 Excerpt from Campaign of the 14th Regiment, New Jersey Volunteers by Sergeant J. Newton Terrell. This is a LibriVox recording, read in honor of the 14th anniversary of LibriVox. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A complete history of the Campaign of the 14th Regiment, New Jersey Volunteers, its various battles and marches, from the time of its departure from New Jersey until its return, giving full details of every event that transpired, the author having taken an active part in those memorable battles of the Potomac Army, the Maryland Campaign, the Wilderness, Spotsylvania, World Harbor, and Petersburg, finally ending in the capture of Lee's Army, the occupation of Richmond and Petersburg by our forces, and the Rebellion Crushed Forever, Campaign of the 14th Regiment, New Jersey Volunteers, War with all its horrors has dawned upon us, thousands have answered the call and rushed to arms, the farmer leaves his plow, the merchant his store, and all join in one compact body to avenge the insult perpetrated upon our flag. It is not a foreign foe, but a war upon our soil, a civil war. Our forces have been defeated and driven back, the rebel capital, almost within our grasp has been rested from us, and the enemy, flushed with victory, are marching with countless hordes upon our almost defenseless capital. The disastrous defeat of McClellan from before Richmond has awakened a feeling among the northern people that something more active must be done, that we are dealing with a wildly foe prepared for war and bent upon the destruction of our once happy and prosperous union. Congress having met, it was decided to call for more troops to assist in putting down this wicked rebellion, our army having been fearfully decreased by sickness and by battles. The swamps of Virginia and the broiling sun of a southern climb has sent numbers to their graves. Our army must be reorganized and that speedily, fresh troops must fill the ranks of those that are no more. A call for six hundred thousand troops was made, it resounded throughout the north, and soon our decimated ranks were refilled by men who but shortly before were engaged in the peaceful pursuits of life, who are now stern warriors, armed and equipped for the fearful struggle awaiting them. Under that call the fourteenth New Jersey regiment was raised, a band of noble men from various portions of the state. On the eighth of July, eighteen sixty-two, the regiment was formed on the old battleground of Freehold, Monmouth County, New Jersey, William S. Truick's appointed commander. For nearly two months the officers were busily engaged in preparing the men for the future. Companies were organized, armed, and equipped. Men enlisted daily, not for bounties, but for patriotism. And soon the regiment was ready for its departure for the seat of war. Regiments were placed on a line, each company by itself. The men seemed to know the work before them, and with stern resolution resolved to do their duty to the last. A police system was organized, and the camp soon presented a healthy appearance. The men who, but a few days before, were in their quiet homes by the family fireside talking of war, were no longer there. Their places were vacant, and they, in camps, anxiously awaiting orders to move. Soldering then was new. The men were no longer free. On the twenty-sixth of August the regiment was mustered in the United States service for three years, unless sooner discharged. Or as the men remarked, three years, unless sooner shot. Soldering now commenced in earnest. At first the men, unused to discipline, were not disposed to obey the rules. But they were soon made to know that they were soldiers, and that military rules must be obeyed or they be punished. A guard house was built for the purpose of confining those that were disobedient, but it was seldom used, only in case of drunkenness, when the offender was placed in confinement until he became sober. A guard was placed around the camp. Each relief posted every two hours, and each man having a certain place to walk until he was relieved by the corporal or sergeant of the guard. At night the officer in charge of the guard visited each post to see that every sentinel was doing his duty. It was called the Grand Rounds. Midnight was the hour chosen. The men were furnished with sibley tents, and a tick filled with straw to sleep on, each tent holding sixteen men. Six tents to a company, and ten companies in the regiment. A full company was composed of eighty-seven privates, five sergeants, and eight corporals, with three commissioned officers. In all, one hundred three men. The companies arranged an alphabetical order. Drills, reviews, inspections, and dress parades were the order of the day. The camp was daily thronged with visitors, mostly friends of the soldiers. A cook and cookhouse were furnished, each company marched down in single file to their meals. The rations furnished the men were beef, pork, bread, beans, sugar, and coffee. The men were now fairly established in camp, and began to wonder when the regiment would move to the front. Furloughs were granted the men, five from each company, as all could not be furnished at once. Several broke guard and escaped, taking French leave, returning before the regiment left for the front. Various rumors were now in circulation, but none of them were reliable. Some of them were that we were going to North Carolina and to Texas, and others that the regiment was to join the Potomac Army, but none knew the destination of the regiment, as there were yet no orders from Washington to move. On the thirty-first of August the regiment numbered over nine hundred fifty men. They were ordered to form in line and march to Freehold, two and a half miles from camp. It was a splendid sight. The men were in the best of spirits, and with their new uniforms and burnished guns presented a fine appearance. After marching around the principal streets, the men returned to the camp in dirt-cars, a great many receiving passes to go home while in camp. The nine-months men were rapidly forming the twenty-eighth New Jersey, near the camp of the fourteenth. After the men of the fourteenth were fast for three years, they envied them, and wished they had gone for nine months. But it was now too late, and they must remain three long, weary years, unless the war should sooner end. On Monday, September 1st, orders were given the men to be ready to leave at daylight the next morning, with three days' rations for Washington. At night the guards were ordered to load their muskets and fire upon anyone attempting to leave camp. The night was dark and rainy, and the camp flooded with water. The next morning three days' rations were furnished to the men of hard tack and dry smoked beef. Tents were taken down and packed up. The men were placed in old baggage-cars, a passenger-car reserved for the officers, and bade goodbye to the old camp. As the train left it was thought by the men how many of them would return. Friends were there to see them leave. The last goodbye was said, and the cars moved slowly off. Soon the camping ground was left far behind. Arriving at Philadelphia the men were kindly received by the citizens, and a good supper given them by the ladies the volunteer refreshment saloon. This building is situated near the wharf, and thousands of soldiers have been furnished with meals, being tired after a weary ride, cooped up in tight cars. It was very refreshing. Three rousing cheers were given for the ladies of Philadelphia for their kindness. The regiment formed in line and marched to the Baltimore depot. The streets were thronged with citizens welcoming us and bidding us Godspeed. Again, the men were furnished with baggage-cars and started for Baltimore, arriving there at noon. The next day marching through the city in the hot sun with heavy knapsacks to the Washington depot and lying on the sidewalk in the afternoon. While there the depot was set on fire and burned down, supposed to be the work of an incendiary. Several cars were consumed and thousands of dollars lost. Several regiments were there awaiting transportation. This time the men were more fortunate and succeeded in getting passenger cars, and supposed they were going to Washington. Leaving Baltimore at eleven p.m., riding all night, arriving at Frederick Junction on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, fifty-eight miles from Baltimore, for the purpose of guarding Monocacy Bridge, a splendid iron structure across Monocacy River. A field was picked out and tents were placed on a line as before. The men were furnished with ten rounds of ammunition. At night, companies H and K were detailed for picket. At midnight the Colonel received a dispatch that the rebels under Stonewall Jackson were invading the North in force and were now in Maryland, having crossed at Edwards Ferry. The regiment was drawn up in line of battle on the turnpike, remaining until morning. All was excitement, as the men were new troops and unused to such scenes. Signal lights were displayed, and the distant report of a gun booming on the midnight air informed us that the enemy were near. The next morning