m QOBE’S RURAL ISEW-YORKER. 
JAW. 6 
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW, 
Ax old man totters on the road 
Bow'd down with age and care ; 
Ills locks am white and float about 
Like snow-flakes on the air— 
The clouds are Fathering darkly round. 
The night seems settling fast. 
The wind sends forth a moaning sound. 
The owlets flutter past. 
The old man halts atone: the road, 
He sees the gathering gloom— 
No hope has lie—Bo power to stay 
His fast approaching doom. 
He sees the children passhim by. 
And sadly turns his face; 
lie knows too well that he must die, 
The New Year take hts place. 
He hears the children elnsp tlielr bands. 
And shout aloud for glee, 
He marks them hasten on their way 
The glad New Year to see, 
And then he hears the midnight chime, 
King out hts funeral knell; 
His life fades fast—lie rests at last 
The New Year breaks the spell. 
A little child new leads the way 
His step is light and hold, 
His hair is bright and floats about 
Like threads of burnished gold. 
The clouds are passing swift away, 
The morn seems soft and clear, 
The night has pass'd -the sun's bright ray 
Brings in the glad Now Year. 
Farewell Old ''ear! Y«ur work is done 
A new one tills your place; 
Tho darkest night will pass away 
The morning dawn apace ! 
\Ye cannot bring the dead to life, 
Nor wasted hours recall; 
But in the coming year we may, 
Perhaps, atone for all. 
I Ewflish Magaelne. 
ii'!i for it uni lists. 
BEFORE AND AFTER. 
A THRILLING ROMANCE OE THE 
WAR FOR THE I N ION. 
Written Expressly for Moore's Rural New-Y'orkor, 
BY TWO WELL-KNOWN AUTHORS. 
I.—The Coming Storm. 
“ The dearest old place in all Virginia,” 
said Margaret Heatherstonk softly to 
herself, as she looked out on fields and for¬ 
ests, on acres of broad undulating land, so 
weirdly beautiful in ihe. baht of the calm 
full moon, that the young lady unconscious¬ 
ly glanced back into her chamber to sec if 
some inhabitant front the realms above 
might not have loleu in unawares. “It 
is astonishing, " she continued in the 
same soft tone, “ how st rangely the moon¬ 
light and silence affects me to-night! Why, 
.1 am actually freezing! I wish I hadn't 
been so cross to IIabrv, poor boy! Hut 
then, dear me! what business has he to ex¬ 
pect. so much? 1 wonder how far he has 
got ?" and llie speaker leaned out of the 
window and looked wistfully up and down 
the broad avenue; and then, in a little coo¬ 
ing tone, strongly suggestive of tho lark’s 
Cali for its mate, said: 
“Ah, Hanky! ah, IIahby!" And then, 
•with bated breath, waited the result of her 
cry. The meaning and necessity of the 
preparatory interject ion none but a born 
Virginian would be able to understand, and 
whether she could explain said meaning is 
at least quite doubtful. Into this “Ah! 
Margaret IIeathkustoxe threw her 
whole soul. 11 was a sweet, bewildering cry, 
i 1 >• "ilful- 
I Of the wonmn’s character. There rvas 
« world of affection in the tone — ai ' yet 
before it mu bed the Harry it died out— 
and the ;w j- m the proper noun whs 
as dictatorial ami imperious us that of a 
quean li oancli - obi : ■ 11 * ■ ■ ■■ 
ject. 
A low, prolonged whistle was the first 
sound that greeted the listening ears; then 
a broad, stalwart form suddenly sprang from 
the shadow of the branches, and appeared 
in full sight—the round silver moon at his 
back, and the bright bewitching face of the 
mistress of his heart just in front of and 
above him. 
“ Why didn't you go home, Harry?" in¬ 
quired t he vixen with a light laugh. 
“ Why didn’t you let me, you bad. naugh¬ 
ty girl?" came the response in clear, manly 
tones. 
