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THE CONSCRIPT.
% (Tale of llje Confederate d'dtar.
ET COI.. J. IT. ST. CLAIR.
CHAPTER VII.
It was a bright balmy’momiug, some
little time after the events recorded in |
the last clia;iter, that Capt. John Yernot 1
could be seen seated in tiie old fashioned i
parch of a Virginia farm bouse of the |
olden time. There was a soft, mellow
smoky haze in the air, that can bo found
in no other cliumte than that of Virginia 1
Far off in the dim distance, the tops oi
the mystical locking mountains were!
seehiingiy clothed in the gorgeous dyes
of sunlight, the shilling shadows of that j
far i ff weird appearance '.that Campbell
so fii e’y describes :
"'Tin distance lends enchantment to the view j
And rolies tlie mountain in Us azure line.'’
Far down the valley might be seen the
peaceful herds of cattle quietly cropping
the rich clover, that scented the evening
air as with the mingled perfume of a
thousand flowers ; far away, could he
heard the shout mellowed by distance ol
the stalwart negro who drove his horses
through the dark, luxuriant fields of coin, !
that fringed the mountain's robe. It j
was a peaceful, lovely Arcadian scene;a
scene upon which few men are privileged
to look {in this matter c r fact world
tl at revolves ever with- such frightful
speed; a speed so great that wc do not
often pause to look at its beauties.
Looking rut over this va I. y and up :
:\t the towering mountain there John
Yernot was sitting on this beautiful j
evening, silently and reverently thankful
that b# had been preserved through so
many and manifold dangers, to find at.
last this safe retreat for a while from
the vicissitudes of fate and the storms
of devastating war. An old gentleman
one of that old time class who deem
hospitality ever a virtue, bad seen the
pale intellectual face 'of our soldier as
lie sat at tbo door of his hospital; he bad
inquired of him his name, and his big
heart overflowed with sympathy as he
lica rd the record of the soldier’s suffer !
ings. lie had insisted that John Vqrnot
should accompany him to his home, not
very far distant in the mountains of Vir
ginia.
Maj. Conklin was a true type of the
old’fashioncd Virginia gentleman. Rear
ed in tne midst of a plenty that never
Knew any stint, he had gene on year af
ter year in that careless slipshod fash
ion, that so often resulted in ruin to this
class of men, and which more than any
thing else, has caused their almost total
extinction. Horses, hounds, balls, par
ties, pic nicks, dinners, suppers, and last
not least, Northern travel, bad so deple
ted tbe Major’s purso that on the day
when he so hospitably made John Yer
not accompany him home, Maj. Cenkl#
might well be called a ruined man. Not
ruined in the ordinary application of
that tcim, but ruined as it regarded the
style in which be was accustomed to live.
Hog and hominy are so plentiful in Vir
ginia, that he must he poor indeed who
cannot eke out the ordinary means of
subsistence; but to live in tbe in
which most men are accustomed to live
require* a most magnificent fortune.
Upon his arrival at the Major’s house
I Juhn Yernot was struck with its solid
architecture, with its air of stern gran
deur. Built in the very first settlement
!of our country, on the borders of our
: then territory, it combined the solid grace
of the Elizibcthiun age of architecture,
with the romantic feudal air of some j
j gothic castle. This appearance was in j
a great measure, de.riived from the pre
cautious which had been taken by its
‘builders of making it a fort and dwell-!
! iug at the same time. Built of massive |
: hewn stone, it was happily situated in
the very gorge of the valley’, so 'as to
i command its entrance cither way; a se
j lection, doubtless, owing to the fact that
j the first who had built the
house were to grey old brothers, who
i had fought under that most fiery ol all
cavaliers—l’rince Rupert—and who,
! doubtless, carried with them into the
wilds of America sonic of the military
, love so hardly, and so disastrously gain
ed in the civil wars ofEngland.
We of this present day can hardly
form an adequate idea of the days of the
founders of this Republic, of the toils, of
tlio bloodshed the harrassing anxieties
of a frontier life. Maj. Conklin was a
worthy descendant of those fiery caval
ies who had carried havoc and carnage
into the ranks of the Parliamentary Army
and when the war broke oul between the
North and South, though liis h6ad was
white with the snow, of sixty winters it
was only through the earnest solicitation 1
of his two sons that he had been induced
tc stay at home, and to repress his mar
tial order in making wheat for the sus
tcnancc of the Confederate Army.
