470 
MOORE’S RURAL MEW-V©BIKER. 
of such a relationship would only add an¬ 
other disgrace to my life. I must keep still. 
Oh, Father in heaven, if I could only die!” 
Hannibal, illway* resolute, seemed to 
grow more cool and daring, as he realized 
the responsibility of his position. Through 
these long, weary months of privation, 
Margaret had only 11 anxibal to consult— 
only Han mb Ai, to confide in. His tact and 
good nature prevented many a scene of 
bloodshed in the very door yard. As long 
as the poultry lasted, Hannibal helped the 
marauders kill and eat it—submitted to see¬ 
ing the best cat tle on the place driven away 
to the camp of the Yankees, When asked 
to accompany the soldiers to camp, his an¬ 
swer invariably was— 
“No, tank ye, honeys. His nigger he in 
possession oh a bery brack skin, he know 
ju» as well as de best ob ye; but dar be help¬ 
less women in dat house dat Hannibal lub 
wid his whole heart, and if he eber go back 
on ’em, may de good Lord stop his wmd hi 
a hurry.” 
These sentiments—it mattered little what 
kind of a crowd he was the center of—al¬ 
ways brought down the house; and many 
times, such was the effect, of the old negro’s 
unselfishness, that the more generous of the 
soldiers would often leave the grounds with¬ 
out removing an article, or anatom of food. 
Finally, our little family found themselves 
quartered in three rooms of their once 
beautiful mansion, while the rest of the 
house was used as a hospital by the Confed¬ 
eracy* There was no help for it, and Mar¬ 
garet submitted to t his its she had to the 
rest. News was constantly arriving in re¬ 
gard to the welfare of her lover, but for sev¬ 
eral months not a line or message had been 
received from her brother, Alfred ; and 
when, at last, the long, weary war drew 
near its end, his friends were totally igno¬ 
rant, of his fate. 
The winter of 1-804 and '65 passed slowly 
and drearily. The power of the Sout h was 
being gradually broken in its last strong¬ 
holds. Sherman, Thomas, and Kilpatrick 
were lighting their last battles in Georgia 
and the Carolina*, and Grant was gradually 
tightening t he cords that finally strangled 
Lee and his conquered army. 
On one of the last days of March, while 
t he terrible fighting was going on that re¬ 
sulted in the evacuation of Petersburg and 
Richmond, a young Northern soldier was 
brought to the Hkathehhtone house in a 
helpless condition. 
“Couldn’t de young Missus come down 
and see he?" said IIanntual to Margaret, 
a few hours after the wounded man had 
been received. “ IIo bo only a boy, and so 
tender and gentle dat ole Hannibal almost 
'fraid to touch him wid his big brack hands.” 
“ Send Susan, Maggie, " said Mrs. 
JIeatukhstone, trom her sofa; I don’t like 
to have you among those wounded men. I 
worry every moment while you arc gone. 
A child’s first duty is to its mother, 1 
think. What have those Yankees done for 
you that you should nurse them? You want 
to reward t hem for killing your brother, 
perhaps. O, my poor boy —my darling 
George!” And the miserable mother be¬ 
gan to weep hysterically, and to complain 
that nobody was left who had any regard 
for her feelings. Susan was called to soothe 
her, and Maggie followed Hannibal to 
what had once been the family parlor, now 
filled with straw pallets, each of which was 
occupied by a sick or wounded soldier. 
“Hero, Miss Maggie,” said tho servant, 
“dis way, if you please.” 
When Maggie found herself before the 
wounded boy—for lie seemed only a boy— 
she was thrilled with a strange sensation. 
What was there in the fair hair and in the 
corners of the womanish mouth that so 
stirred up old memories ? 
“ Bring me a chair, Hannibal; I will sit 
by this poor boy awhile,” said she. “ Did 
you get no clue to his name or home?” 
“No, missus; Hannibal done got no clue 
whatever. He bin delirious eber since we 
pick be up. Do men dat find him tink he 
discharged from do hospital, and he try to 
find his way home and done gib out. De 
war so near ober now, Miss Maggie, dat de 
formats ’spoused wid, mostly, Hannibal 
’spocts." 
The sick man turned restlessly on his 
narrow couch, muttering unintelligibly. At 
last his words became move distinct. 
“ Dat be a name he say ober and ober, 
Miss Maggie.” 
Maggie listened intently, but she did not 
need to listen long, for in a moment the 
word “Alfred” was spoken clearly, but in 
n mournful tone, that inudo her shiver and 
turn pale. 
“Alfred, Alfred! I didn’t mean to lose 
sight of you,” continued the sorrowful voice. 
