Soldiers' record, 1869-02-06

              U e v o t e d l t o t h e I n t e r e s t s ol t l i e S o l d l i e i - s an.d S a i l o r s o f t H e l a t e W a r .
YOL 1. HARTFORD, CONN., FEBRUARY 6,1869. NO. 31
AFTER TH£ BATTLE.
A waste of land, a sodden plain,
A lutid sunset sky,
'Mid clouds that flbd and faded fast
In ghostly phaniaiiy;
A field npturijied by trampling feet,
A field up-piled with slain,
With horse'and ridet blent in death
Upon thd blattlB plain.'•
The dying and the dead lie low;
1*01 them no more shall rise
The evening moon nor midnight star.
Nor daylight's soft surprise.
They wtike no mor6 for tenderest call.
Nor see again each home
Where waiting hearts shall throb and break
When this day's tidings come.
Two soldiers lying as they fell ,
Upon the reddened clay
In daytitae foes, at night at peace,
Broatliirig their lives away.
Braie hearts had stirred each manly breast,
Fat6 only made them foes :
And lying dying side by side,
A softer feeling rose.
"Our time is short," one faint voice said,
"Tp-day we did our best
On diferiint'si'des.-, what matter now 1
To-morro\V we are at'rest.
Life lies behind; I might not care
For only my own sak^e,
But far fiway sye other hearts
That this day's work will break.
" Among New Hrtmpshire's many hills
There pray for me to-night
A woman and a little girl.
With hearts like golden light—"
And at the thought broke forth at last
The cry of anguish wild,
That would no lon^r be repressed—
"0 God! my wife—my child !"
"And," said the other dying man,
"Across the Georgia plain.
There waiich ahd w^it for nae loved ones,
. I'll iiever see again?!
A little child," with dark bright eyes,
Each day waits at the door,
The father's step, the father's kiss
That never greet her more.
"To day we sought each other's lives.
Death levels all that now;
For soon before,God's mercy seat;
Together wo shall bow.
Forgive eaph other while wo may;
Iiife'd but a weary game ;
And right or wrong to-morrow's sun
Wiiriind us dead the same."
The dying lips the pardon breathe,
The dying hands entwine;
The laist ray dies, and over all
The stars from Heaven shine;
And the little girl with golden hair.
The one with dark eyes bright.
On Hampshire's hill and Georgia plain,
Wore fatherless that night.
ioEW at §mL
MY TRUE BETROTHAL.
BY ALICE GRAY.
One night the paper was brought in just
at twilight. I took it to the window to look
it over and stood there reading it aJoud to
Ernest, who lay on the sofa opposite.
Presently 1 came to the marriages, and the
name of Annie Dearljorn arrested my at-tention.
Annie was married. With an
exclamation of surprise I road it aloud.
Ernest made no response, and I went on
with my reading in silence.
" Mary, it is too dark to read any long-er."
" Yes, Ernest."
I put down the paper and went to him.
He took my hand and drew me down to
the hassock beside him.
" Mary, I have a story to tell you. A
Btory I have withheld too long already."
His voice was husky with emotion.
I bent and whispered :
" Is Annie Dearborn the heroine of your
story ?"
He turned his head quickly as if to
read my face, but it was too dark.
" Because, if she is, Ernest, I think I
knew your story two years ago."
" Mary ! You saw—you understood ?
But you do not know what cause you had
to despise your husband."
I nestled my head closer as I answer-ed
softly :
" Darling, I overheard you talk with
her the last night she was here. I hap-pened
to be in the hall and I couldn't
help listening. Annie was good. I
knew she meant to do right, but she ie so
used to winning hearts without a con-scious
effort it is no wonder she handles
them lightly* She couldn't feel your pain
as. I did. You are my other soul, you
know, and I did want to comfort you so,
after she was gone. But L knew there
a,r,e somp tjiinga Gn0 has to; bear alphe.
And you have outlived the pain now, Ern-est
T
I asked the question in a tremulous
whisper. For answer he drew me closer
and closer into his embrace, and I restad
th(0re while he poured out, unreservedly,
his full confession, without palliation or
self-exc,use. And th en the words in which
he told anew his love for me! How poor
and shallow is any lover's talk compared
with this deep and dear communion in
which souls are wedded for eternity. It
was one of those glorified hours that trail
their golden memories over months and
years of quiet undemonstrative living.
That was our true betrothal night.
We saw Annie Dearborn the other day.
She has a devoted husband and two love-ly
children. She and Ernest met with a
bright cordiality that ignored all the past
save its open friendliuess. The episode
I have recorded was doubtless one of
scores, buried now out of sight and almost
out of memory, yet what nourishment was
drawn therefrom to enrich two happy
lives.
