,
their sisters, were nodding in the cleft. He gathered a bunch and laid them
carefully in a pocket-book, which he carried in his breast.
"They shall go with me into other
scenes," he said, his sad eves kindling again with the gleam of a new resolve.
"I have held back from giving my life to my country because Alice's love made
the offering too costly. Now I will go. It will be better for her if I die."
He found a note on his table when
he went home, and in it these words only:
"Be merciful enough not to write
to me, or ask to see me. It would be of no use. What I heard, what I saw, can
never be explained out of memory. I forgive you. I. do not think you meant to be
false. When you told me you loved me I believe you thought so. I shall go away
to-night, and leave you to the love you have found again."
He obeyed her—made no useless
attempts at explanation; and watched from his window to see her go away with a
calmness more terrible and despairing than any passion of agony.
Later in the evening came another
note; from Miss Ash this time. It was worded, oh! so skillfully; begging his
pardon; telling him how innocent she was of wrong design; blameless of every
thing but the love and sorrow she could not help, and the letting him speak to
her at all.
Howard Thorne smiled grimly as he
soft words and lighted his cigar
with them. All her blandishments were powerless now. No device of hers could
move him, steeled to vindictiveness by the look of white pain he had seen on
Alice Devon's face. He made no response. The next morning he too went away.
Somehow even Aggie French's heart
was touched by his hopeless, dreary smile as he bade her good-by. Certainly the
Lady Magnificent's visit had not been productive of the expected "fun." Miss
Everett had gone away the night before with Alice; and "The Shoals" bade fair to
be presently deserted.
All that was last year—the summer
of '62. It was September when Howard Thorne found himself a soldier, with the
commission, urged upon him half against his will, of First Lieutenant. He was
with the Army of the Potomac, and before the summer came again he had seen hard
fighting, and held a Colonel's rank by virtue of his cool courage. Courage, did
I say? Recklessness, perhaps, would have told the truth more nearly. He wanted
to die, and so took every possible opportunity to throw away the life of which
he was weary. For that reason, perhaps, shot and shell passed him by. Ever in
the front, and no ball hit him. They began to say that he bore a charmed life
when they saw him with no scar on his bronzed handsome face.
At last came Gettysburg and the
bullet which sought his heart! It was turned aside a little by a book he
wore—the book which held the blue treasure-trove—so that, ghastly and terrible
as was his wound, it was not instantly mortal. There was small hope for him,
however; and one who loved him as a brother asked, when there was leisure after
the fight, if there was any one for whom he would wish to send. All his pale
face brightened gloriously. This was the hour for which he had longed and
waited. He dictated only these words:
"Come to me before I die. You
will believe what I have to say when you know it is my last words."
This, with the address of Alice
Devon on the cover.
Then he waited.
Five days were the least possible
time in which, allowing for no delays, she could get the letter and come to him.
He thought his strong will would keep him alive so long.
On the evening of the fifth day
he lay with his face toward the wall. Wrapped in thought, and tortured with
searching pain, he heard no footfall, heard nothing, until a low, remembered
"I am here."
Then he turned his face and saw
Alice Devon at his pillow.
He waited for no greeting, no
inquiries, but spoke the uppermost thought first:
"Alice, I did love you—only you.
That scene which you could not understand was a momentary madness. She touched
me with her misery—hints of the long, hopeless love she had cherished for me all
those years. I was moved on the surface only. I tell you, as a dying man, that
my heart never wavered. It was yours then, as it is now—as it will be when I go
back whence I came, to darkness and mystery."
"I believe you," said the low,
sweet tones. "I began to believe it when I heard of her marriage, six months
after. I knew she had been disappointed, and I had been wrong and hasty."
"No, not wrong; you had reason
enough. You shall not blame yourself. I never blamed you. But are you free? Is
this my Alice at my side?"
"Your Alice; yours, and none
"Then I shall die content."
Through all the hours of that
night she sat beside him, holding his hand in hers, charming away his pain by
her voice and her touch. When the dawn crept softly up the slopes, and kindled
the eastern sky to flame, he was sleeping a calm, restful sleep, for the first
time in all those days since he was wounded; and the surgeon coming in, and
standing watchfully beside him for a while, said, as he turned away,
"I dare not give you much hope;
but I begin to think it just possible that he may live."
A little later he awoke, and
still Alice's hand was in his. He turned to look at her clear face, and saw a
new light in the tender brown eyes. She bent over him and kissed him, in the
morning twilight through which the stet had not yet broken, and wish her kiss
"The surgeon has been here, and
he says it is possible you may live. Will you try, for me?"
"Ay, that I will," answered his
deep tones, fervently. "Life, that I was so ready to throw away, is dear enough
now. It must be that I shall get well now I have Alice to live for. Pray for it,
my darling! God will hear such lips as yours."
Last week an invalid came hack.
His face was thin and pale, but his eyes were bright; and on that worn face was
a look of hard-won peace. By easy stages he journeyed—he and the one friend with
him—to the sea-coast, and took his old room at "The Shoals" once more. He found
there old friends and new ones, all ready to give Colonel Ash glad welcome. It
was Alice's care which had won him back from death. He was all hers now, and
between them could never again come any shadow.
To-morrow at "The Shoals" will be
a wedding, and the bride will wear a wreath of little blue flowers.
THE MASSACRE AT LAWRENCE,
THE city of Lawrence was, on the
evening of August 20, 1863, one of the most thriving towns between the Missouri
River and the Rocky Mountains. At daybreak on the next day it was a heap of
ruins. A gang of guerrillas, 500 strong, under Quantrill, crossed the Missouri
River on the evening of the 20th, and pushed forward to Lawrence, where they
arrived just before daybreak. Guards (Next