The roof of the house was formed of thin boards some four feet in length, doubled and overlapping to prevent leakage, and held in place, not by nails, but by long poles laid along the outside. Rapidly examining the roof, I soon found a place where some warping or springing of the pole outside enabled me to slip the boards aside until I could get my arm through, when board after board was quickly removed until the opening was large enough to allow me to pass out, and still the tide of the Captain's declamation flowed on louder and more fluently, and the half-drunken guerrillas clapped their hands and laughed and stamped in huge enjoyment of what seemed to them the most ridiculous of farces.

Reaching the outside, I was about to risk a leap from the low eaves into the darkness, when I caught sight of the top of the chimney out-lined against the sky. This was built outside the house, of sticks laid, like the logs of the house, interlocking at the corners, with the projecting ends allowed to remain; the whole securely smeared with clay on the inside, and having an almost regular taper from the ground upward. Clinging to these projecting corners, I descended almost as rapidly as if on a ladder. Arriving at the bottom, I paused a moment and listened. Inside I could still hear the Captain declaiming as vehemently as before, and the ribald laughter of his auditors, and outside I could distinctly see the watcher at the one window in that end of the house, gazing intently at the strange scene within. Even in that brief moment, with death all around me, I could not repress a feeling of admiration, almost amounting to awe, for that man, who, with the fatal noose hanging against his neck, utterly in the power of remorseless murderers, with such wonderful self-control sustained

Throwing myself flat on the ground, I crawled as rapidly as possible to the garden fence, and in its friendly shadow soon reached the road in front of the house. Here I had expected to find a sentinel, but the closest scrutiny failed to detect one, and quickly crossing the road, with an almost choking sense of freedom, I plunged into the dense forest on the other side. Once under this cover, I hurried directly to the spot where we had left our horses. They were both gone! Some one or more of the guerrillas, then, must be acquainted with our habits. But however this might be, there was now no alternative but to try to reach the post on foot, and that too in the shortest possible space of time; and nerving myself for the hazardous run, I picked my way back toward the road at a point lower down than where I had entered the forest. I had almost reached the roadside when my ear caught the sound of voices directly ahead and not far away, one of them evidently a negro's. Stealing to the edge of the wood, I could see dimly the form of a man on horseback. His companion I could not see, but soon heard enough to satisfy me that the persons were the guerrilla sentry and one of the negroes belonging to the place. The horseman was trying to make the negro tell what had become of old Harry. The answers of the black I could not hear, and in crouching and trying to steal closer my hand came in contact with a round club, evidently a piece of "cord-wood" dropped from some passing wagon, four feet long, of perhaps two inches diameter, round, smooth, and straight. My decision was taken on the instant; it was scarcely twenty feet from me to where the guerrilla sat on his horse, his attention drawn to the negro on the other side. Grasping the club firmly in both hands, I approached in a crouching posture till within a step or two, and then rising, with

a single blow, delivered with all the energy my desperate purpose could command, brought the man to the ground. To seize the reins, spring into the saddle, and, with spurs deep buried in the horse's flanks, plunge headlong down the narrow road, was the work of an instant. He was a noble horse, and I had no mercy; and so down that broken and dangerous road, in the thick darkness, we went like a whirlwind. It was a terrible ride; but a life worth half a dozen of my own might be saved by speed, and I spared nor horse nor self.

Half a mile down the road, passing over some moist ground, I thought I caught the faint clatter of hoofs, but from which direction I could not tell. Reaching the summit of a succeeding rise, I paused and listened. Yes there were horsemen, plainly—and approaching, too, on the road directly in front of me. It must be, too, a part of the gang who had surprised us at the house. And oh! horrible chance, I must lose precious moments in avoiding this new danger. Riding cautiously forward until the sound of horsemen moving rapidly came quite near, I withdrew into the edge of the forest and awaited their passage. Nearer and nearer came the troop, and at once I thought there was too much jingling and clatter for a guerrilla band on a night expedition, and presently came the sound of a deep, resonant voice