Two sons and one daughter had bless
ed the Major’s union with one of the best
of the true heroic women of Virginia.
His two sons were now in the army, and
his daughter only awaited the close of
the war to unite herself to one of the
noblest gentlemen that this war lias
brought into notice.
| On the evening of which we have spq-
I ken in the beginning jof tliig chapter, an
I unusual dreary quiet reigned ovei the
■ whole valley, broken only by those rura !
[ sounds which are almost silence of them
selves.
Suddenly, a white puff of smoke from
! cue of the mountains, then another and
I Mill another showed to the practiced eye
of John v ernot that an artillery duel was
in progress not more than three miles
from the residence of Maj, Conklin. In
a few minutes a dense mass of Confed
erate cavalry swarmed over the moun
tain and hot upon their retreating foot
‘ steps came the wild shouting victorious
legions of Sheridan. With no pause, no
rally, the tide of war swept onwaid in
| its devastating sweep through the love
j ly valley but an hour before smiling in
: ihe serinwt loveliness.
Ah me! What a tale of bloody horrors,
of midnight atrocities could I unfold,
j were it the purpose of this history. But
1 forbear. I will but remark that upon
I Gen. Sheridan, or upon his advisers, or
instigators will rest the stigma of some
!of the blackest crimes that the dark
bloody record of war can show. Gen.
Sheridan was the man who boasted .that
after he had done with the valley of
j Virginia: “A crow could fly in a straight
! line for fifty miles without seeing a barn
j Gen. Sheridan, with the best appointed
cavalry in the world, could of course go
wlqj-e lie pleased, driving flic broken
down Confederate cavalry ■whithersoev
er he pleased; lie could safely, and with
out any clanger to himself or his valer
ous Dutchmen, ride over the richest sec
tion of Virginia, and lay its fertile fields
and smiling homesteads in ashes; they
could rob, plunder, murder, and carty off
anybody and everything to which their
insatiable craving for gain gave them a
mind; they could do all this, I say, with
impunity when opposed by a ragged band
: of half starved Confederate cavalry' ; but j
when the infantry afterwards met the
doughty band of heroes, no words can
express the grace eaeo and elegance
with which they retired from the neigh- I
borbood of such dangerous fellows as j
Jackson’s “foot cavalry ”
The sounds of war which for a brief
: period had dialurbed the peaceful calm
of the valley, had died away ; the earth
slept in gentle beaaty beneath the imo- j
rous gaze of the stars; naught was heard
save the distant baying of some watch
dog roused to unusual activity by the
exciting scenes of the day. JohnJVernot
was sitting at window of his bed
room, thinking of his absent Jeannette ;
: when all at once in tbe bright moonlight
ILe saw tLe glittering sabres of the
HERE SHALL THE PRESS THE PEOPLE'S KIOIItS MAINTAIN, UNAWED BY TEAK AND CNBKI3ED BY CAIN.
QUITMAN, GEO., APRIL 30, 1869.
■ United States Cavalry as they came at
a sweeping gallop up the btoad avenue
that led to the house. In another mo
ment they surrounded the building, while
! the stentorian tones of their lead r com- I
: manded—“Hall!”
| In the meantime, Capt. Vernot had
j gone quietly to Maj. Conklin’s room and
j informedjhiin in a low voice that the J
| Yankee cavalry were on the lawn in
! front ol the house. Foi a briqf moment,
I the old cavalier thought of resistance, •
J then sadly lie remembered how few were 1
the defenders of the mansion; then slow- !
