old; and neath your very look for six years. We are now twenty-five years for fifteen of those years we have lived together in hatred. We will part: I am revenged.' 'He drew from his pocket a paper and threw it toward me, and then removed his hat. He had shaved his head to resemble mine perfectly; it had the same white scar. I glanced at the paper; it was a marriage certificate confirming the wedding of Francis Retzcar and Clara Lorrain. I gasped for breath. What does this mean?' shrieked I. 'Simply,' said Argent, 'that I was married, by means of my general appearance, and especially this false scar, to Miss Clara Lorrain last evening at eight o'clock, and that I left my blushing bride early this morning, promising to return immediately. Ha! ha!' and he turned with a fiendish leer toward the door. I pulled from my breast a long knife, and sprang upon him; he was prepared, and drew a loaded pistol; but ere he could cock it, I had dashed him on the ground, and grasped him by the throat. We were perfectly matched in strength, but my knife gave me the advantage; it was very sharp, and I stabbed him three times to the heart, and then, in a delirium of anger, beat him on the head, with the heavy handle, till I was weary. 'He was dead. 'I took off my clothes, and stripping the still palpitating corpse arrayed it in them. Placing my rings and pins upon the fingers, as I was in the habit of wearing them, I stepped into the secret chamber. I heard the inquest, and rejoiced that even my enemy's name would be covered with obloquy, and he esteemed a murderer. 'I have lived at my old residence since: stealing out only occasionally at night to procure food, which I did in various ways. But revenge and remorse were at work, and soon after I determined to quit the awful place and go abroad. This was about a month succeeding the murder. In one of my nightly sallies, I chanced to pick up a newspaper, fallen from some traveller's pocket, which told of the death of Mrs. Francis Retzcar on the day succeeding her marriage. The poor girl never knew the fraud practised upon her. Then I commenced to go mad. I did not recover till the blow you gave me in the library drew a portion of my blood, and brought me to myself. But, Sir, if I have had revenge, I have also felt remorse. 'Adieu, Sir; I thank you for your kindness. I shall never revisit this country, and never probably see you again. Should you hear of my death, inform my relative, Mr. Bylenne, of the facts I have narrated. Until then keep my secret.' The ship on which the unhappy Mr. Retzcar sailed, foundered at sea, and all on board perished. I did not purchase the 'haunted house.' THE LAST MID-NIGHT OF SUMMER. BY HENRY MORFORD. VOL. LIX. Summer is gone the white stars say And scarcely knew it was passing away. Summer is gone: its waves no more Summer is gone its whispering leaves, Good-by to the hours in woodland haunts 49 Go in, as growing years require; With youth, and love, and faith, and hope, With MARY'S smile and MADGE's kiss, And hours full maddened with lawless bliss- Look down, white stars! There is nothing to see; Can you bring me back the summer fair, If MARGARET's lips can kiss again, By the alchemy of regretful pain, Then sorrow and thought may be not in vain. But if nothing past can ever return, Nor lamps gone out rekindle and burn, There is nothing to hope and little to learn. Not deader when I lie in the mould Shall be my sight and hearing cold, Than in the sleep that to-night shall enfold. Good-by to summer! Let it go! Other summers may dawn ere our heads lie low; And if not, there have been enough, I know. So enter the house and lock the door. SERVE YOUR FLAG. BY R. WOLCOTT, AUTHOR OF WHIFFS FROM MY MEERSCHAUM,' THE rebel cannon opened upon the defiant walls; brave Anderson, with his little handful of men, gallantly responded; the telegraph, in the confused and hazy style in which it always muddles every thing it takes hold of, filled the air with inconsistent and impossible rumors; the proud flag was wrapped in the smoke and flames of the burning fort; and, as a culmination of the first act of the world's greatest drama, the ominous words, 'Fort Sumter surrendered!' flashed along the wires, thrilling the great heart of the nation, firing the blood of enthusiastic, ambitious youth; quickening the steady pulse of mature manhood; starting afresh the sluggish current in the veins of the old man, who had lived long under that bright banner, and now for the first time saw it trailing at the feet of treason. What followed then has already been written in the records of the time, as well as in the memory of all that witnessed it. The fierce anger of insulted loyalty; the grand uprising of an outraged people in its sublime passion; the spontaneous offering of lives, fortune, and sacred honor upon the altar of patriotism, have been chronicled, and have passed into history. Charlie Marsh sat at his little table, his books spread before him, his studygown wrapped about him, his pipe lit, his smoking-cap jauntily perched upon the back of his head. He had trimmed his lamp, and sat down to prepare for to-morrow's recitation; but the wild excitement caused by the President's call for seventy-five thousand men was abroad, and made study impossible. After several futile attempts to collect his shattered thoughts, and concentrate them upon what old Cicero had to say in disparagement of Mark Antony, he closed the lexicon with a slam, refilled his pipe, moved his chair around by the window, and sat down to think about it. And out there upon the campus, that lay quietly sleeping in the moonlight, there arose a vision of the leaguered fort, the starving garrison, the circle of batteries growing up around it, the cowardly attack, the final capitulation and lowering of the flag. Then appeared a vision of the sure and terrible retribution; the marshaled hosts advancing with firm, determined tread, bearing before them that starry emblem, that the ordeal of battle might purify it of the stain left there by treason's foul hand. Through the open window came the sound of the drum and fife, stirring, as no other music can, the fighting blood that came to him from Revolutionary sires; and, throwing his smoking-cap out of the window, by way of emphasis, he exclaimed: 'By Jove!' (students have a habit of swearing by the mythological deities; it smacks of the scholarly,) 'I'm going!' Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he went to bed to dream of drums and trumpets, banners and brass buttons, gunpowder, grime and gallant deeds; and through all a fair face looked down on him, with smiles of pride and encouragement. The next morning he enlisted, and then telegraphed home to ask his father's consent. The only answer was: 'Go!' And he went. His mother was dead, his father and sister, and the owner of those soft, starry eyes, that smiled on him in his dreams, lived far away; and there were none but his college friends to bid him good-by, when the day for his departure came, and he was ready to start, leaving, not without a lingering regret, the old dog-eared books, the study-gown and smoking-cap; of all his luxuries taking with him only his dear, old meeschaum. No wonder that he was silent and thoughtful, as the long train slowly moved off, amid the cheering of the men, the waving of snowy handkerchiefs, and the tearful farewells of loved ones. For with all his eagerness and enthusiasm, he had thought well of the step he was taking, the personal risk, and the possible duration of the war. He knew too that there were dear ones at home, who would think of him often; a sister, who would catch all the flying rumors, and bewilder her little head with masked batteries and reconnoissances in search of tidings of him; a father, whose sympathies would be more than ever enlisted, now that his only son was. His company was attached to a regiment, and they went into camp. Fortunately, their Colonel was not a mere splendor of gold-lace and crimson-sash; he was a man of military education, earnest in the cause, and determined to make soldiers of his men. So Charlie soon tasted the sweets of a soldier's life, the hard bread, and harder board to sleep on, the woolen shirt and ponderous brogan; and the old visions of graduation, and literary renown, that came to him in his little chamber, as he sat among his books, gave way to dreams of glorious deeds in battle, the thunder of cannon, and the clashing of swords. And letters came from home, from sister Carrie, full of anxious inquiries as to his health, and questions about how he looked, how he liked it, etc.; ending with a wicked little joke about Fannie B. and her flirtation with a Lieutenant of the Home Guard. In reply, he told her that she might possess her soul in peace in regard to his health, for he was 'tougher 'n a biled owl;' he described his uniform, voluminous in trowser and scanty in coat-tail, attempted a mildly jocose remark in reference to Fannie's flirtation, and made a melancholy failure. Beside the manual of arms, the culinary manual was taught, and one day Charlie was taking a lesson in dish-washing, when a merry ripple of laughter caused him to look up from his task. To his surprise, he saw the paternal Marsh blandly smiling on him, with sister Carrie on his arm, convulsed with girlish laughter at Charlie's awkward energy. The old gentleman afterward made the acquaintance of the Colonel, and while they were discussing the war-news, Charlie was busy answering Carrie's many questions, telling her all about those two chevrons on his arms, and endeavoring to impress her with the dignity and responsibility sustained by the third corporal. And then the package was opened, and the toilet-case and needle-book brought out; and the cakes, confectionery, jellies, and other delicacies so well adapted to the frail stomach of a soldier. Last of all came a little something wrapped in tissuepaper. 'Here's something,' said Carrie, that Fannie sent you to remember her |