Yet, reader, mistake me not. Do not
generalize from my story an infallible
rule of conduct for disloyal husbands, neg-lected
wives, or their maiden friends.
And, above all, let not the latter attempt
the role of Annie Dearborn.
" For ,tis an awkwafd thing to play w^ith souls,
And matter enough to save one's own.'
I've only my story. You know there
will be no other just liko it while the
world shall stand.
THE HEAVY STAKE.
He. was a man rather over medium
size, with black hair and whiskers, and a
hapdsome face, with clear gray eyes, who
came into a gambling room in Sacramen-to
one night, badly under the influence
of liquor. He sauntered idly from one
crowd to another, gathered around the
various gaming tables. When we met
he said,—
"John, you been an old friend. I been
here ten years now. Going home to set-tle
down. I love Fanny, you know, and
she loves me. Look here," he continued,
taking a wallet from his bosom; "here
is ten thousand dollars in gold."
I looked at his treasure. It was pure
gold dust gathered from the then prolific
places of Oaliforiva,
"Pnt that away," said 1, "Take it
from this place. Let me go with you to
your boarding house at once."
Taking his arm I endeavored to lead
him away. But he resisted as a man who
had resolved on his own course. With
a silly, drunken air, ho said,—
"What'g ten thousand for ten years
work ? When I left the States to come
here, poor as a mouse, Fanny Morton
promised to bo mine, and she shan't re-pent
it. Such complexion and such eyes
are worthy a better fortune than ten thou-sand
dollars. It's like her throwing
away her time waiting for mo, if I don't
go home with more money than that.
Shall the dear little angel be disappoint-ed
? Never! I'll make it twenty thou-sand
to-night."
He started with unsteady step towards
a faro table. Vainly I strove to turn him
from his purpose, lie, however, stopped
again and said,—
"Tell you, John, what you do. If 1
lose I'll be busted—won't have a cent in
the woj-ld. Maybe that would keep mo
there another ten years. She would not
wait so long. I couldn't stand that, for
she has been my only hope for these ton
years. So for me it is twenty thousand
or death, and I never pl^,yed a gan^e in
ray life. If I fail, write to Fanny and tell
her all about it. Here John, Dick, Toiu,
Jones, Wilson, what.'U you have
A crowd gathered around to assist him
to imbibe at the bar. I refused to drink.
I had)never seen hiin tipsy before, and:
now; he was both dull and wild; '
r'Oome on, Jfellei-S," tie'shputed,, waving
his wallet over his headr *'an<l see a
ga-me 'at's worth seeing." Here goes for
ten thousand dollars on one b6t!" .
A crowd began to gather around him,
as he pressed towards a table. Every
other table was forsaken. A hundred
persons surrounded this table, tip-toeing
with eager curiosity, to see the progi'ess
of this he ivy wager. Swinging, his wal-let
around with a drunken swaggering
flourish, a hiccough and a wild eye, t hi$
man of less thauvthirty years of age, with
his life's hopes, and life itself ^ placed on
one cast, selected his number, and placed
his money upon it. I saw the movement,
and as he wiiiidfcw his hand from the
completed actiOh, I looked agaiii in his
face. His eyes met mine from the table.
He was perfectly sober !
Never shall I forget the fearfully anx-ious
expression of the now terrified man.
Every faculty of interest seemed multi-plied
a hundred fold and concentrated
in his face. All present knew him, and
in death-like stillness awaited the resul,t,
which they knew was to enrich or beggar
him.
The fight card turned up. My friend
had won. A hand was stretched forth to
grasp the twenty thousand dollars, and L
made a movement to thrust the robbbr
back, for such 1 deemed him as I- looked
up from the table I had been watching
and missed my friend. His hair was
black. This intruding stranger was a
gray-headed man. A second look showed
me that the unendurable a^ony of sus-pense
had turned my friend's hair white!
I was not alone in this discovery, for a cry
of horror burst from the assembled mass,
following closely upon the hearty cheer
at his success.
He never after that drank a drop of in-toxicating
liquor, or played a game of
chdnce He returned home by the: next
steamship, and though his betrothed w:as
surprised at his grave lace and grp,y hair s,
she attributed them to toil in the mines
for her sake, and cheerfully fulfllled her
promise of marriage.
er she be pretty or plain, her parlor is a
very agreeable plaoe in which to spend aa
eveniujg ; or, as our young men are wont
to k y , " i t is extremely pleasant to sub-mit
one's self oooasionally to be hand-somely
entertained,; but, unless strongly
inclined to flirt, would not upon any ac-count
have it supposed that he Was look-ing
in that direction for a wife—by no
•means
Thus these gallants are wont to speak.