ly and reluctantly he opened the man- ,
sion door and the rude soldiers poured j
into the ancient hall. Cursing and damn- j
J iug the “rebels,” swearing that they 1
j would burn the house; they had not com
mitted any actual outrage until Miss, j
Conklin made her appearance in the
house clinging to her father, who was
excited almost to frenzy by the outrage- j
ous conduct of the soldiers. One of .the
officers, a young Captain, stepped up to
Miss Conklin, and with a brutal sneer,
upon his vile sensual,face, asked her for I
a kiss. It was the last kiss that he ev-'
er asked for in this world; for with a ,
muttered curse between his lips tho old I
m.in snatched a broad sword lYom the
wall a relic of the old days, and poising j
it"with the ease and skill of a practiced
swordsman, struck sheer and full upon !
the head of the dastard who had dared I
to insult a defenceless woman. The
Captain without a sigh or groan fell
dead. For a moment the soldiers stood
aghast at the boldness of ll e act then
they closed around the old man like
hounds around a stag at bay. For a few
moments he was impeded by his daugh
ter’s,form clinging to him witli the wild
desperation of fear but a swprd thrust
aimed at his own breast entered her
heart and she fell lifeless to the floor.
Amid ringing blows and loud oaths,
and shrieks of wounded men, John Ver
uot made his appearance upon the scono
lie too had been taught the noblo art of
fencing, and now these two men, one old
and gray haired yet full of desperate do
-1 termination; the other still weak from
his wounds but full oi that steel like vig
or which comes from the highest exercise
of that faculty—called loV want of a bet
ter name—moral courage.
Should .'!' to shoulder, like a wall of sH.el
stood the Old and the New ; the blows
rang fiercer and louder the very press of j
the assailant* and their numbers was a
help to the old and young man; when all
at once, high above the din of the con
llict rang out a pisiol shot from the
staircase, above and Maj. Conklin fell,
.li A ihr mgli the brain upon the body of
bis daughter; for a moment the strife
ceased, then they closed thick and dark
as the blue waves of the sea around the
devoted young Confederate Captain.—
What boots it to tell ol the contest ; no
amount oi skill can be of any avail when
overpowering numbers are brought to
bear upon skilled valor and courage.
Cut down, and badly wounded by a
sabre cut in the shoulder, John Vernot
lav like one dead upon the floor near the
bodies of the old man and his daughter,
whom he would freely have died to de
fend.
The sun rose next morning clear and
bright upon the blackened ruins of tiie
once beautiful mansion; a wide spread
scene of horror aud desolation succeeded
to the beauty of the smiling landscape,
while John Vernot was far on Lis way
to a Northern prison.
(to BE CON’TIN'UEn )
THE OLDJARTM.
AN AFFECTING STORY.
I have a mind to tell a little story ; a
brief, yet a trite one.
About five years ago John Ainsley or
“Pap Ainsley” as he was familiarly call
ed was the owner of a hand cai t and
earned a living by conveying iniscella
tieauß packages from one part of tbe city ,
to another and receiving therefor the!
sum of fifty cents per load. I designate j
! tho occupation in the prosiest language
; possible; he was a hand cart man aud I
when not employed he could always be
i found on the corner of Montgomery and (
! California streets. Ilia hair and long ]
beard were’ quite gray, and bis limbs,
] feeble and as be could not shove as
I heavy a load through the deep sand or ,
] up the steep grade above him as the!
stalwart Teuton on the opposite corner]
thereby losing many a job and tnatjy a
! dollar, all the light loads in* the neigh-j
borhood fell to bis lot and kind hearted
men not unfrequently traveled a square
or two out of their way to give an easy ]
j job to old “Pap Ainsley.”
] Four years ago last September (I retf.
I collect the mouth for 1 had a note of four
thousand dollars to pay and was coin- |
polled to do some pretty sharp tinuncior
ing-tomeet it,) having two or three jloz
en volumes to transfer to my lodgings,
I gave Pap Ainsley the task of transput
talion. Arriving at my room just as he
| had deposited tho last armful on the
table aud observing that the old
man looked fatigued after climbing
I three flights of stairs two or three times
I I invited him to lake lass ol brandy,
a bottle of which I usually kept in my
i room for medical and soporific purposes
Although grateful for the invitation, lie.
i politely declined. 1 was astonished.
I “Do you never drink?” said I.
“Very seldom,” he replied dropping in
, to a chair at my request and wiping tiie
j perspiration from his forehead.