“ 1 promised Hope I’d always keep—keep— 
O, there they are now, Alfred and Hope; 
how they love each other!” And the deliri¬ 
ous words were changed to a low laugh, 
more pat hetic than a sob. 
“(), Hannibal, it’s Hope’h brother Ned,” 
said Maggie, throwing her arms around the 
faithful old servant’s neck, and crying as if 
her heart would break. 
“Hannibal done sure ob dat; but why 
does dc little Missus evv? Hannibal say, 
de bressed Lord be praised for bringin’ de 
boy here.” 
It was. Indeed, Ned Arnold, stranded by 
the tide of war upon a friendly shore, lie- 
had been wounded at. the battle of Cedar 
Creek, Va., the previous October, had been 
transferred to a Richmond hospital late in 
the winter, and upon his discharge from the 
hospital, had attempted to look up the 
Heatiierstones, and had fainted on the 
way. 
From Ned, Margaret heard of the wreck 
of the Arnolds, both in family and estate. 
The eldest brother joined the army about 
the middle of the war, and was instantly 
killed at the battle of Murfreesboro. Mr. 
Arnold died of fever the summer follow¬ 
ing his son's death ; the business was so ex¬ 
tended, and the Southern bankruptcy was 
so great, that the sudden death of the head 
of t he firm, and the lack of a competent 
manager in his place, could have but one 
result—utter ruin. Hope had left New 
York and gone East to teach, and Ned had 
not heard from her in over three months. 
The one question constantly in the hearts of 
all was, “ Where Is Alfred?” M rs. Heatji- 
erstone asked it of the sick boy, in her 
querulous tones, and Ned and Margaret 
talked of all 1 lie possibilities, over and over, 
in the dull hours of convalescence. Hope 
was informed of Ned’s safe asylum and the 
tender care Of Margaret, and so the days 
sped on till Richmond was evacuated, and 
Lee had given up the sword of t he rebellion. 
Johnston's surrender to Sherman on the 
same unconditional terms, followed, and 
the war was over. The vict ory of the North 
added not a little to t he rapid recovery of 
Ned Arnold. On the day that the family 
heard of tho surrender of .Johnston’s army, 
Ned said to Margaret: 
“ You must get your mother’s consent to 
go North; the South is no place for you 
now. We will all go to New York— IIanni- 
ual and SUSAN, inclusive—and then we 
will have Hope back, and all live together. 
We shall hear from Alfred, be sure of that 
and t he enthusiastic boy saw, wit i. thej • r 
of faith, the scattered fragments of tTe-T' o 
families joined in New York, and abnost 
happy again. 
“ I think mamma will be glad to go any¬ 
where to get away from t he scenes that re¬ 
mind her so strongly of all t hat she has lost . 
But we must wait till Harry comes home, 
and see what he says. You have never seen 
IIarrv ? Poor fellow, he has had some hard 
tlines since he left us. We have all suffered 
so much since then — so much I” “Poor 
Hope is Hope no longer, 1 fear. She must 
be sadly changed.” 
“Not so much, if I may judge from her 
letters, as you suppose. Hope has au in¬ 
domitable spirit. Her name is expressive 
of her character.” 
“ What do you want, Hannibal?” said 
Maggie to her old negro, who had just 
come in, and stood humbly waiting an op¬ 
portunity to speak. 
“Massa Bbayton done arri ve five munites 
ago. He, with Susan, now in de libry, and 
he send Hannibal to fotch Miss Margret.” 
[To be continued. 
•-- 
EARTH N OT OU R HOME. 
I cannot believe that this earth is man’s 
abiding-place. It cannot be that Our life, 
cast up by the Ocean of eternity, is to float 
a moment upon the waves and sink into 
nothingness. Else why is it that the glori¬ 
ous aspirations, which, like angels, peep from 
the temple of our hearts, are forever wan¬ 
dering about unsatisfied? Why is it that 
the stars which hold their festival around 
the midnight throne, are forever mocking 
us with their unapproachable glory? And, 
finally, why is it bright forms of human beau¬ 
ty are presented to our view, and then taken 
from ns, leaving the thousand streams of our 
affections to flow buck in Alpine torrents 
upon our heart s? We are born for a higher 
destiny than that of carl h. There is a realm 
where the rainbow never fades; where tho 
stars will bo spread before us like islands 
that slumber on the ocean; and where the 
beings that pasH before us, like shadows, 
leave our presence forever.— Hnlwer. 
-- 
Every word spoken from affection leaves 
an everk.sr.ig impression on the mind, and 
every thought spoken from affection be¬ 
comes a living creature, and the same also if 
not spoken, if it be fully assented to by the 
mind, 
^odal sTojiirs. 