orders were given to strike tents and fall back. As the fourteenth was the only regiment stationed at that place, tents were soon down and placed on baggage cars. The Colonel seized a coal train that was lying near, and the men were soon on board. The engineer, being a rebel and in favor of the South, was in no hurry to start. The Colonel, becoming impatient, drew his revolver and threatened to shoot him if he did not move. At five o'clock everything was in readiness. Muskets were fired in the air to prevent accident, as the men were green troops and did not know how to use them. The train moved off towards Baltimore. Standing in those old coal cars, forty miles to Eliesville. About one hour after leaving Monocacy the advance guard of the rebels made their appearance. Had we remained longer our capture would have been certain, as there were no other troops near, and the whole rebel army in our front. The citizens of Eliesville were very kind, giving the men plenty to eat. At ten o'clock the regiment marched up a hill about one mile, encamping in an orchard, remaining ten days, doing guard duty, picket and drilling, expecting daily orders to move. One of our men returned to us, having been taken prisoner and paroled by the rebels. They had burned the bridge at Monocacy, laid waste to the country, and were advancing northward, closely followed by the Potomac Army under McClellan, overtaking them at Antietam and South Mountain. A terrible battle was fought, resulting in the utter discomforture of the rebels and sending them back across the Potomac completely routed. Maryland Heights was taken by them in their retreat, with eleven thousand prisoners and sixty guns. Colonel Miles being in command, and a traitor at heart, surrendered without firing a gun. He was killed in the attempt, report says by his own son. Had he defended the place a few hours it would not have been taken, as the Potomac Army was marching on rapidly in pursuit. The men were paroled on the spot, the guns spiked, and the rebels retreated in haste back into Virginia, our army encamping near Harper's Ferry. While at Eliesville, one hundred men from the regiment went to Monocacy to guard a provision train, commanded by Lieutenant Kerner, remaining there two days. Scouting parties were sent out daily, houses were searched, and concealed weapons found hidden in holes, garrets, and cellars. The majority of the people were sickish, and refused to give any information. The regiment was encamped on a farm belonging to an officer in the rebel army. Eliesville is a small village on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, twenty-one miles from Baltimore. It is quite a flourishing place. On the sixteenth of September, orders came for the regiment to proceed to Monocacy and rebuild the bridge destroyed by the rebels. Again, the men were placed in baggage-cars, a dismal, rainy day, riding all night, arriving at the junction the next day. Everything looked desolate. The bridge destroyed, remnants of wagons, dead horses and mules lying around. A portion of the Potomac army was there, awaiting supplies. It was raining hard and very muddy. Tents were pitched in a plowed field in regular order, guards were stationed around camp, and no one allowed to leave. The rebels left a squad of men to destroy the bridge. In the attempt one man was blown up and buried near the ruins, leaving his arms and head above ground. This was the first rebel the men had ever seen. And for some time was an object of curiosity to us. He lay exposed several days. At last his remains were taken up and decently interred by our men. Parties were now set to work, the camp laid out in style, and a regular system of order prevailed. The bridge was soon rebuilt and guarded by our men. It was named Camp Hooker, in honor of fighting Joe, as Hooker was called. The city of Frederick was three miles distant. The men, receiving passes daily to visit the place. The drills and inspections were very arduous. They were arranged systematically and in perfect order. The revelry was sounded at six a.m. Every man was then required to get up and answer to his name at roll call, proceed to the woods, and carry a log for the cook-house. The drum then beat for breakfast, each man taking his tin plate and cup to the cook. Breakfast consisting of coffee, pork or beef, and dry bread. At eight o'clock the guard was mounted for the day. The old guard relieved, would shoot at a mark to clean their guns, and were excused from drill for the morning. The camp guard was as follows. One captain as officer of the day, one lieutenant as officer of the guard, three sergeants, three corporals, and ninety men remaining on twenty-four hours. The duty of the officer of the day was to see that the camp was kept clean and neat, that all offing and dirt should be removed. Also, to visit the guard house each day and once at midnight, and then visit each post, or as was called, the grand rounds. The duty of the officer of the guard was to see that each sentinel was doing his duty, and to see that each officer was saluted properly. The guard was divided into three reliefs, thirty men to a relief, one sergeant and one corporal. The non-commissioned officers were to post each relief every two hours. In case of extreme cold weather, no sentinel was allowed to stand but one hour. At nine o'clock the drums beat for squad drill, lasting two hours. This was very tiresome to the men, the same each day. At twelve the drum beat for dinner. At two, battalion drill until four. At five, dress parade or inspections. Supper at six, roll call at nine, taps at nine fifteen. Each man was then required to put the light out of his tent and retire. No loud talking or laughing was then allowed. Military rules were very strict and must be obeyed. Each day's duties were alike. Saturday afternoon was allowed the men to wash and amuse themselves as they pleased. End of excerpt from Campaign of the Fourteenth Regiment, New Jersey Volunteers. Read by Jennifer Fournier. The Fourteenth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America passed by Congress on June 13th, 1866, ratified July 9th, 1868. Note, Article I, Section II of the Constitution was modified by Section II of this Fourteenth Amendment. Read for LibriVox in honor of the Fourteenth Anniversary of LibriVox. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit us at LibriVox.org. I begin with a short historical preface from Wikipedia. The Fourteenth Amendment was adopted on July 9th, 1868 as one of the Reconstruction Amendments. The amendment addresses citizenship rights and the equal protection of the laws and was proposed in response to issues related to former slaves following the American Civil War. The amendment, particularly its first section, is one of the most litigated parts of the Constitution, forming the basis for landmark decisions, such as Brown v. Board of Education in 1954, Roe v. Wade, 1973, Bush v. Gore, 2000, and Obergefell v. Hodges in 2018. The amendment limits the actions of all states and local officials, including those acting on behalf of such an official. Here follows the text of the amendment. Section 1 All persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside. No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. Section 2 Representatives shall be apportioned among the several states according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each state, excluding Indians, not text. But when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for president and vice president of the United States, representatives in Congress, the executive and judicial officers of a state, or the members of the legislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such state, being 21 years of age, footnote, the age was changed to 18 years of age by Section 1 of the 26th Amendment, and citizens of the United States, or in any way abridged except for participation in rebellion or other crime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the proportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the whole number of male citizens 21 years of age in such state. Section 3 No person shall be a senator or representative in Congress or elector of president and vice president or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States or under any state, who having previously taken an oath as a member of Congress or as an officer of the United States or as a member of any state legislature or as an executive or judicial officer of any state to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof, but Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each house remove such disability. Section 4 The validity of the public debt of the United States authorized by law, including debts incurred for payment of pensions and bounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion, shall not be questioned, but neither the United States nor any state shall assume or pay any debt or obligation incurred in aid of insurrection or rebellion against the United States or any claim for the loss or emancipation of any slave, but all such debts, obligations and claims shall be held illegal and void. Section 5 The Congress shall have the power to enforce by appropriate legislation the provisions of this article. End of the Fourteenth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America Read by Michelle Frye, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in August 2019 Sonnet 14 by William Shakespeare This is a LibriVox recording, read in honour of the 14th anniversary of LibriVox. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Sonnet 14 Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, and yet me think I have astronomy, but not to tell of good or evil luck, of plagues, of dirths or season's quality, nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, or say with princes if it shall go well, by oft predict that I in heaven find, but from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, and constant stars in them I read such art as truth and beauty shall together thrive, if from thyself to store thou wouldst convert, or else of thee this I prognosticate, thy end is truths and beauties doom and date. End of Sonnet 14 by William Shakespeare Read by Beth Thomas The Lion of St. Mark A Story of Venice in the Fourteenth Century by G. A. Henty This is a LibriVox recording, read in honor of the Fourteenth Anniversary of LibriVox. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Preface Of all the chapters of history there are few more interesting or wonderful than that which tells the story of the rise and progress of Venice. Built upon a few sandy islands in a shallow lagoon, and originally founded by fugitives from the mainland, Venice became one of the greatest and most respected powers of Europe. She was mistress of the sea, conquered and ruled over a considerable territory bordering on the Adriatic, checked the rising power of the Turks, conquered Constantinople, successfully defied all the attacks of her jealous rivals to shake her power, and carried on a trade relatively as great as that of England in the present day. I have laid my story in the time not of the triumphs of Venice, but of her hardest struggle for existence, when she defended herself successfully against the coalition of Hungary, Padua, and Genoa, for never at any time were the virtues of Venice, her steadfastness, and her patriotism, and her willingness to make all sacrifice for her independence more brilliantly shown. The historical portion of the story is drawn from Haslitt's history of the Republic of Venice, and with it I have woven the adventures of an English boy endowed with a full share of that energy and pluck which, more than any other qualities, have made the British Empire the greatest the world has ever seen. End of Preface by G. A. Hinty Read for LibriVox by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B. C. Fools in their hearts believe and say that all religions vain, there is no God that reigns on high, or mines the affairs of men. From thoughts so dreadful and profane, corrupt discourse proceeds, and in their impious hands are found abominable deeds. The Lord from his celestial throne looked down on things below, to find the man that sought his grace, or did his justice now. By nature all are gone astray, their practice all the same. There's none that fears his maker's hand, there's none that loves his name. Their tongues are used to speak deceit, their slanders never cease. I swift to mischief are their fate, nor new the past of peace. Such states of sin that bear root in every heart are found, nor can they bear diviner fruit till grace refine the ground. Psalm 14, 2nd part The folly of persecutors are sinners now so senseless grown, that they, thy saints too far, and never worship at thy throne, nor fear thine awful power. Great God appear to their surprise, reveal thy dreadful name, let them no more thy wrath despise, nor turn our hope to shame. Dost thou not dwell among the just, and yet our foes to ride, that we should make thy name our trust? Great God confine their pride. O that the joyful day will come, to finish our distress, when God shall bring his children home, our songs shall never cease. End of Psalm 14 by Isaac Watts, read by Chad Horner. Hall is Sonnet number 14 by John Dunne. This is a LibriVox recording, read in honor of the 14th anniversary of LibriVox. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Better my heart, three persons gone. For you, as yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend, that I may rise and stand, or throw me, and bend your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town, to another do, labor to admit you, but oh, to no end. Raising your advisory in me, may should defend, but is captive, and proves weak, or untrue. Yet dearly, I love you, and would be loved, fame, but I'm betrothed unto your enemy. Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again. Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except in throw me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. 14-1 by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps This is a LibriVox recording, read in honor of the 14th anniversary of LibriVox. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 14-1 There are certain situations inherently too preposterous for fiction. The very telling of them involves the presumption of fact. No writer with any regard for his literary reputation would invent such a tale as that which I am about to relate. The reader will agree with me, I think, that the conclusive events of the story are but another evidence that truth is the most amazing thing in the world. For reasons which will be sufficiently obvious, I shall not make use of authentic names of either the persons or the localities involved in the recital of one of the most thrilling incidents in modern American history, but fold them in the film of fiction necessary to their presentation. I use the word history according to the best of my knowledge and belief. For that portion of the tale which is offered as such, my main witness is dead. I can only say that the testimony satisfied myself. My readers are at liberty to accept or refuse it as they choose. With this prefatory word, which may give force to the narrative, I need only proceed to record the circumstances. The reverend Mr. Matthews was hitching up his horse to go to the post office. The horse was old. The man was old. The horse was gray. So was the man. The wagon was well-mourn of its paint, which was once a worldly blue, and the wheels sprawled at the axles like a decrepit old person going bow-legged from age. The reverend Mr. Matthews did not use the saddle, according to the custom of the region. He was lame and found it difficult to mount. It was a chilly day, and what was once a buffalo robe lay across the wagon seat. A few tufts of hair remained upon the bare skin, but it was neatly lined with a woman's shawl. An old plaid, originally combining more colors than a rag-mat, but now faded to a vague general dinginess, which would recommend it to the low tone of modern art. The harness was as old as the buffalo robe, as old as the shawl, as old as the horse, one might venture to say, as old as the man. It had been patched and mended and lapped and strapped and tied, past the ingenuity of any but the very poor, and the really intelligent. It was expected to drop to pieces at the mildest provocation, and the driver was supposed to clamber down over the bow-legged wheels and tie it up again, which he always did, and always patiently. He was a very patient old man, but there was a spark in his dim blue eye. The reins which he took firmly enough in his bare hands were of rope, by the way. He could not go to the post office on Mondays because his wife had to use the clothesline. He felt it a special dispensation of providence that women did not wash on Saturdays, when his number of Zions Herald was due. She came out of the house when he had harnessed, and stood with her hands wrapped in her little black and white checked shoulder shawl, watching him with eyes where thirty years of married love dwell gently. Something sharper than love crossed her thin face and long lines. She had an expression of habitual anxiety, refined to feminine acuteness, for it was the year 1870, and it was, let us call it, since we must call it something, the state of kennesy. Mrs. Matthews stood in that portion of the house which kennesy does not call a loggia. Neither is it a porch, a piazza, or a hall. It results from the dual division of the house which rises on each side, uniting in one boarded roof and aloft. Two chimneys of stone or of clay, according to the social status of the owner, flank the house on each side. The Reverend Mr. Matthews' chimneys were of clay, for he was a minister of the Methodist faith. His house was built of logs. Through the space which cut the building, the chickens walked critically, like boarders discussing their dinner. The domestic dwelling of a comfortable pig could be seen in the background. There were sheds and something resembling a barn for the horse. All were scrupulously neat. Behind, the mountains towered and had a dark expression. A clear sky burned above, but one had to look for it, it was so far, and there seemed so small an allowance of