" Because 1 was afraid! As (rueas 1 live, 
J felt like a ghost up here, all alone. Sec 
what a spooky look t he moon has to-night.; 
listen a moment to the strange minor the 
wind has taken on; aud what is that Kar¬ 
ev?” as another sound was wafted on the 
wings of the soft southerly breeze. Clear 
and low as the tones of an zEolian harp, 
came the first strains; then there was the 
sound of exultation, of defiance; strains of 
a love—a passion so sublime, so resolute in 
doing and daring, aud wailing, that Marga¬ 
ret Heathkstonk pressed her hand upon 
her heart, and, sinking on her knees, buried 
her beautiful head in the window drapery. 
“Why Margaret; don’t be frightened. 
That's not hing hut the niggers in old Han¬ 
nibal’s cabin, singing ‘John Brown.’ By 
George! they are having a jubilee to-night," 
as the exultant tones rang out again: “ John 
Brown's body lies a mouldering in t he grave 
—his soul goes marching on." 
“ It's well your father don't know of 
this. Where ore you, Maggie dear?" 
“Here 1 am, IlARRr Traverse,” replied 
the lady almost defiantly—ln-r mood chang¬ 
ing in a moment, as she realized the neces¬ 
sity of firmness. “ Don’t you dare to tell 
him a word about this! Don't you dare 
speak about it to anybody !—Do you hear?" 
“1 won't, if you say not, of course!" re¬ 
plied the young man. “ But 1 certainly 
think, Margaret, he ought to know of it: 
; Old Hannibal has already too much infiu- 
i ence with the rest of the niggers, and if l 
had anything to say about it, 1 should sug¬ 
gest that your father get rid of him in 
double quick t ime. lie is the most danger¬ 
ous fellow on the plantation." 
“ Well, you haven’t- anything to say about 
it ! and, excuse me, it 's none of your busi¬ 
ness! Poor old Hannibal! Dear old Han¬ 
nibal! Jle and all the rest of ’em shall sing 
‘John Brown’ tot-heir hearts content. How 
sweet and pure t heir voices are. Remember 
your promise, Harry. If you fail me in 
this, or in any t hing where the negroes arc 
concerned, I will never speak t o you again 
so long its I live. Good night, Harry!" 
“Good night, dear! But wait a minute, 
Margaret. Whisper, darling! Do you love 
me?" 
“ No, you goose!" 
“Not a bit?" 
“ Not a particle.” 
“ Whom do you love ?" 
“Old IlANNiBALand John Brown. Good 
night!" 
“ Was there ever such a girl born ?” mut¬ 
tered the young man as lie walked away. 
“ it comes as natural for ono to torment 
him as it doe to breathe," said Margaret, 
as she prepared to retire. “ Men are natu¬ 
ral autocrats! I ought to have been a man, 
for T hate to bo ordered! If 1 loved a man 
more than my own soul, i don’t believe I’d 
marry him if 1 found 1 was expected to! 
But isn’t it st range how late those negroes 
are singing?" Margaret scaled herself by 
the window again, and listened t his time to 
a hymn which she had taught, a few of her 
father's si fives, 1ml which they had altered 
to suit t heir own ideas of melody. She rec¬ 
ognized t he words and the spirit of the words 
more than ever before. To her, these st rains 
seemed like the. voices of avenging angels. 
Tears filled her eyes, and she waited in si¬ 
lence I 111 the last; note died sweetly away. 
This was t he hymn: 
" Ha’ll shield you with n wall of tire. 
Willi iliijiiiiin z«-sil year breasts inspire— 
Bid rsiaii'k winds i heir fury cense, 
\nrt hash tin; tempest into peace. 
Sola; will! So he Will! 