"Silence!-Close up!-Steady, men, steady!" How my heart leaped into my throat! It was my junior lieutenant, with a detachment of our own company! Plunging into the road, at the risk of being shot down, I stopped not to inquire how they came so opportunely near, but, making myself known to Lieutenant Winters, hurried them forward at the same reckless speed at which I had come. Reaching a corner of a field some distance from the house, we hastily threw down the fence and rode straight towards the door. A shot or two from the frightened marauders outside greeted us as we dashed up, but, heedless of all save what might be passing within, I threw myself from my horse, and, fol

lowed by half a dozen sturdy troopers, burst open the door.

Never shall I forget the scene. On the table, the noose about his neck, his arms pinioned tightly to his sides, his chest heaving from his quickened breathing, his forehead covered with sweat, pale, but erect and self-possessed even then, stood Captain Blake, and a little farther back, the widow, with uplifted finger and heaving bosom, with eager eyes and parted lips and whole face aflame with exulting light, while the sister, still kneeling in the half shadow, with clasped hands and uplifted face, sobbed "Thank God— Oh! thank God!"

With one exception, the hangman, the guerrillas escaped in the darkness and confusion. This one was captured as he was climbing through a rear window, and brought back at the moment I was releasing the Captain. A dangerous light gleamed for a moment in Blake's eyes as he saw him, but only for a moment, and waving his hand to the inquiring trooper in charge of him, he said, quietly: “Conduct him safely to the post, and turn him over to the proper officer." Then, leaning heavily on my shoulder, he said, faintly: "John, I'm faint and sick. See to the ladies: get me a canteen of brandy or whisky and let me lie down for half an hour."

Poor fellow, the tremendous mental strain of that forty minutes had almost broken him down. He had continued his forced declamation until a terrified negro rushed in and reported to the guerrillas that an apparition as tall as a forest tree had killed one of their guards and fled with his horse. A few minutes' search disclosed the insensible, bleeding body of one of their sentinels, and, admonished by this, the wounded man was sent away in care of two of the gang, and the remainder turned their attention to Captain Blake, who had remained, meanwhile, securely pinioned, in the keeping of the subsequently captured hangman. That functionary had already adjusted the noose, and was about to tip the table from under Captain Blake's feet, when his attention was arrested by a shot

or two outside, and the trampling of hoofs at the door.

Would you know how those hoofs happened to be so near? Well, old Harry, trundled so unceremoniously out of doors, had gone limping and grumbling away from the house, and making a long circuit into the pasture below, had there caught an old horse, too poor to tempt a guerrilla, and, without saddle or bridle, had ridden to the post through the deep darkness with all the speed he could command, while I had been crouching paralyzed in the loft of the house.

Old Harry is sitting, this drowsy afternoon, in the shade of the willows down my garden walk, calmly watching a little wicker carriage, in the contents whereof the erewhile widow and myself claim joint proprietorship.

Captain Blake and his wife live in the brown cottage over the way; and the Captain stoutly maintains to this day that he was terribly frightened that night, otherwise he could not have made so long and vehement a speech.

THE terms, civility, courtesy, courteousness, politeness-terms in common use, and nearly synonymous-are employed to designate a virtue of our social life, always important, though not always practiced, or properly appreciated. Pity-a tender emotion called forth by the sight of distress-is not courtesy, either in the extent of its sphere, or the kind of service it affords. We pity a man in the state of suffering or want, and extend to him the offices of charity: yet we should be courteous toward all men, and express the fact by amiable and kind attentions.

The elegant grace of mere manners upon which some people pique themselves, practicing it simply as a matter of art and personal distinction, is not true civility. It is quite often as hollow-hearted and cold as it is elegant and formal. A sailor may be as courteous as a king. The virtue does not consist in observing what are known as the rules of refined and polished life. If it did, it would not be practicable to all men. There is a vast amount of studied elegance among the higher classes that has not a single attribute of genuine courtesy.