it, so much of the state of kennesy, so little of heaven. Are you going to the post office? asked Mrs. Matthews, softly. She knew perfectly well, but she always asked. He always answered, if it gave her pleasure to inquire he reasoned, why not? Yes, Deborah, said the old man briskly. Want to go? I don't know. Is Hazakaya tuckered out? Hazakaya is as spry as a chipmunk, returned the minister confidently. Now Hazakaya was the horse, and thirty-one years old. He received this astonishing tribute with a slow revolution of his best eye, for he was blind in the other, but no one ever mentioned the fact in Hazakaya's presence. Which might have passed for that superior effort of intelligence known only to the human race and vulgarly called a wink. Well, said Mrs. Matthews doubtfully, I don't know as I'll go. She pronounced these words with marked, almost painful, hesitation in an accent foreign to her environment. Her movements and dress were after the manner of kennesy, but her speech was the speech of New Hampshire. They had been northerners thirty years ago. Weak lungs brought him, and these mountain parishes kept him. His usefulness had been so obvious that his bishop had never shifted him far, reappointing him from term to term within a twenty-mile circuit among those barren fields. The situation was exceptional, the bishop said. At all events he had chosen so to treat it. Thirty years, and such years, seemed a long time to stay true to the traditions of youth and a flag. The parishioners and people whom, for courtesy, one called one's neighbors in those desolate, divided mountain homes, expressed themselves variously upon the parson's loyalty to the national cause. The border state indecision had murmured about him critically, for the immediate region had flashed during the Civil War, and remained sulky still. The Confederacy had never lacked friends in that township. Of late the murmur had become a mutter. The parson had given offence. He had preached a sermon treating of certain disorders which had become historic, for which the village and valley had acquired unenviable notoriety, in which they were slower than some other sections in abandoning, now that the civil situation supposed them to have done so. If I thought I could prevent anything, preceded Mrs. Matthews anxiously, I'd—I'd—I don't know, but I'd go. Are you going to hold the meeting, after all? Certainly, replied the minister, lifting his head, I shall dispense the word as usual. Well, said his wife sadly. Well, I suppose you will, I might have known, but I'd hoped you'd put it off. I was afraid to ask you. I can't help worrying. I don't know, but I'll go too. I can get my bonnet on in a minute. Her husband hesitated perceptively. He did not tell her that he was afraid to take her, that he was almost equally afraid to leave her. He said, the lock of the back door isn't mended yet. I don't know, but things need watching. That speckled bantams dreadfully afraid of weasels when she's set in. I don't know as I blame her. Well, returned the old lady with a sigh. I don't know, but you're right. If it's the Lord's will, I should stay home and shoe weasels. I suppose you can look after you without my help, if he has a mind too. Will you take the sweet potatoes along? There's a bushel and a half and two dozen eggs. The two old people loaded the wagon together, rather silently. Nothing further was said about the prayer meeting. Neither alluded to danger. They spoke of the price of potatoes and chickens. The times were too stern to be spendthrift in emotion. One might be lavish of anything else, but one had to economize in feeling and be a miser in its expression. When the parson was ready to start, he kissed his wife and said, Goodbye, Deborah. And she said, Goodbye, Levi. Then she said, Let me tuck you up a little. The buffalo ain't in. She took the old robe about the old legs with painstaking, motherly thoroughness, as if he had been a boy going to bed. She said how glad she was. She had that nice shawl to line it. Thank you, Deborah. Keep the doors locked, won't you? And I wouldn't run out much till I get back. No, I don't know as I will. Have you got your lantern? Yes. And your pistol? No. Ain't you going to take it? No, Deborah, I've decided not to. Besides, it's a rusty old affair. It wouldn't do much. You'll get home by nine, won't you? She pleaded, lifting her withered cheek over the high, muddy wheel. For a moment, those lines of anxiety seem to grow corrosive, as if they would eat her face out. Or quarter past, said the parson cheerfully, but don't worry if I'm not here till half past. Hezekiah took occasion to start at this point. He was an experienced horse. He knew when a conversation had lasted long enough at the parting of husband and wife, in 1870 and in Tennessee. No horse with two eyes could see as much as Hezekiah. This was understood in the family. A rickety, rocky path about four feet wide, called by courtesy, the road, wound away from the parsonage. The cornfield grew to it on either side. The tall stalks, some of them ten feet high, stood dead and stark, shivering in the rising wind. The old man drove into them. They closed about his gray head. Only the rear of the muddy blue wagon was visible between the husks. Levi? Levi? I want to ask a question. She could hear the bow-legged wheels come to a lame halt, but she could not see him. He called through the corn in his patient voice. Well, well, what is it? Ask away, Deborah. What time shall I begin to worry, Levi? To this essentially feminine inquiry, silence answered significantly. My dear, said the invisible husband, after a long pause. Perhaps by ten, or half past, or suppose we say eleven. She ran out into the corn to see him. It seemed to her suddenly as if she should strangle to death if she did not see him once more. But she did not call and he did not know that she was there. She ran on, gathering up her chocolate-colored calico dress, and wrapping her checked shawl about her head nervously. At the turn of the path there was a prickly locus tree. It had been burnt to make way for crops after the fashion of the country, which is too indolent to hue. It had not been well-burned, and one long, strong limb stretched out like an arm. It was black, and seemed to point at the old man as he disappeared around the twist in the path, where the returning valley curved in, and the passenger found a way to the highway. The parson was singing. His voice came back on the wind. How firm a foundation ye sense of the Lord! She wiped the tears from her eyes, and came back through the corn slowly. All her withered figure drooped. I don't know but how I'd ought to have perked up and gone with him, she said aloud, plaintively. She stood in the house-place among the chickens for a few minutes looking out. She was used, like other women in that desolate country, to being left much alone. Those terrible four years from 61 to 65 had taught her, she used to think, all the lessons that danger and solitude can teach. But she was learning new now. Peace had brought anything, everything, but security. She was a good deal of a woman, as the phrase goes, with a set strong yanky mouth. Life had never dealt so easily with her that she expected anything of it. It had given her no chance to become what women call timid. Yet, as she stood looking through the stark corn on that cold gray day, she shook with a kind of horror. Women know what it is, this agu of the heart which follows the absent beloved. The safest lives experience it, in chills of real foresight, or fevers of the imagination. Deborah Matthews lived in the lap of daily dangers that had not alienated her good sense, nor suffocated that sweet, persistent trust in the nature of things, call it feminine or religious, which is the most amazing fact in human life. But sometimes it seemed to her as if her soul were turning stiff, as flesh does from fear. If this goes on long enough, I shall die of it, she said. He will come home some day, and I shall be dead of listening and shivering and praying to mercy for him. Prayer is scripture, I suppose, and I haven't anything against it, but folks can die of too much praying, as well as a galloping consumption or the shakes. Only the chickens heard her, however, and they responded with critical clucks, like church members who thought her heretical. Since chickens constituted her duties, she would gratify heaven and divert her mind by going out to see the setting Bantam, who took her for a weasel and protested violently. Mrs. Matthews came back to the house indefinably comforted in a spiritual way by this secular interruption, and prepared to lock up carefully as her husband had bitten her. It was necessary to look after all the creatures first. The critical chickens, the comfortable pig, the gaunt cow, and the rooster, for whom, as he was but one, and had all the lordliness of his race and invariably ran away from her and never came till he got ready, Mrs. Matthews had a marked respect and thought of him as spelled with a capital. It took a great while that evening to get the rooster into the pen, and while her feminine coax and his masculine crow ricocheted about the