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far and near, with benediction, until, as the last peal dies away, heaven and earth grow still and the Lord's day is sanctified? It has a human sense and sympathy. Now it rings out strong and clear like a shout from the heart of a boy; and now its mellow notes dwell and lin- 5 ger like sweet memories of childhood. In the solemn night it seems God's warning voice; and then, pitiless as fate, it beats with iron stroke the hours that make the little life of man.

The organ, the master-instrument, is the voice of the 10 Christian Church, sounding like an echo from the mystic and hidden world. How full and deep and strong it rolls out its great volume of sound—an ocean of melody! Now it bursts forth with irresistible power like the hosts of stars when first they wheeled into their orbits and 15 shouted to God; and now, with a veiled and mysterious harmony, it wraps itself around the soul, shuts out all noise, and composes it to sweet, heavenly contemplation. It is tender as a mother's yearning, and fierce as the deaf and raging sea; sad as angels' sighs for souls that 20 are lost; plaintive and pitiful as the cry of repentant sinners; and then its notes faint and die, until we hear their echoes from the eternal shore, where they grow forever and forever.

With the falling day we enter the great cathedral's 25 sacred gloom, and at once are in a vast solitude. The huge pillars rise in giant strength, upholding the high vault already shrouded in the gathering darkness, and silence sits mute in the wide aisle. Suddenly we have been carried into another world, peopled with other be-s ings. We cease to note the passage of time; and earth, with its garish light and distracting noises, has become a dream. As the eye grows accustomed to the gloom we are able to observe the massive building. Its walls

rise like the sides of a steep mountain, and in the aisles there is the loneliness and mystery of deep valleys into which the sunlight never falls.

From these adamantine flanks countless beings start forth, until the whole edifice is peopled with fantastic forms, upon which falls the mystic light, reflected from the countenances of angels, patriarchs, apostles, who from celestial windows look down upon this newborn world. In the distance we see the glimmering taper that burns before God's presence, and then suddenly a 10 great volume of sound, like the divine breath infusing life into these inanimate objects, rolls over us, and every stone from pavement to vaulted roof thrills and vibrates; each sculptured image and pictured saint is vocal; and from on high the angels lend their voices, until the soul, 15 trembling on the wings of hope and love, is borne upward with this heavenly harmony, and, entranced in prayer, worships the Invisible alone.

LXXVII.

KENTUCKY BELLE.

BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.'

SUMMER of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone

away

Gone to the country town, sir, to sell our first load of

hay:

We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've

seen;

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Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen. "

Conrad he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle. How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell

Came from the Blue-grass country; my father gave her to me

When I rode North with Conrad, away from the Ten

nessee.

Conrad lived in Ohio-a German he is, you know— The house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row.

The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;

But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Ten

nessee.

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Oh for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! 15 Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is

still!

But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky

Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary 20 eye!

From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon,

Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon: Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all for-25 lorn;

Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn.

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, But moved away from the corn lands, out to this river shore

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The Tuscarawas it's called, sir-off there's a hill, you

see

And now I've grown to like it next best to the Ten

nessee.

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad

Over the bridge and up the road-Farmer Routh's little lad.

Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped

to say: "Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.

"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;

He sweeps up all the horses-every horse that he can find.

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen !"

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The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the∞ door;

The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;

Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man,

was gone.

Near, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping

on!

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar. "Kentuck!" I called-"Kentucky!"

ever so far!

She knew me

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I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,

And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.

As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a 5 sound

The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground

Coming into the turnpike out from the White-woman Glen

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.

As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in

alarm;

But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my

arm.

They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along—

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day;

Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away, To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the west,

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15

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And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop 25

to rest.

On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in

advance;

Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a

sidewise glance;

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