Flattery, though famed for whispering sweet and pleasant words in one's ear, is notoriously as soulless as it is selfish and deceptive. It is a mere cheat, a false coin, a politic appeal to the imfirmities of others for the sake of gaining their good graces. It is simple hypocrisy, often fawn

ing at the feet of earthly greatness, and just as often becoming a servile and contemptible sycophancy. It always works for pay, and generally for the man who pays the best. Its winning words are very acceptable to a fool; but the moment its real motive is discerned, all men instinetively despise it. Flattery surely is not courtesy, even when it seems to be such.

There is an art of trade which may be practiced as a matter of commercial prudence, that should never be confounded with the virtue in question. A merchant, for example, may be very complaisant toward his customer: he is a perfect gentleman when standing behind the counter: his words are oily, and his manners wonderfully agreeable and gentle; and yet all this may be nothing but the mere art of business-the skill of an expert salesman, who knows how to work a good bargain out of his customer. His happy and attractive ways belong to his profession, and do not of necessity mark him in the other relations of life.

Personal friendship is a delicate and sacred tie by which companions are bound together; it naturally makes them mutually genial and amiable; yet we are to bear in mind that true courteousness is by no means limited to the circle of one's particular friends. It is as really due to the stranger whom one accidentally meets, and perhaps never meets again, as to the man whom he sees every day.

What, then, is true and genuine civility? We answer: First, it has the world for its theatre, being a virtue which all men may and should practice toward all men. Secondly, as to its essence, it consists in an amiable and kindly state of feeling toward humanity as such, being founded on a just appreciation of the rights and dignity of human beings. Thirdly, as to its expression, it consists in those little attentions and genial reciprocities, which, in the universal estimate of mankind, form good treatment. Fourthly, as a quality or trait of personal character, it is a habit of the mind, a fixed form of feeling and action that spontaneously shows itself on all appropriate occasions. Thus we define the virtue. And among the many reasons which ought to commend it to universal practice, we name the following.

Its cheapness. Not all men can do great things; yet here is a little thing, within the reach of all, and at a very small price. It does not cost much to be civil. The article is so cheap that no one is excusable for not having it. If we ask or answer a question, we can as well do it courteously as rudely. If we meet a neighbor in the street, it will cost nothing to give him the passing marks of a pleasant recognition. If a stranger seek information at our hands, it will take less effort to give it decently than it will to insult him. If we see another in an embarrassed and awkward position, evidently painful to himself, we may as well relieve him by some pleasant and easy word, as to look at him and perhaps make sport of him. Civility is the very cheapest of all virtues; requires but little time; demands no sacrifice of money; involves no fatigue; jeopards no interest; calls for no remarkable skill; interferes with nothing else which one is desirous of doing; indeed, is about as simple and easy as it is to breathe. This we think to be a very strong recommendation.

The frequency of its occasions. Splendid performances, even if one has the requisite capacity, will but occasionally find their appropriate opportunity. Acts of charity are in place only when the plea of want is heard. Many things in practical life

are exceedingly well in their time and place; yet their time and place are comparatively rare. Very different is it with the virtue of courtesy, since it always finds a complete and sufficient occasion in every man who speaks to us, or to whom we speak-in every person we meet, and ought to recognize with some little token of respectful attention. Such occasions constitute a very large part of the scenes of our daily lives; and in every one of them civility will always be in place. We need not reserve it for particular individuals or extra occasions, or deal it out sparingly lest the supply should be exhausted, or in some way the virtue lose its power by being made too common and familiar. It is an excellence that wears remarkably well, and always grows better by frequent use. While it can never be overworked or enfeebled by the multiplicity or variety of its occasions, it never passes out of date.