cornfield, the old lady cast a sharp, watchful eye all over the premises and the vicinity. Silence and solitude responded to her. No intrusion or intruder gave sign. The mountain seemed to overlook the house pompously, as a thing too small to protect. The valley had a stealthy look, as if it were creeping up to her. The day was darkening fast. The gloom of its decline came on with the abruptness of a mountain region, and the world seemed suddenly to shrink away from the lonely spot and forget it. Mrs. Matthews, when she had locked up the animals with difficulty, deference, or fear, according to their respective temperaments, fastened the doors and windows of the house carefully, and looked at the clock. It was half past six. She took off her muddy rubbers, brushed them neatly, folded away her shawl, and started the fire economically. She must have a cup of tea, but supper should wait for Levi, who needed something solid after Friday evening meeting. She busied herself with these details assiduously. Her life was what we might call large with trifles. She made the most of them. There was nothing better that she knew of to keep great anxieties out of the head and sickening terrors out of the heart. There was one thing to be sure. Mrs. Matthews called it faith in providence. The parson's wife had her share of it, but it took on practical, often secular forms. Sometimes she prayed aloud, as she sat there alone, quaking in every nerve. Sometimes she pitched her shrill old voice, as she did today, several notes above the key, and sang, How firm a foundation ye saints of the Lord Is laid for your faith in his excellent word. But she locked the house up before she sang. She made her tea, too, and drank it. I always feel to get a better spiritual attitude, she used to say, when I've had my cup of tea. The house was so neat that its rudeness became a kind of daintiness to the eye, and the trim old lady in her chocolate calico with its strip of a ruffle at throat and wrists sat before the fireplace meditative and sweet like a priestess before an altar. She used to hate that fireplace with hot New Hampshire hatred, the kettle, the crane, and all the barbarous ways of managing. But she had contrived to get used to it now. It was the dream of her life to save money enough to freight a good northern cook stove over from Chattanooga. But she expected to die without it. The room winked brightly with shiny tinware hung above the fireplace, and chintz curtains at the windows. There were hollyhocks on the curtains, which seemed like New Hampshire, if you may believe very much. There was a center table with a very old red and black table cloth of the fashion of fifty years ago. The minister's writing materials adorned this table. His tall ink stand, with its oxidized silver top. His first parish in New Hampshire gave him that ink stand at a donation party in a sleet storm one January night with a barrel of flour and a bushel of potatoes. Beside the ink stand lay his quill pen, sharpened with the precision of a man who does not do much writing. The cheap, blue-ruled letter paper, a choir of it, and the sacred sermon paper, which Mrs. Matthews would not have touched for her life. She would have soon touched the sermons. These were carefully packed away in the corner, in a barrel covered with turkey red, and surmounted with a board top. The family Bible lay on the board. Above rose the minister's library. This was a serious affair, greatly respected in the parish, and adored by the minister's wife. It took at least three poplar shelves, stained by Mr. Matthews' own hand, and a borrowed paintbrush, to hold that library. Upon the lower shelf the family clock ticked solemnly, flanked by crudence concordance, and Worcester's dictionary. For neighbors to these, there were two odd volumes of an ancient encyclopedia, the letters, unfortunately, slipping from A to Z, without immediate alphabetical connection. Upon such subjects, for instance, as alchemy, or zoology, the minister was known to have shown a crushing scholarship, which was not strictly maintained upon all topics. Barnes's notes on Matthew occupied a decorous position in the library. The life of John Wesley, worn to tatters and covered with a neat brown paper grocery bag, overflowed into two octavo volumes, which, after all, had the comfortable, knowing look of a biography, which treats of a successful life experience, opulent in fact and feeling, alert and happy. Beside the shriveled career of this humble disciple, what a story! The history of New Hampshire stood beside John Wesley. A map of the state of Tennessee surmounted the library. For the rest, the shelves were fatally filled with filed copies of Zion's Herald and a Chattanooga weekly. There was an old lounge in the room, homemade, covered with a calico comforter, and a dyed brown shawl. The minister's slippers lay beside it. They were afelt, and she had made them. This lounge was Mr. Matthews' own particular resting place when the roads were rough or the meeting late. If he were very late and she grew anxious, his wife went up and stroked the lounge sometimes. Their bedroom opened across the house place from the living room. It held a white bed with posts and old white curtains much darned. Mrs. Matthews' Bible lay on a table beside the bed. The room was destitute of furniture or ornaments, but it had a rag carpet and a fireplace. When Mr. Matthews had a sore throat and it was very cold, they had a fire to go to bed by. That was delightful. When Mrs. Matthews had taken her cup of tea and sung how firm a foundation till she was afraid she should be tired of it, which struck her as an impiety to be avoided. She walked about the house looking at everything, crossing from room to room and looking cautiously after her. It was very still. It was almost deadly still. How long the evening? Seven. Eight. Half past eight o'clock. She tried to sew a little, mending his old coat. She tried to read the religious news in Zion's Herald. This failing, she even ventured on the funny column, for it was not Sunday. But nothing amused her. Life did not strike her as funny that night. She folded the coat. She folded the paper. She got up and walked and walked again. Pretty little home. She looked over it tenderly. How she loved it. How he loved it. What years had they grown to it? Day by busy day. Night by quiet night. What work? What sorrow? What joy and anxiety? What economy? What comfort? What long, healthy, happy sleep had they shared in it? As she passed before the fire, casting tall shadows on the chintz curtains, she began to sing again, shrilly, Home, home, dear, dear, home. Nine o'clock. Yes, nine. For the rickety old clock on the library shelf said so, distinctly. It was time to stop pacing the room. It was time to stop being anxious and thinking of everything to keep one's courage up. It was time to put the Johnny cake on and start the coffee. He would be hungry, as men folks ought to be. God made him so. It was time to peep between the holly-hot curtains and put her hands against her eyes and peer out across the cornfield. It was time to grow nervous and restless and flushed and happy. It was not time, thank God, to worry. The color came to her withered cheek. She was handsomer as an old lady than she had been as a young one. And the happier she grew, the better she looked, like all women, young or old. She bustled about with neat house-wifely fussiness. She knew that her husband thanked heaven for her New England homecraft. None of your easy southern housekeeping for Levi Matthews. What would have become of the man? As she worked, she sang unconsciously, Dear clean home. The Johnny cake was baking briskly. The candles were lighted, the coffee was stirred, and settled with a shell of an egg. It was ready to boil. It was quarter past nine. Mrs. Matthews' head grew a little muddled from excitement. She began again at the top of her voice. How firm a foundation ye saints of the Lord Is laid for your faith in an excellent— The clock wedged between the concordance and the dictionary struck half past nine with an ecclesiastical tone. Dogmetically, as if to insist on the point as a tenet on which she had been skeptical. Mrs. Matthews stopped singing. She went to the window. The coffee was boiling over. The corn cake was done brown. She pulled aside the curtain uneasily. The pine wood fire flared, and blinded her with a great outburst of light. She could see nothing without, and stood for a moment dazzled. Then she began to look intently, and so accustomed her eyes to the masses of shadow in the lines of form outside. The road wound away abruptly, lost in the darkness like a river dashed into the sea. The corn stalks closed over it, stark and sear. She opened the window a little, and heard them rustle, as if they were discussing something in whispers. Above the corn shot the gaunt arm of the prickly locust, burned and bare. The outlines of the mountain were invisible. The valley was sunk in the night. Nothing else was to be seen. As she leaned, listening for the sedate hoofs of old Hezekiah, or the lame rumble of the blue wagon wheels, the rooster uttered from his pen a piercing crow, and the