“WVHJif you drink at all,” I insisted
j “you will not find as fair an excuse in
the next twelve month for indulging for
you appear fatigued and scarcely able to
j stand.”
“To be frank” said the old man, “I do
1 not drink now. I have not tasted intox
i ieating liquors for fifteen years since.
I “Since when ?”I inquired thoughtless.-
! ly observing his hesitation.
The old man told me. Sixteen years
ago Bn was a well to do farmer near Syra
cose New York. He had one chid, a
daughter. While attending a hoarding
school in that city, then a girl sixteen
years of age she formed an attachment
for a young physician. Acquainting her
father with the circumstances ho flatly
refuse 1 his onsent to ain on with a man
he had never- seen, and removing her
from school sent a note to the young gal
hint with the somewhat pointed informa
tion that his pnesence jn the neighbor
hood of Ainsley farm .would not meet
with favor.
The reader of course surmises the re
sult, for such a pioeeeding could have
but one result; in less than a month there
was an elopement. The father loaded
his double barreled shot gun, and sjyore
vengeance but failing to find the fugi
tives he took to tho bottle his good wife
implored him not to give way ro despair
and he aocused her of encouraging the
elopement.
In three months tho wife died, and at
the expiration of a year, when the young
people returned to Syracuse from Con
necticut, where they had remained with
the parents of the husband, they learned
that tho o'u man had squandered his
money and was aim. mt. destitute, Learn
ing ol their arrival Ainsley drunk-him
self into a frenzy and proceeded to the
hotel where they stopped attacked the
husband wounded him in the arm by a
pistol shot and Attempted to lake the
life of bis dan” liter, who happily escaped
uninjured.through the interposition of
persons brought to the spot by the re
port af tile pistol.-
Ain-fey was arrested tried and acquit
ted on tbe (ilea of insanity. The daugh
*tor and her husband returned to Connqc
ciit sinco which time the. father had not
heard from them. He was sent to a lu
natic asylum Iron] which lie was dis
missed after retiming six months. In
181)1 lie came to California. He had foi
lowed mining lor. two years but bis
strength was unequal to. the pursuit and
ho returned to th city purchased a
handcart, and—the rest is known.
"Since then,” concluded the old man,
bowing his face in his hands in agbtiy,
“I have not tfisted liquor nor have I Been
my child.”
I regretted that I had been so inquisi
tive and expressed l the sufferer the sym
pathy I really felt for Inin -After this I
seldom passed the corner without look
ing for “Pap Ainsley,” and never saw
him but to think of the sad story he had
told me.
One chilly .drizzly day in December fol
lowing a gentleman ha /mg purchased a
small marble top table at an auction
room opposite proffered to the old man
the job of carrying it to his residence at
Stockton. Not wishing to accompany
the carrier he had selected tlifi face giv
ing the best assurance of careful delivery
of Lis purchase.
Furnished with the number of the
house the-old carlinau after a trying
struggle with the steep ascent of Califor
nia street reached his destination and
deposited the table in the ball. Linger
ing a moment the lady did not surmise
the reason until he politely informed her
that her husband (for such lie took her
to be) bad omitted probably accidental
ly to pay for the carriage.
“Very well, I will pay yon,” said the
lady stepping into an adjoining room.
She returned aud s a ing that she'
had no small coin in the house, handed
the man a twenty dollar gold piece.
He could not make the change.
“Never mind, 1 will call to morrow,”
he said turning to go.
• “No, no,” replied the lady, glancing
pittingly at the white locks and tremb
ling limbs.” I will not put you to so
much trouble,” aud she handed the coin
to Bridget, with instructions to see if
she could get it changed at one of th©
! stores or markets in tiie neighborhood.
“Step into tho parlor until the girl re
turns;-tie air is chilly and you must he
, cold,” continued the lady. “Come,” she
, added, as he looked at his attire and lies
: itated; “there’s a fire in the grate, and
no one there but tbo children.”
i “It is somewhat chilly,” said tiie old
man following her into tiie parlor, and
taking a seat near the fire.
“Perhaps I may find some silver in
tbe house,” said the lady, leaving the
! room, "for I fear that Bridget will not
1 get the twenty dollar piece changed.”
| “Como, 1 love little childreu,” and the
child who had been watch tig linn with
curiosity ran behind the large arm chair,
and hesitatingly approached.