And, as a rule, they are not marrying rnen.
Hiit, when oneof them would take to lixi-seif
a wife, he goes east., or west, or north,
or south—anywhere to find a girl unspoil-ed
by society—one who has not in his pres-ence
played the agreeable to a score of
others, iand whom h« strongly suspects
any one of them he could have had for t^e
asking.
The worst thing for a girl—unless she
wants to live and die an old maidr—thougV
she might do worse—is to have toomaiiy
beaux. She may be pretty, stylish, ac-complished,
graceful, anything you please,
it matters little. The very fact that she
has been the recipient of attentions from
more men than she would need to know in
the course of a lifetime, places her on the
level with a worn-out boot, desirable only
to those who cannot get better.
If girls would but take the advice of
their own sex as graciously as the^ t^ke
the,caresses of the other, some at least,
would cut loose a few of their worthless
acquaintances, and, in future, guard them-selves
against the attentions of too many
beaux.
TOO MANY BEAUX.
li by the term " prospects," as applied
to a young lady, ^ou mean the probabili-ties
of her. getting a husband, then she
whose admirers may be called Legion has
inflnitely poorer prospects than one whose
friends of the opposite sex may be count-ed
on the fiugers of a single hand.
Now, it is true that everybody patron-izes
the church and store that everybody
else supports, for it is the easiest and
most natural thing in the world to " fol-low
the crowd." But this is not to say
that a young man wants for a wife the girl
who counts her beaux by the score and her
conquests by the dozen.
It is true that every chicken in a brood
will leave a good dinner, and all go in pur-suit
of the same object if they sue one of
their number running away with a large-siijed
crumb, or after an imaginary angle-worm.
But it is not true that a young
man will forsake the modest, gentle girl,
whose society he can enjoy without rival-ry,
to compete with a score of others for
the company of a young lady whose smiles
are free to all.
There is, indeed, a class of men who
pay assiduous court to ihe latter. She
generally possesses many attractions—tliis
pot of society. She has a fine instrument
and plays tolerably. Possibly she sings.
Invariably she dances. She is always sur-rounded
by the gayest of the gay, and in
consequence of these advantages, wheth-
THAT OLD COUPLE.
There may. be a romance connected
with j;he ldveyof fresh ypung hearts ; their
wooiiig; and'' ^iheir wedding ; but tO liie
there is no affection so beautiful as that be-tween^
an aged man and wife! Wheti I
see siich a coiiple, I always think of the
faraway days, when for them lovei
ybuiig, and gave pleasant hours of woo-ing,
dreamy day^ of courtship, and finely
crowned thejr hiippiness at the alt'sir.
Together they have drank of. life's jo;^s,
and with clapped hands have knelt before
sorrow-s shriiie. Away back in the- days
that we know nothing of, memory hOl;4s
for them sacred hours aad scenes. Sceiies
of joy, the nature of the tender .bir^Ungs
that have found! their way into the p a ^ t
nest, their ^ricle, t|ieir joy ; perhaps ihe
a^ed mOtlier is ev^ri now dreaming of 1the
d^y w.iieii her daughter was a baby in
arms,, op led by her hand. Or of the b^J®
sons who have one by one gone out injto
the great world to fight their battles wijth
fate, or be borne unresisting on its tide.
Now fOr them are all the tender home-ties
loosened, and only the vacant places by
the hearthstone, and now and then a let-ter,
or flying visit, are fill that remaijis.
Yet, in all these years, has their wedded
love grown stronger, and no memory of
joys past is dearer to them than the sad
vision of hands clasped over the cold form
of their loved dead. White headstones
gleam here and there amid the memory of
their past joys, and the heart's tears pro-claim
how sacred is our sorrow sanctified
by love. We cannot understand all the
poetry, all the beauty of a love that has.
threaded two lives upon one string. We
look upon an old couple who have passed
thwir labor, as upon the fruit waiting to be
gathered, or the wheat fully ripe, nor
dream of the wealth of tender memories
and recollections filling their breasts.
We call old people children and " broken
down," when they are only living and
acting upon the spirit of dead and gone
days. How their hearts grow tender
with age, is only known to God.
Give me, as life's best boon, a surety
of the .lasting love of my youth. I ask no
more for my ago than the faithful affection
of the heart on which my youth rested.
All things else may be denied me—wealth,
honors, beauty, health,—but sol may
tread the shadowy walks to the end of
life, hand in hand with him^ I care not