bentum hen responded with an anxious cluck. She could have killed either of these garrulous members of her family for the interruption. The chickens always crowed when she was listening for Mr. Matthews. When the irritating sounds had died away on damp air with long, wavering echoes, a silence that was indescribably appalling settled about the place. Nothing broke it. Even the corn stalks stopped. After a significant pause they began again. They seemed to raise their voices in agitation. What in the world are they talking about, she said impatiently. She shut the window and came back into the middle of the room. The corn cake was burning. The coffee must be set off. The supper would be spoiled. She looked at the Methodist clock. Mr. Cruden and the Reverend John Wesley seemed to exchange glances over its head and hers. It lacked seven minutes of ten. But it isn't time to worry yet. The woman and the clock faced each other. She sat down before it. What was the use in freezing at the window to hear the rooster in the talking corn? She and the clock would have it out. She crossed her work-worn hands upon her chocolate calico lap and looked the thing in the eye. What a superior, supercilious clock. What a theological, controversial clock. Was there even a clock so conscious of its spiritual advantages, so sure it knew the will of the Almighty, so confident of being right about everything, so determined to be up and at it, to say it all, to insist upon it, to rub it in. Five minutes before ten. Three. Two. Ten o'clock. Ten o'clock, said in a loud, clerical tone, as if it were repeating ten of the thirty-nine articles to a bishop. But, oh, not quite time to worry yet. Ten minutes past. A quarter past. Twenty minutes. The woman and the clock eyed each other like duelists. Twenty-five minutes past ten. Half past. Deborah Matthews gasped for breath. She turned her back on the clock and dashed up the window full length. The night seemed blacker than ever. A cloud had rolled solemnly over the mountain and hung darkly above the house. The stalks of corn looked like corpses, but they talked like living beings still. They put their heads together and nodded. As she leaned out, trembling and panting, a flash of unseasonable lightning darted and shot. It revealed the arm of the locust tree pointing down the road. A low mutter of distant thunder followed. It rolled away and lapsed into a stillness that shook her soul. She came back to her chair in the middle of the room by the center table. The final struggle with hope had set in. It seemed as if the clock knew this as well as she. The ticking filled her ears, her brain, her veins, her being. It seemed to fill the world. Half past ten. It was as if some spirit appealed to the minister's clock. Oh, tell her so softly. Say so gently as religious love, though you be stern to your duty as religious law. Twenty-five minutes of eleven, a quarter of. The woman has ceased to look the clock in the eye. It has conquered her, poor thing. And now that it has, seem sorry for her, and ticks tenderly, as if it would turn back an hour, if it could. Her head has dropped into her hands. Her hands to her knees. Her body to the floor. Buried in the cushions of the old rocking chair, her face is invisible. Her hands have lifted themselves to her ears, which they press violently. She herself lies crouched like a murdered thing upon the floor. Eleven o'clock. She must not, cannot, will not bear it. Eleven o'clock. She must, she can, she shall. Past all feminine fright and nervousness. Past all fancy and waste of weak vision and prodigal anxiety. Past all doubt or hope or dispute. It is time to worry now. Deborah Matthews, when it had come to this, sprang to her feet, gave one piteous, beaten look at the clock, then stayed to look at nothing more. She flung open the door, not delaying to lock it behind her, and dashed out. She was as wild as a girl, and almost as agile. She ran over the rocks and slipped in the mud and sunk in the holes, and pushed into the cornfield and thrust out her hands before her to brush the stalks away, and stood for a moment to get her breath underneath the locus tree. How persistently, how solemnly that black arm pointed down the path. She felt like kneeling to it, as if it were an offended deity. All the pagan in her stirred. Suddenly the Christian rose and wrestled with it. Lord have mercy, she moaned. He's my husband. We've been married 30 years. Ain't I prayed enough? She sobbed, sinking on her knees in the mud among the corn. Ain't I said all there's any sense in saying to thee, What's the use in pestering God? But oh, to mercy, if thou couldst take the trouble to understand what it is to be married, 30 years, and to sit here in the cornfield looking for a murdered husband, he can't, said Deborah Matthews, abruptly starting to her feet. God ain't a woman. It ain't in nature. He can't understand. She pushed on past the burned trees and out towards the highway. It was very dark. It was deadly lonely. It was as still as horror. Oh, there! What tidings! For good or for ill, they had come at last. Deep in the distance, the wheels of a bow-legged wagon rumbled dully, and the hopes of a tired horse stumbled on the half-frozen ground. Far down the road, she could see, moving steadily, a little sparkle like a star. She dared not go to meet it. Friend or foe might bear the news. Let it come. It must find her where she was. She covered her face with her shawl, and stood like a court-martialed soldier before the final shot. Deborah? Far down the road, the faint cry sounded. Nearer and advancing, the dear voice cried. He was used to call to her so when he was late, that she might be sure and be spared all possible misery. He was infinitely tender with her. The Christianity of this old minister began with the marriage tie. Deborah? Deborah, my dear, don't be frightened, Deborah. I'm coming. I've come home. Kissing and clinging, laughing and sobbing, she got him into the barn. Whether she clambered over the wheels to him, or he sprang out to her, whether she rode, or walked, or flew, she could not have told, nor perhaps could he. He was as pale as the dead corn, and seemed dazed, stunned, unnatural to her eye. Hezekiah probably knew better than either of these two excited old people how they together got his harness off with shaking hands, and rolled the wagon into the shed, and locked the outbuildings, not forgetting the supper of the virtuous horse who rests from his labours after fifteen miles on a kennesy road, and at the age of thirty-one. Lock the doors, said the minister abruptly, when they had gone into the house-place. Lock up everything. Take pains about it. Give me something to eat or drink. And don't ask a question till I get rested. His wife turned him about, full on the fire-light, gave one glance at his face, and obeyed him to the letter. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she did not ask a question. His mouth had a drawn, ghastly look, and his sunken eyes did not seem to see her. She noticed that he limped more than usual as he crossed the room to lay his old felt hat on the barrel-top beneath the library. You are used up, she said. You are tuckered out. Here, drink your coffee, Levi. Here, I won't talk to you. I won't say a word. Drink, Mr. Matthews. Do, dear. He drank in great gulps, exhaustedly. When she came up with the corn-cake, having turned her back to dish it, she heard a little clinking sound, and saw that his right hand closed over something which he would have hidden from her. It was the old pistol. He was loading it, rust and all. The two looked at each other across the disabled weapon. It's all we have, he said. A man must defend his own. Don't be frightened, Deborah. I'll take care of you. You might as well out with it, said the old lady, distinctly. I'm ready to hear. I'm not a coward. New Hampshire girls ain't. I should think you'd know I'd been through enough in this godforsaken country. For that? Well, slowly. Well, I suppose you're about right, Deborah. The fact is, I've had a narrow escape of it. I was warned at the meeting. We had a gratifying meeting. The spirit descended on us. Several arose to confess themselves anxious. What were you warned about? interrupted his wife. Never mind the anxious seat. I've sat on it long enough for one night. What's the matter? Who warned you? I was warned against the goo-cluck's clan, that's all, returned the parson simply, picking up the crumbs of corn cake from his knees and eating them to save the bread. For a disbanded organization, they're pretty lively yet round these parts. They lay and wait for me on the road home. I had to come round over the mountain the other way. It was pretty rough. I didn't know, but they detail a squad there. It was pretty late. The harness broke twice and I had to mend it. It took a good while, and I knew that you—never mind me—cried Mrs. Matthews, with that snap of the voice which gives the accent of crossness to mortal anxiety. Tell me who warned you. Tell me everything this minute. That's about all, Deborah. A colored brother warned me. He has been desirous of being present at all the means of grace of late. But