SIR HENRY SIDNEY’S ADVICE TO HIS 
SON AT SCHOOL. 
“Since this is my first letter that ever I 
did write to you, I will not that it be empty 
of some advices -which my natural care of 
you provoketb me to wish you to follow. 
Let your first, action be the lifting up your 
mind to Almighty God by hearty prayer; 
and feelingly digest the words you speak in 
prayer with cont inued meditation of Him 
to whom you pray, and of the mutter for 
which you pray. And do this at an ordi¬ 
nary hour, whereby the time itself will put 
you in remembrance to do that which you 
are accustomed to do at that time. Be 
humble and obedient to your master; for 
unless you frame yourself to obey others, 
and feel iu your own self what obedience is, 
you shall never be able to teach other-- to 
obey you. Be courteous und affable to all 
men, with diversity of reverence according 
to the dignity of the person. There is 
nothing that winucth so much, with so lit¬ 
tle cost. Use moderate diet, so as after 
your meat you may find your wit fresher 
and not duller, your body more lively, and 
not more heavy than before. Give vourself 
to be merry, for you degenerate from your 
father if you find not yourself most able to 
do anything when you be most merry. But 
let your mirth be ever void of all scurrility 
and bit ing words to any man. for a wound 
given by a word is often harder to be heal¬ 
ed than that which is given by a sword. Be 
rather a hearer, and bearer away of other 
men’s talk, than a beginner and procurer of 
speech. If you hear a wise sentence or an 
apt idirasc, commit it t o your memory. Let 
never oath be heard (o come out of your 
mouth, nor word of ribaldry; detest it. in 
others, so shall custom make to yourself a 
law against it. Be modest in every assem¬ 
bly, and rather be rebuked by light fellows 
for maidenly shamet'nstness than by your 
sail friends for pert boldness. Above all 
things tell no untruth. No, not even in 
trifles. Study and endeavor to be virtuously 
occupied. So shall you form such a habit 
of well doing, that you shall not know how 
to do evil. Remember, my son, the noble- 
blood you are descended of by the mother’s 
side, and think that only by virtuous life 
and good action, you may be an ornament 
to that illustrious family.” 
His mother was Mary, eldest daughter 
of tho Duke of Northumberland. At 
the time of Philip's birth, she was mourn¬ 
ing the death, on the block, of her lather, 
her brother Robert, and his wife, the 
Lady Jane Grey. To the letter of Sir 
Henry Sidney a postscript was added by 
this excellent woman: “Your noble and 
careful father hath taken pains, with his 
own hand, to give you in this his letter, so 
wise, so learned, and most requisite precepts 
for you to follow with a diligent and hum¬ 
ble, thankful mind, as T will not withdraw 
your eyes from beholding and reverently 
honoring the same, i first bless you with 
my desire to God to plant you in his grace; 
and, secondly, warn you to have always be¬ 
fore the eyes of your mind these excellent 
counsels of my lord, your dear father, and 
that you fail not continually once in four or 
five days to read them over.” 
-- 
Water in the House.— Let nobody be 
deterred from bringing water into his house 
by any fears of failure and perplexity. You 
might just as well stop the circulation of 
blood in the body because it is subject to 
derangement, as to refuse tlje circulation of 
water in the house because, now and then, a 
pipe overflows, and your frescoes are ruined. 
Good workmen will prevent any such acci¬ 
dent, but if they canuot, give up your fres¬ 
coes ; do not give up your life blood. When 
I see the farm-houses, the dairies, the kitch¬ 
ens, whose only source of supply is the 
well in 1 he yard, or the hogshead at the back 
door, and t hink how life would be lengthened 
and sweetened if all this heavy, and hard 
and slow water-bringing could be supplant¬ 
ed by the turn of a screw, I wonder that we 
do not manage to introduce it, somehow, 
into our marriage contracts. What- an in¬ 
crease of vital force would ensue; what a 
diminished demand for divorce; what a 
st rengthening and up-building of the family 
bond, if a girl should refuse to marry until 
there was an inexhaustible supply of water, 
at least in the kitchen. A house without 
water-works ought to be considered as in¬ 
complete as a house without doors, and as in¬ 
complete in the country as in the city.— 
Gait Hamilton. 
-- 
A radiant, sunny spirit extracts happi¬ 
ness from every incident of life, and which 
all the gold of California cannot bestow. 
Think of that, poor millionaire! 
jlabbath Reading. 
PRAY, 
Our prayers and (ion’s mercy are like two buckets 
in a well; while ilio one ascends the other descends. 
—Bishop Hopkin*. 
Pray to thy Father, trusting child, 
Thy Father dear above. 
And while the prayer of faith ascends, 
Descending see His tove. 
Pray to thy Father, erring child, 
Thy Father dear in Heaven, 
And. even while thy prayer ascends, 
Thy sins are. ail forgiven. 
Pray to thy Father, tempted child. 
With faith In Jesus* name. 
Chiiist knows what sore temptations moan, 
For He has felt the sumc. 
Pray to the Saviour, sorrowing child. 
Our sorrows Ho can feel, 
And even while thy prayer ascends, 
Descends tho balm to heal. 
Pray to thy Saviour, mourning child. 
Thy Saviour dear on high. 
He who on earth for Lazarus wept. 
For thee feels sympathy. 
Not willingly- doth He afflict 
His children Journey Ing here, 
liut with tho rod Ilis blessing sends, 
'Till we to I leaven draw near. 
Firmly and strong the rope unites 
Tho buckets of the well. 
But stronger is tho chord to raise 
Our prayers while here we dwell. 
And ever sure the cord that brings 
Us mercy from above; 
" Ask and receive,” thou favored child. 
And praise the Gor* of love. r.. r. m. 
-♦♦♦- 
CONTENTMENT. 
“Contentment comes not, therefore; still 
there lies nil outer distance when the first is 
hailed.” Who hath found it ? Who hath 
not searched for it ? But it is ever just a 
little way beyond,—a goal that is never 
reached, but always hoped for and strived 
after. Can it be there is no satisfying tho 
human heart with other than Infinite love? 
And how few roach that state of perfection, 
and obtain that panacea for all ills, that the 
heart shall be so filled wit h this love and 
beautiful faith that nothing worldly can 
produce despair! And yet there are those 
who live this life, to whom sorrow has come, 
and all the joy of their own lives seem gone 
l o them forever, save in the blessed assur¬ 
ance that soon they, too, shall “cross the 
vast, calm river,” and till that time its 
breadth and depth are bridged over by tho 
thoughts of the loved from the other side; 
the beautiful faith that angel forms sur¬ 
round. Angel hands caress the dear ones 
here, sustain them, and even though the sun 
has ceased to shine for them on this side, 
shall it not break upon them in all its glory 
in the great Hereafter? Shall not the “well 
done ” which will welcome them home boa 
recompense for their cheerful endurance? 
But of those who are blessed with all that 
can bring pence and contentment here, and 
still are searching a little way beyond for 
the ” pearl of great price;” who fail to en¬ 
joy the present in looking forward for great 
things in the future; think yen success 
will ever crown their efforts, and content¬ 
ment settle down upon their hearts and 
leave them nothing more to desire, and the 
remainder of their days he spent in joy and 
perfect satisfaction. Tis rarely such find a 
happy life here, who strive after that which 
may bring contentment merely for the sat¬ 
isfying of the heart. But rather he who re¬ 
solves to Ik- content with the life God has 
given him to live, rests under His hand, re¬ 
ceiving pleasure and pain alike as sent of 
Him. The lover think- contentment shall 
come to him when she whom he has chosen 
to wear his heart and bear his name shall be 
all his own ; hut trials, eaves, and vexations, 
all unlooked for, arise, ami still he must 
look forward in the dim. shadowy future 
for that glad time when he shall find per¬ 
fect rest. 
With what hopes and aspirations, and 
trusting, uhiid-like faith that contentment 
is just within their reach, doth many don 
the bridal veil. She gives her warm, pure 
heart, her precious life, into the keeping of 
one who. in the years to come, will bring to 
her the sweet and bitter of life; and a trust¬ 
ing heart must accept the glass, aud drink 
therefrom whatever his choice, or circum¬ 
stances, may fill it with; and many a poor, 
disappointed heart has found it bitter, bit¬ 
ter indeed, and murmured not. While an¬ 
other may have gathered all the sweet earth 
holds for them, there needs must creep 
some bitterness i herein, even though ten¬ 
derly offered by loved ones who suffer more 
in seeing those dour to them bear all they 
must, than to hold to their own lips the bit- 
tor cup und drink to the very dregs. While 
this cannot lessen the pain ami agony en¬ 
dured, it can boar ono up—can cheer as only 
those poor, broken-hearted ones can tell, to 
whom sympathy has been denied, and to 
whom contentment seems somet hing of the 
past, which shall never come again till the 
final rest. 
Search where you may, weary wanderer, 
you will never find contentment elsewhere 
than in the heart that strives to be Content 
with what it has, nor in the vain reaching 
for more, lose all,—even the life which now 
is, and the life which is to come. 