“ And when your labors all nre o’er, 
•| lien we shall meet to part no more— 
Meet with the bleed-bought throng to fall, 
Aud crown our .1 rises Lord of nil. 
bo we will! So we will1” 
Old Hannibal’s voice rang out clear and 
distinct as a t rumpet blast-in the last line, 
and the last- words that Margaret IIkath- 
ERSTONE uttered before falling asleep that 
night were:—“Dear old Hannibal! God 
bless old Hannibal!” 
Col. Harrison 11 katherstone was a Vir¬ 
ginian by birth and education. Iiis proper¬ 
ty, consisting of rich tobacco plantations, 
and valuable real estate in and about Rich¬ 
mond, had been in the family for genera 
tions. The quaint old mansion ’.vaere they 
lived t ho greater part of the year, was about, 
nine miles from Richmond, on the James, 
and most charmingly situated. On t he east 
was the peaceful river; at the south a lawn 
swept smoothly into undulating meadows; 
stalwart oaks, some of them a hundred years 
old, made great masses of shadow upon the 
soft grass, and the evergreen magnolia and 
the holly grew iu native vigor and luxuri¬ 
ance. <)n a high bluff back of the house was 
a grove, of red cedar, through whose delicate, 
graceful foliage the wind played, making 
exquisite shadows on the sterile earth at 
their feet. But more of these anon. The 
house was of the Southern type, with broad 
piazzas running along t hree sides, provided 
with comfortable rustic seats; with every 
window on the ground floor a door, whence 
the inmates could issue at will to the pleas¬ 
ant outdoor world. The parlor, library 
and sleeping rooms for the family were all 
on this floor; the dining-room extended 
back of these, and the kitchen was a de¬ 
tached log building back of all. Not far 
from the house—a quarter of a mile, per¬ 
haps—were the negro quarters, the stables 
and offices, all built of logs. 
The aristocratic and somewhat eccentric 
family occupying this pleasant Virginian 
home, will be better known to the reader 
by a few years’ intimacy Ilian by any de¬ 
scription—but a few hints as to outside ap- 
pearanecs must be furnished here. 
Col. Harrison IIeatiierstone was tall, 
spare, dark and commanding. lie was about 
fifty years old, and had never known a day’s 
illness in his life. His wife, Mrs. Sabrina 
IIeatherstone, was in personal appear¬ 
ance an excellent match for the Colonel. 
She, too, was quite tall for a woman; of 
erect figure and graceful carriage. She was 
her husband’s junior by at least ten years, 
and bad been for a few short months pre¬ 
vious to her marriage t he so-called belle of 
Richmond. Considering that Col. IIeath- 
kkstonk married the lady on her seven¬ 
teenth birthday, it is plain to bo seen that 
her reign as queen of society must, indeed, 
have been a short one. Three children were 
born to them. Alfred Heathebstone, 
the eldest child, was at the opening of our 
story just twenty-one, and as frauk and 
generous a fellow as ever drew breath. 
Every slave on the plantation adored him, 
and every friend and acquaintance of the 
family Was always instinctively attracted to 
A lkred. In personal appearance he resem¬ 
bled neither father nor mother; his eyes 
were gray, his hair a fight brown, his com¬ 
plexion delicate, and his features wonder¬ 
fully regular. By strangers he was call¬ 
ed “The Greek," on account of this strange 
symmetry of form and feature. The next, 
son was George, a dashing, rollicking, don’t- 
care boy of twenty, the very image of liis 
mot her, and as hard to manage as a two-year- 
old colt. 
Of Margaret you already know some¬ 
thing. She was a brunette, slender, but 
exquisitely formed; all curved lines and 
graceful, swaying mot ions. Her head was 
shapely and well harmonized, and crowned 
with an abundance of dark hair, so dark as 
to be almost black; there is a difference in 
hair, and MARGARET’Hwasof that, vital kind 
that clusters and clings aud would never be 
mistaken for a lifeless wig. Her forehead 
was wide and not too high, her nose dainty, 
her upper lip shaped like Cupid’s bow, and 
in its soft red curve rested the under lip, 
just full enough for kissing. The chin had 
in It a ha rd line or two, enough to show'res¬ 
olution and defiance if the occasion Reeded 
it. The poise of the head was full of pride 
and nobility, and the whole make up of t he 
girl plainly promised truth aud common 
sense. Margaret was one of those dual 
women, or rat her complete women, that we 
sometimes see, who combine seemingly op¬ 
posite trails in a perfectly blended feminine 
sphere. She could be the pretty, piquant, 
wilful, fascinating pet, and you would sup¬ 
pose that was her whole character; she 
could be the firm, clear-seeing, resolute wo¬ 
man, tho guide and philosopher in emergen¬ 
cies. But as yet she new little of herself, 
and her frionds knew still less; events aloue 
could develop Margaret Heatherstonk's 
real nature, and tho diamond is sooner or 
later dug out , no matter how securely it may 
hide itself. Up to the beginning of this 
story our little Virginienno had shown but 
little except the soft, playful, affectionate 
side of her character, with some dashes of 
pretty defiance and charming naughtiness. 
These last demonstrat ions were gotten up 
for the special benefit of young Traverse, 
who sometimes played prince and some¬ 
times slave—and quite a» often the lat ter as 
the former—to the exacting little beauty 
whom he adored. 
Poor Harry! the chain galled sometimes. 
Sometimes he made up his mind so stoutly 
that he would not bear it. That sort of 
resolution never paid, however, for when 
our brave lover went into Margaret’s 
presence, thoroughly armed for defence, the 
little witch was sure to be so demurely aud 
dangerously penitent, so arch and sweet, 
and altogether womanly, that his armor fell 
off at tho first glance of her eyes, aud he 
was tenfold more in love tbau ever. Mar¬ 
garet despised a coquette, but Harry was 
so desperately devoted, so plainly her cap¬ 
tive. that she couldn’t forbear a little inno¬ 
cent despotism, and the best woman will on 
occasion let her mouse go for the sake of 
get t ing him back again, and thereby testing 
her power. 
Margaret’s awakening the morning fol¬ 
lowing the scenes described above was not 
a pleasant one. In fact, for several weeks 
past she had been couscious of troubled 
dreams, making her sleeping moments most 
tiresome and unsatisfactory. That there 
was cause for apprehension could not be 
doubted. This was early iu the fall preced¬ 
ing the breaking out of the war, but when 
she talked the situation over with her father 
and brothers, there seemed nothing so des¬ 
perate about it after all, and a score of 
times during the day did poor little Mar¬ 
garet take herself to task fora nervousness 
and irritability which, on account of her 
quick powers of intuition, were quite in keep¬ 
ing with the circumstances of the future. A 
traveling phrenologist had declared, after a 
careful examination of Margaret’s crani¬ 
um, that she had a “skylight to her brain that 
would enable her always to look ahead and 
guard against the storms of misfortune.” 
Already, in imagination, was this home of 
her father’s desolated. Already had her 
brothers marched off to the scene of action, 
and when her favorite servant — a sweet¬ 
faced quadroon—entered her room to assist 
her in her toilet, she was just in the act of 
begging old Hannibal not to leave her— 
praying him to remain with her as long as 
he lived, telling him that no one could ever 
love him half so well as did his dear little 
Margaret. 
“Oh, Miss Maggie! dear Miss Maggie!” 
said the slave, listening in wonder to the 
strange petition. 
“ Breakfast will be cleared away if yc don’t 
scrabble now mity fast. Dat Colonel in a 
mazing tare dis morning about something; 
better hurry up!" continued the quadroon. 
“ Oil, Fanny, is that you?” inquired the 
young lady, trying to open her sleepy eyes. 
“Dear me, what have 1 been dreaming? 
or rather, what liavn't J been dreaming this 
whole livelong night? What did you say 
about pa, Fanny? Cross, is he? What 
about ?” 
“ Why it seems dat Massa asked .Take dis 
morning what do niggers was a doing las 
nlglil so late, and Jake, do flat-headed nig¬ 
ger, say he know noting at all about de per¬ 
formances. Well, Massa didn’t do noting 
just den, an arter a few minutes lapsed, in 
walked dat slab-sided old Hannibal- 
“Fanny,” interrupted her young mis¬ 
tress, with considerable dignity, “ Why is it 
that J am so constantly compelled to correct 
you about your language? In nothing else 
do you ever annoy me. Why will you in 
this?" 
“De fac of de business is jus heah, Miss 
Maggie. You always will forget a power¬ 
ful sight more than sin- members; but you 
see llANNIBAi.be walk in with Massa’s boots; 
by golly! didn’t they shine, though? You 
could jus see your face iu ’em, and Massa 
say, very polite like and kind Quite chilly 
dis morning, Hannibal!" Hannibal say, 
“Yes, sah. quite!" Then Massa keep on: 
“ Holly, didn't you know what he was up 
to?" I hemmed and barked, and almost 
scraped my throat, trying to make dat. fool¬ 
ish old Hannibal know that he’d better bo 
a traveling; but you might as well ham to 
u stone. Den Massa say. " Hannibal, what 
was all that, noise about las night?" 
"Las night?" says HANNIBAL, bery inno¬ 
cent like. 
“Yes, las night!" plied Massa. “I tink 
Jakes been a lying to me. Now be careful 
vou don't attempt to try dat game on.” 
“Did you ever ketch Hannibal in a lie, 
sah?" said dat tormenting lump of pom- 
pensmess. 
“Not that I know of," said Massa—look¬ 
ing dal nigger all over mity curous like. 
Dun Hannibal say—" What time you 
hear de noise, Massa? 
“Late into the night. It woke me up 
from a sound sleep, and I thought I heard 
your voice and Jake’s, and half a dozen 
more binging." 
“J did not know, Massa, dal it. was so 
bery late,” said Hannibal. “But 1 specs 
we got so interested iu our singing that we 
done gone forgit ebery ting else. Ton 
honor. Massa, Hannibal no forgit ngen, if 
you’ll jus’ forgivo him dis time." 
“Soof course," continued Fanny. all of a 
sudden bursting into tears, “Jake’s got to 
ketch it now. if dat Hannibal had held 
his old tongue dere wouldn’t a been all dis 
trouble. He allers wiggles out oh ebery 
tiug. He nober hab no decency' nor noting 
else." 
“He bus decency enough to tell the 
truth," replied Margaret, as she took the 
comb from the hand of her maid and 
smoothed hack her beautiful hair. “And 
that’s more than Jake had. Jake will be 
punished now, I suppose?" 
“ Ten lashes," sobbed Fan. 
“ 1 have saved him before, and perhaps I 
can this time,” said Margaret, kindly, 
“ bat mV patience will give out after a 
while if he doesn’t learn to tell the truth.” 
“But he’d got whipped all the same,” 
said Fanny', whose ideas of right and wrong 
had entire reference to the system of re¬ 
wards and punishments. 
" We will talk this over again after break¬ 
fast, Fanny, and now you may go,” replied 
Margaret, her composure, apparently, 
about to give wav. 
“The same old story, over and over again, 
that I have heard ever since I was a baby,” 
continued she, as the door closed on Fan¬ 
ny' k retreating figure. 
“ I wish I could cease thinking. If I don’t 
stop right where I am, I shall soon reach a 
place where l can no longersympathize with 
my family'- The right ana the wrong of 
these things are being argued in my mind 
uight aud day, and the more 1 reason the 
more uncomfortable I become. As long as 
I am powerless to be of any service any way, 
why may I not be allowed to rest in peace; 
or if 1 must take up the cudgels, why may 
thev not be brandished as my father and 
brother and Harry' would approve ?”—[To 
be continued. 
A 