Its attractive moral beauty. All men admire it. All regard it as a personal charm far superior to tinsel or mere parade. With all it is popular, and in all awakens pleasant emotions. Writers upon taste tell us that the circle, and not the sharp angle, is the line of physical beauty; and nothing is more certain than that the circle of kindly feeling, naturally expressed, is also the line of moral beauty. Contrast it with the foaming ejaculations of anger, the pompous hauteur of pride, the cold and freezing mechanism of heartless formality, the stiffness and distance of repulsive dignity, the sourness of a morose and studied reticence, the pinings of bitter envy, or the wrinkles and frowns of a pouting jealousy; make this contrast as a simple spectator, and there will be no difficulty in determining which is most pleasing to others. Civility is really a very fine accomplishment, commanding at once the approving consideration of every observing eye. It is the most ornamental dress that man or woman ever wore, a genuine gracefulness, worth more, as the means of valuable impression, than all the silk and satin ever bought or sold. It compensates for defects, and even hides physical deformities and inferiorities. A

person who might otherwise be repulsive, may for this reason be very attractive and agreeable.

Its embellishment of other valuable qualities. Here, for example, is a man of splendid talents; one can listen to him with delight; his words and his thoughts are sublime; his logic seems almost omnipotent; but, alas! for him, and as much so for everybody else, he must be kept at a respectful distance. The moment we approach him, we feel the chill of his presence. He has no genial flow of feeling toward men. He is a fine scholar, who can think well and write well; but socially he is as hard as a flint. How much his talents would be improved by the grace of a generous and easy civility! One could then speak to him without being frightened, or feeling himself to be an intruder. His mental greatness would then be blended with delicate and beautiful hues. Intellect often fails of its highest mission simply for the want of this virtue, being too jagged and ill-tempered to make all its power felt. Some great men we can respect for their greatness; but to love them is utterly impossible.

Charity, though one of the prime virtues, may be practiced in such a dry, hard, austere, mechanical way, with such a total disregard of human sensibility, that one would almost dread to receive its favors. It may be positively rude, inflicting more pain than it relieves. Such charity wants oiling to soften its sharpness, and invest it with the gentle and soothing cordiality of a kind and agreeable manner. When we bestow gifts upon the needy, we should be careful not to curse those gifts by the manner of doing it. The manner of charity is often quite as important as its matter.

Moral integrity always commands our confidence and respect; yet there are some men, unquestionable as to their integrity, whose exterior deportment is so stern that no one can ever feel at home in their presence, or be familiar with them. There is a very serious defect in the play of their emotions. They are too rigid for the comfort of others. What they want, is more of the gentle

glow of good feeling-a deeper and more tender vein of sympathy with, and less of pure and naked sternness toward, human nature. This would adorn their integrity, and dress it in smiles, making them as companionable as they are virtuous, imparting a pleasing attraction to their virtue, and curing its apparent severity and harshness.

Civility thus improves all other forms of personal excellence, adding its own grace to everything which one has occasion to say or do. It renders "a superior, amiable; an equal, agreeable; and an inferior, acceptable." A needed rebuke that would sting the mind and stir its wrath, if rudely given, finds its way into the heart with great power when falling from kind and courteous lips. A snapping and snarling reformer is a very noisy man, generally loaded with bad passions and abusive epithets; yet his real power is not at all in proportion to his noise. Depravity is never profited by insults. Men who cannot speak the truth courteously, in the spirit of love, and with a good temper, had better close their lips till they can do so.

The personal profit of this virtue. Civility is a positive luxury to the man who practices it; always pleasurable at the time, and leaving no occasion for any after regrets. No one ever exchanged kind and obliging expressions with any human being, giving and receiving the little cordialities of good feeling, indulging in the genial sentiments of a simple and artless humanity, without an agreeable sense of satisfaction in his own soul. While doing so, one feels better, and then feels better for having done so. His social nature is pleasantly moved. He thus makes himself happy by courteously treating others, and in this way is most amply rewarded.

The indirect profit of the service will, in the course of one's life, prove anything but a trifle. Those with whom civility is a mere matter of policy, understand well its impression upon others, and its influence over others; they know that it is adapted to command their good feelings and good offices; they know that he