“What is your name, my little child?"
“Maria,” lisped the little one.
“Marla,” he repeated while the great
tears gathered in his eyes; “1 once had
a little girl named Mi ria, and you look!
very much as she did.”
“Did yon?” said the clii'd, with much
interest; “and was her name Maria East
man too?”
“Merciful God !” exclaimed the old
man starting from his chair, and then
dropping into it again, with his head
bowed upon liis breast. “This cannot
be and yet why not ?”
He caught up the c! ild in his arms
with an eagerness that frightened he
and gazing into her face until he fin ml
conviction there suddenly rose to leave
the house.
“I cannot meet her without betraying
myself and I dare not tell her that I am
that drunken father who attempted to
take her life and perhaps left her hus
band a cripple,” ho groaned as lie hur
ried towards the door. .
The little ones wore bewildered.
“You are not going?’ said the another
reappearing and discovering the act ofi
leaving the hall.
He stopped aud apparently turned his
face but seemed to lack the resolutijL to
do aught else.
“He said lu; hail a litt'o Maria once
that j list looked like ine mother,’shouted
the child her eyes sparkling with delight.
The knees of the old eurtman trem
bled and he leaned against the dosr for
support. The lady sprang toward him,
took him by tho' arm, and attempted to
conduct him to a chair.
“No no!” lie exclaimed, “not till you
tell ine 1 am forgiven.”
“Forgiven—for what ?” replied the
mother greatly alarmed.
“Recognize in me your Wretched fath
er and I need not tell you.”
"My poor father,” she cried throwing
her arms around his neck, “all «is for
given—all foi gotten.”
All was forgiven and the husband
when lie roturnod late in the alteruom,
was scarcely less rejoiced than his good
wife at tho discovery. Whether or not
Bridget succeeded in changing the donb
le eagle 1 never learned; but this I do
know it took that liouest female all of
two months to unravel the knot into
which the domestic relations of tho fami
ly had tied jtself-dnriiijj her absence.
“Pap Ainsley” still keeps h>s cart ; for]
money could not indupe him to part with!
J.- 1 peeped into Dr. Eastman’s back,
yard a short,time since and discovered
the. ola man dragging the favorite vehicle j
around the enclosure with his four grand
childreu piled promiscuously into it.
TIIE DYING SOLDIER.
[We havp seldom road a more touching aud
beuutllul poem than the following. It is worthy
of taking itti place among the best political gems
of our literature ]
Comrade! said a dying soldier,
As lie lay upon the field,
Bend down nearer ; 1 would whisper
Something ere to death 1 yield.
Gomradel we have fought to'gothor,
Side by side in many a light;
But the leaden shaft has struck me.
And my *oul must wing its flight.
Comrade soldier! Jam going
To that far off distant shore,
Where thß bugle sound disturbs not,
And tbc.drulh is heard no intro.
There no mortal strife is raging;
There the battle’s din will cease;
Where the spirit disembodied,
Rests forever-more in oeace.
Comrade! while the spirit flutters.
And its wings are stretched to soar,
1 would whisper something to you,
That you’ll tell when all is o’er.
And I bid you, comrade, tell thorn
Loving hearts you’ll find at Home—
How their boy fell not by lighting,
For his country aud his home.
Comrade, when the war is over,
And'this cruel strife is o’er,
And the war-steed’s tramp is heard not,
And the war-cry sounds no more ;
When the God of peace and plenty
Smiles in goodness from above,
Then you’ll leave the field ol slaughter,
For your home and those you* love.
And When there, oh ! comrade, seek those
That wore ever dear to me,
And in kindness gently,tell them
Os their dead, so soon to be.
Tell them that I would not have them
Shell for mo a single tear,
But that I would have them glory
That I pressed a soldier’s bier.
Comrade, when yon meet my motjidr—
Oh! ’twill break .her loving heaft,
When she learns her boy has fallen,
I’ierced by the foemau’s dart.
Tell her that this Holy Volume—
(’Twas her parting gift to me,)
Ever held a place alt sacred,
In my heart and memory.
Comrade, when yon sec my sister,
And my little blue-eyed brother,
Toil them that I'bid them ever
Gently deal with elite another.
Tell them, comrade, within the realms
Where tWblest are-said to dwell.
There they’ll find their soldier brother,
Who, lighting for his country, fell.
Comrade, tell tlrem time is fleeting,
And that nere is not our ho*e,
But that we from earth must vanish,
And be laid in death's dark tom’u.
Tell them death cannot detain ns,
But that wo must go above.
Where the angel choir is chanting
Praises to the God of Love.
Comrade, tell them that this picture :
Ah 1 -one kiss before we part»-
Oft hi loneliness I’ve pressed it,
To ray almost breaking heart.
Tell them ’tis the faintest scmbjpice,
Os a being-pure an-1 free,
Who, in by-gone happier hours.
Pledged her maiden faith to me.
[53.00 per Annum
NO. 15
Comrade. tell my brother soldier#/
That I bid thorn «1! good -by**;
Toll thorn that I never murmured,
Tim' in freed ain't Cause f die.
Comrade, bid them never fait or,
While a single foemau’s baud
Seeks to desecrate or conquer.
Thin our own, our native hind.
Comrade, in a quiet valley.
Where the murmuring waters (low,
And the warblers sweetly enrol,
j And the flowers gently blow,
Stands a grave 'tis near the homestead,
Wherein childhood 1 have played;
There, oh, comrade, brother soldier,
Thei'o in peace I would be laid.
Comrade, now farewell! o ul bless you I
Ever I ind you’ve been to me,
And may Heaven’s richest blessings
Ever rest, my friend, on thee;
And when life’s short jotirney’s ended,
And tin* son 1 is plumed for flight,
May it Herr from ea th to Heaven,
To that land of pure delight.
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It is highly commended by ail learned and
eminent men, and by the Press generally in all
parts of the country, as the best book of the kind
in the English language.
Do not be Deceived 2
Owing to the unprecedented popularity of this
Work, a small Km/lish abfUtrjment, in duodecimo
form. about 600 pages, has been reprinted in
this country, and spread over 800 octavo pages,
evidently—by making a larger book than th*
original to give the impression easier that it is
on r edition. // has less than half the reading mat'
ter of ours, and is sold considerably higher than
the English edition of same book in this country.
Some agents are endeavoring to palm off this
nirenilc edition for ours.
Teachers, Students. Retired Clergymen, Farm*
ers, and energetic Women find the agency for
this work both pleasant and lucrative employ
ment. Send for circulars, giving full particu
lars, terms. Ac., to
S. S SCRANTON & CO., Book Publishers,
120 Asylum St., Hartford, Conn
N*o W READY
IN THE
SOUTHERN IKIIIIi JOURNAL,
For sale by all Newsdealers,
Mas. Winstanley’s Great Stout,
ENTITLED
T H E P E A%\NT U 1R t,
m A LSO, TUB
Cruise of the Six Hundred
BY MAJ. W. W. GoLDSnOROUUH.
The account he gives of the horrible sufferings
and privations inflicted upon Six Hundred Con-’
federate Officers, who Were sent, in 1864, from
Fort Delaware to General Foster’s Department
j iu the South, for retaliatory purposes, is almost
beyond human belief ; but there are still many
living witnesses to the facts. Everything wo
have ever read of brutality to prisoners during
the war pales before this, which causes us an in
voluntary shudder.* Truly there is a Wirz who
has been overlooked.
The Southern Home Journal is published at
Baltimore. M 1., by Jofiri Y. Slater, at the low
price of per annum, and should Teceive the
support of all who desire to foster Southern lit
erat ire. Send for a sample copy.
T. SKELTON- JONES,
Bookseller and Statronar,
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA.
Theological, Classical, School and Miscellanea**
Publications kept on-hand.
received for any Work. For«%
orAmorican. aug23-ly
HAYWOOD, GAGE & 00.,
WiIOJJCSAMS DEAI.IR* IK
ICES ICE!!
Nos. IOC, 198, 200 and 202 Bay Street,
Savannah Georgia.
nplT Cm