A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition-chests open, and along our line runs the command: "Give them one more volley and fall back to support the guns!" We have scarcely obeyed when boom! boom!

boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we fought and despaired.

The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What grim, cool fellows these cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine.

Bullets plash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot through the head as he sponged his gun. The machinery loses just one beat,--misses just one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as before.

Every gun is using short-fuse sh.e.l.l. The ground shakes and trembles--the roar shuts out all sounds from a battle-line three miles long, and the sh.e.l.ls go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off--to mow great gaps in the bushes--to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado was howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live through it--aye! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their shouts as they form for the rush.

Now the sh.e.l.ls are changed for grape and canister, and the guns are served so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a sh.e.l.l is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape-shot and the serpent-like hiss of canister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through, but torn off. Heads are torn from bodies and bodies cut in two. A round shot or sh.e.l.l takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and canister mow a swath and pile the dead on top of each other.

Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle-line, but a mob of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns.

The guns leap from the ground, almost, as they are depressed on the foe--and shrieks and screams and shouts blend into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted.

The foe accept it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks living men off their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.s.

Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than three thousand muskets, and a rush forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in front of us is a living foe! There are corpses around us which have been struck by three, four and even six bullets, and nowhere on this acre of ground is a wounded man! The wheels of the guns cannot move until the blockade of dead is removed. Men cannot pa.s.s from caisson to gun without climbing over winrows of dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood, every foot of gra.s.s has its horrible stain.

Historians write of the glory of war. Burial parties saw murder where historians saw glory.

A LEGEND OF THE IVY.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair-haired maiden, Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with gold was laden; Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, behind them, Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving curls enshrined them.

Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth around her, One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener found her, "Some time, we'll marry," she often said, then burst into song or laughter, And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed after.

Impatient growing, at last he said, "The springtime birds are mating, Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed; warm hearts grow cold from waiting."

"Not yet," she smiled, with a fond caress; but he answered, "Now or never, I start for the Holy War unless I may call thee mine forever."

"For the Holy War? Farewell!" she cried, with never a thought of grieving.

His wish so often had been denied, she could not help believing His heart would wait till her budding life had blown to its full completeness.

She did not know that a wedded wife holds a spell in her youthful sweetness.

But alas! for the "Yes" too long delayed, he fought and he bravely perished; And alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it fondly cherished; Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone; life's sands were swiftly fleeting, And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased beating; And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her friends were throwing, They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant growing, Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the gra.s.s and clover, Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered the whole grave over; And often the village youth would stand by the vine-clad mound, in the gloaming, And holding a maiden's willing hand, would tell that the strange plant roaming Was the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, fond endeavor, Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, forever.

THE UNITED STATES.

BY DANIEL WEBSTER.

And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility or utility of secession, instead of dwelling in these caverns of darkness, instead of groping with those ideas so full of all that is horrid and horrible, let us come out into the light of day; let us enjoy the fresh air of Liberty and Union; let us cherish those hopes which belong to us; let us devote ourselves to those great objects that are fit for our consideration and our action; let us raise our conceptions to the magnitude and the importance of the duties that devolve upon us; let our comprehension be as broad as the country for which we act, our aspirations as high as its certain destiny; let us not be pigmies in a case that calls for men.

Never did there devolve on any generation of men higher trusts than now devolve upon us, for the preservation of this const.i.tution, and the harmony and peace of all who are destined to live under it. Let us make our generation one of the strongest and brightest links in that golden chain, which is destined, I fondly believe, to grapple the people of all the states to this const.i.tution, for ages to come.

We have a great, popular, const.i.tutional government, guarded by law and by judicature, and defended by the whole affections of the people. No monarchical throne presses these states together; no iron chain of military power encircles them; they live and stand upon a government popular in its form, representative in its character, founded upon principles of equality, and so constructed, we hope, as to last forever.

In all its history it has been beneficent: it has trodden down no man's liberty; it has crushed no state. Its daily respiration is liberty and patriotism; its yet youthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and honorable love of glory and renown. Large before, the country has now, by recent events, becomes vastly larger.

This republic now extends, with a vast breadth, across the whole continent.

The two great seas of the world wash the one and the other sh.o.r.e. We realize, on a mighty scale, the beautiful description of the ornamental edging of the buckler of Achilles--

"Now the broad shield complete, the artist crowned With his last hand, and poured the ocean round; In living silver seemed the waves to roll, And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole."

IN ARABIA.

BY JAMES BERRY BENSEL, 1856.

"Choose thou between!" and to his enemy The Arab chief a brawny hand displayed, Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea, Gleamed the gray scimitar's enamelled blade.

"Choose thou between death at my hand and thine!

Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak, Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine Is n.o.ble still. Thou hast thy choosing--speak!"

And Ackbar stood. About him all the band That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyes His answer waited, while that heavy hand Stretched like a bar between him and the skies.

Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent A sneer of scorn, and raised his n.o.ble head; "Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content, Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.

Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high His arms toward the heaven so far and blue Wherein the sunset rays began to die, While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew.

"Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to see A son of Gheva spill upon the dust His n.o.ble blood? Did'st hope to have my knee Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust,

"The life thou hatest flee before thee here?

Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the one Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear?

My hate is greater; I did strike thy son,

"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face; And by the swiftest courser of my stud Sent to thy door his corpse. And one might trace Their flight across the desert by his blood.

"Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!"

But with a frown the Arab moved away, Walked to a distant palm and stood alone With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.

This for an instant; then he turned again Toward the place where Ackbar waited still, Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain, Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.

"Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more, "Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said now His enemy. "Thy freedom I restore, Live, life were worse than death to such as thou."

So with his gift of life, the Bedouin slept That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept The long, thin finger of the light, he drew

A heavy breath and woke. Above him shone A lifted dagger--"Yea, he gave thee life, But I give death!" came in fierce undertone, And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife.

The New Year Ledger.

BY AMELIA E. BARR.