for the—the state of public sentiment, he would have done so. He is that convert brought to me privately a few weeks ago by our new brother, Brother Memminger. I don't know as I half like that Brother Memminger, return the wife. He got converted pretty fast, and he's a stranger in these parts. His speech ain't our speech either. But it's a southern name. Did he warn you? He was not present tonight at the dispensing of the word, replied the minister. No, I was taken one side after the benediction, without the building, by the colored brother, and warned on peril of my life, and on peril of his, not to go home tonight, and to tell no man of the warning. But you did. You came home. Certainly, my dear, you were here. She clung to him, and he kissed her. Neither spoke for many minutes. It seemed as if he could not trust himself. She was the first to put in whispered words the thought which rocked the hearts of both. When they don't find you, what will they do? My dear wife. My dear wife, God knows. What shall you do? What can we do? I think, said the minister in his gentle voice, that we may as well conduct family prayers. Very well, said his wife, if you've had your supper, I'll put away the dishes first. She did so, methodically and quietly, as if nothing out of the common course of events had happened, or were liable to. Her matter of fact, how swifely motions calmed him, as she thought they would. It made things seem natural, home-like, safe, as if danger were a delirious dread, and home and love and peace the foundations of life after war in Tennessee. When she had washed her hands and taken off her apron, she came back to the lounge and brought the family Bible with her and the hymn book. They sang together one verse of their favorite hymn, how firm a foundation, with the quavering, untrained voices that had led the choirs of mountain meetings for almost thirty years of patient, self-denying missionary life. Then the parson read, in a firm voice, a psalm, the ninety-first, and then he took the hand of his wife and his, and they both knelt down by the lounge, and he prayed aloud his usual, simple, trustful evening prayer. O Lord our Heavenly Father, thy mercies are new every morning and fresh every evening. We thank thee that though danger walketh in darkness, it shall not come nigh us. We bless thee that thou art so mindful of thine unworthy servant and handmaiden. We thank thee that for nearly thirty years we have dwelt in conjugal love and peace beneath our comfortable roof. We thank thee that no disaster hath rendered us homeless, and that the hand of violence hath not been raised against us. We pray thee that thou wilt withhold it from us this night, that we may sleep in peace and awake in safety. Levi! A curdling whisper in his ear interrupted the old man's prayer. Levi, there are footsteps in the corn! And awake in safety, proceeded the minister firmly, to bless thy tender care. He did not rise from his knees, but prayed on in a strong voice. So well-trained to the religious habit was the woman, that she did not cry out, nor interrupt him again, nor did she even arise from her knees before the old lounge. Suddenly voices clashed, cries up-spring, and a din surrounded the house. Come out! Come out! Out with the Yankee parson! Out with the nigger-prayin' preacher! Show yourself! The old man's hand tightened upon the hand of his old wife, but neither rose from their knees. The confusion without redoubled. Calls grew to yells. Heavy steps dashed foraging about the house. Cries of alarm from the outbuildings showed that the animals, which were the main support of the simple home, were attacked, perhaps destroyed. Then came the demand. Come out! Come out to us! Show yourself you sneaking Yankee parson! Out to us! A terrific knock thundered on the door, steadily the calm voice within prayed on. We trust thee, O Lord, and we bless thee for thy mercy to usward. Open the door, or we will pull your shanty down to hell. Preserve us, O Lord, for thy loving kindness endureth forever. Open the door, blank you, or we'll set the torches to it and burn you out. Protect us, O God. The light lock yielded, and the old door broke down. With a roar the mob rushed in. They were not over sixteen, but they seemed sixty, storming into the little room. They were all masked, and all armed to the teeth. Before the sight which met his eyes the leader of the posse fell back. He was a tall, powerful fellow, evidently by nature a commander, and the men fell back behind him. For Christ's sake, amen, said the parson. He rose from his knees, and his wife rose with him. The two old people confronted the desperadoes silently. When the leader came closer to them, he saw that the Reverend Mr. Matthews' hands were both occupied. With the left he grasped the hand of his wife. In the right he held his rusty pistol. The hymnbook had fallen to the floor, but the family Bible had been reverently laid with care upon the lounge. Its leaves yet open at the ninety-first Psalm. "'Gentlemen,' said the parson, speaking for the first time, I would not seem inhospitable, but the manner of your entering has perturbed my wife and interrupted our evening prayer, which it is our custom never to cut short for any insufficient cause. Now I am ready to receive you. Explain to me your errand.' "'It's a blank short one,' said a voice from the gang. A rope and a tree will explain it easy enough.' "'And nothing less,' cried a horseman. We haven't come on any boy's play this time. We've had Chase enough to find you for one night. That's so. It's no fool's errand you bet. We ain't a tar and feather in party. We need business.' "'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' pleaded the parson. He took the hand of his wife as he spoke, and lifted it to his shrunken breast and held it there delicately. It was the piteous instinct of manly protection, powerless to protect. In the name of civil justice, oh my neighbors, wherein have I offended you?' "'That's our business. It's a serious one, too,' cried the horseman. "'Your blank pious prayer-meetings have been a nursery of sentiments. We don't approve, that's all. You've admitted a blank, darky among respectable white citizens. Come now, haven't you? Own up.' "'Certainly,' replied the parson promptly. There was one colored brother present at the means of grace, on one or two occasions. I regretted that my congregation did not altogether welcome him. He was converted by the mercy of God beneath my ministrations. Would ye that I denied him the poor benefit of my prayers? Nay, then, as God hears me, I did not, nor I would not.' The old man's dim eyes flashed. He raised his rusty pistol, examined it, and laid it down. Before sixteen well-armed men, he began to comprehend the uselessness of his old weapon. He looked upon the array of grotesque and ghastly masks steadily. They rose like a row of demons before his biblically-trained imagination. Mr. Matthews believed in demons, in a simple, unquestioning way. "'And you've preached against that which was no business of yours. Come now, own to it. You've meddled with the politics and justice of the state. You've preached against the movements of the clan. What's left of it? That isn't much. It's done for. We're only a few gentlemen looking after things on our own hook.' "'I own to it,' said the parson quietly. I have delivered a discourse upon the topic of your organization. I felt called of heaven to do it. Is that all ye have against me? I pray you for my wife's sake, who is disquieted by your presence, as you see, to leave us to ourselves and go your way, from under my roof.' "'Have him out! Right, smart now,' yelled the horseman. "'Have him out without more words. A rope! A rope! Where's a rope?' In a moment there was a melee in the house. Cries arose to the effect that the rope was left in the corn. But a fellow who had been browsing about outside ran in with a rope in his hand, and handed it to the horseman. The rope was Mrs. Matthews' clothesline, Hezekiah's reins. The horseman gave it to the leader with an oath. The leader seemed to hesitate, and conferred in a whisper with the horseman and with others. But he was apparently overborn in his hesitation. He took the rope, and advanced with a certain respect to the parson, death in his hand. But who knew what pity in his heart? The mask hit it, if anywhere there. The noise from the gang now increased brutally. Cries, oaths, curses, calls to death resounded through the pure and peaceful room. The horseman lassoed the rope, and threw it around the parson's neck. At this moment a terrible sound rang above the confusion. It was the cry of the wife. She had possessed herself magnificently up to this time. The Puritan restraint set upon her white old face. She had not said a word. No murderer of them all had seen a tear upon her withered cheek. But now, nature had her way. She flung herself to her knees before the Ruffians. Then upon her husband's neck, back upon her knees, and so in a passion wavering between agony and entreaty pleaded with them. She cried to them for the love of heaven, for the love of God, for the sake of Jesus Christ, His Son, their Savior, so she put it, with the lack of tact and instinct for scriptural phraseology belonging to her devout, secluded life. The phrase raised a laugh. She cried to them for the love of their own wives, for the sake of their mothers, by the thought of their homes, for the sake of wedded love, and by his honorable life who administered respected among them for nearly thirty years, by the misery of widowhood, and by the sacredness of age. In her piteous pleading, she continued to give to the murderers, at the very verge of the deed, the noblest name known to the usages of safe and honorable society. Gentlemen, gentlemen, for the sake of this gray hair, for the sake of an old wife! But there they pushed her off. They struck her hands from their knees. They tore her arms from his neck. And so were dragging him out, when the parson said in a clear voice, Men, ye are at least men, give way to the demand of my soul before you hurl it to your maker. I pray you to leave me alone for the space of a moment with this lady my wife, that we may part one from the other, and no man witness our parting. At a signal from the big leader, the gang obeyed this request. The men hustled out of the broken door. The leader stood within it. Watch him, watch him like a lynx, cried the horseman. But the leader turned his back. Deborah, kiss me, my dear. You've been a good wife to me. I think you'd better go to your brother in New Hampshire. I don't know. I haven't had much time to plan it out for you. Tell him I would have written to him if I had had time. Tell him to take good care of you. Oh, God bless you, my dear. Why don't you speak to me? Why don't you kiss me? Your arms don't stay about my neck. What, can't hold them there at this last minute? Pray for me, Deborah. Deborah, why don't you answer me? Oh, my wife, my wife, my wife. But she was past answering, past the sacred agony of that last embrace. She had dropped from his breast and lay straight and still as the dead at his feet. God is good, said the old man solemnly. Let her be as she is. I pray you do not disturb her. Leave her to the swoon which he has mercifully provided for her relief at this moment. And do with me as you will before she awakens. A certain perceptible awe fell upon the gang as the old man stepped around the unconscious form of his wife and presented himself in the doorway. He seems to be a grateful old cove, said one man in a low voice. I don't know as I ever heard a feller in his circumstances give God a good name before. No sniveling, cried the horseman. Have it over. They took him out and arranged to have it over as quickly as might be. It must be admitted that the posse were nervous. They did not enjoy that night's work as much as they had expected to. They were in a hurry now to be done with it and away. The old man offered no useless resistance. He walked with dignity and without protest. He limped more than usual. His head was bare. His gray hair blue in the rising wind. The rope was around his neck. Someone had wheeled out the blue wagon and rolled it under the locust tree. As this was done, the old horse whinnied for his master from the stall. The parson was pushed upon the cart. Short work was made of it. As the leader of the gang stooped to help the horseman fling the rope over the burned bare limb of the tree and to adjust the noose around the old man's neck, which he made insistence on doing himself, a mask dropped. It was the face of the chief himself which was thus laid bare and alas and behold, it was even no other face than the face of— Brother Memminger, cried the old minister, speaking for the first time since he had been dragged from the house. The leader restored his mask to his downcast face with evident embarrassment. You, said the parson, I thought, he added gently, that you had found a Christian hope. You communed with me at the sacrament two weeks ago. I administered it to you. I am—sorry, Brother Memminger. The fellow muttered something, have a new what, and fell back a step or two. Someone else prepared the rope to swing the old man off. He who was known as Brother Memminger, dropped to the rear of the gang, surveyed carefully, then advanced to his place at the front, nearest to the victim. Every man awaited his orders. He was their chief. They had organized and they obeyed, even in their decline, a military government. There was a moment's pause. I would like, said the doomed man gently, a moment to commend my soul to God. This was granted him, and he stood with his grey head bowed. His hands were tied behind him. His face was not muffled. It had a high expression. His lips moved. Those who were nearest thought they heard him murmur the first words of the Lord's prayer. Hallowed be thy name, he said, and paused. He said no more, nor seemed to wish it. So they ranged themselves every man of them to swing him off, each standing with both hands upon the rope, which had been spliced by another to a considerable length. He who was called Memminger stood as he was expected to give the final order. There were fourteen of them, and Memminger the chief. Beside him stood an idle fellow, masked like the rest, but apparently a servant, a tool of Memmingers, who had a special service for him perhaps. If the old man struggled too much, or an accident happened, it was well to have an unoccupied hand. Memminger, in fact, had been well known in the gang for a good while, and was implicitly trusted and obeyed. In putting their hands to the rope, every man of them had of necessity to lay down his arms, both hands being clenched upon the rope, for a strong pull. They meant to break the old man's neck and be done with it. Really nobody cared to torture him. We're ready, said the horseman. Give the signal, Captain. Hurry up. The light of their lanterns and torches revealed the old man clearly. The long arm of the locust above his head, the stormy sky above. Death was no paler than the parson, but he did not struggle. His lips moved still in silent prayer. His eyes were closed. The men bent to the rope. The chief raised his hand. The last signal hung upon his next motion. Then there was a cry. Then his mask dropped, and from the face of the man beside him another fell, and it was the face of a negro, obedient and mute. Then the powerful figure of the leader straightened. His familiar eye flashed with a perfectly unfamiliar expression. Two muscular arms shot out from his body. Each hand held a revolver, sprung at full cock, and aimed. Boys, he cried in an awful voice. I am an officer of the United States, and the first man of you who lets go that rope drops. In an instant, armed as he was, he covered them, every man of them unarmed and standing as they were. His negro servant sprang to his aid. The first man of you who stirs a muscle on that rope dies, thundered the quasi-brother memmanger. I am a deputy marshal authorized by the national government to investigate and hasten the disbanding of the Ku Klux Klan, and in the name of the stars and stripes and law and order I arrest you every man. And in the name of simple wonder and astounding history it was done. The negro servant, whose person bulged with hidden handcuffs, bound the men, one at a time, fourteen of them, while his master's experienced weapons covered the gang. They behaved with the composure of intelligent and dumb-founded men. One of them ventured in observation. It was the horseman. He said, blank, blank, blank, you, blank to blank, struggled mightily with his handcuffs, and then held his tongue. The whole posse, by means of this simple stratagem, and by the help of that cowardice elemental in all brutes, was marched to the nearest sheriff, then delivered intact to the power of the law which the great mass of Kenesese citizens were ready to respect and glad to see defended. The country rang with the deed. Then whispers rose to hush it, for shame's sake. But it crept to northern ears, and I record it as it was related to me. How is it, parson? said deacon memmanger with a bright, shrewd smile, as he cut the old man down, and helped him, trembling as he was, to dismount the shaky cart. How is it, sir? Are you sorry I came to church at your place, now? I thought, under the circumstances, and I was bound to save you. I and my dark boy have been ferreting out this thing for a hundred days. I joined him the first week I came down here. I came on from Washington to do it. We mean to make a thorough job of it, and I guess we've done for him this time. You'll excuse me, sir, but I've got to get him to the sheriff and I'd go back and see my wife if I were you. She came to herself and her misery soon enough, lying there upon the floor beside the lounge. The first thing which she saw distinctly was the Bible, opened at the psalm which has calmed more souls and shocks of danger, and in the convulsions of lawless times than any other written words known to the literatures of the race. But the first thing which she heard was his precious voice, pitched low and modulated tenderly so as not to frighten her. Deborah, Deborah, don't be scared, my dear. They have not hurt me, and I'm coming back to you. End of 14 to 1 by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps