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THE RIDE OF JENNIE M'NEAL.--WILL CARLETON,

Paul Revere was a rider bold-
Well has his valorous deed been told;
Sheridan's ride was a glorious one--
Often it has been dwelt upon;
But why should men do all the deeds
On which the love of a patriot feeds?
Hearken to me, while I reveal
The dashing ride of Jennie M'Neal.
On a spot as pretty as might be found
In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground,
In a cottage, cozy, and all their own,
She and her mother lived alone.
Safe were the two, with their frugal store,
From all of the many who passed their door;
For Jennie's mother was strange to fears,
And Jennie was large for fifteen years;
With vim her eyes were glistening,
Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing;
And while the friends who knew her well
The sweetness of her heart could tell,
A gun that hung on the kitchen wall
Looked solemnly quick to heed her call;
And they who were evil-minded knew
Her nerve was strong and her aim was true.
So all kind words and acts did deal
To generous, black-eyed Jennie M'Neal.
One night, when the sun had crept to bod,
And rain-clouds lingered overhead,
And sent their surly drops for proof
To drum a tune on the cottage roof,
Close after a knock at the outer door
There entered a dozen dragoons or more.
Their red coats, stained by the muddy road,
That they were British soldiers showed;
The captain his hostess bent to greet,
Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat;
We will pay you well, and, if may be,
This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea;
Then we must dash ten miles ahead,
To catch a rebel colonel abed.
He is visiting home, as doth appear;,
We will make his pleasure cost him dear."
And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal,
Close-watched the while by Jennie M'Neal.
For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near,
Had been her true friend, kind and dear;

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And oft, in her younger days, had he
Right proudly perched her upon his knee,
And told her stories many a one
Concerning the French war lately done.
And oft together the two friends were,
And many the arts he had taught to her;
She had hunted by his fatherly side,
He had shown her how to fence and ride;
And once had said, “The time may be,
Your skill and courage may stand by me.”
So sorrow for him she could but feel,
Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M'Neal.
With never a thought or a moment more,
Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door,
Ran out where the horses were left to feed,
Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed,
And down the hilly and rock-strewn way
She urged the fiery horse of gray.
Around her slender and cloakless form
Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm;
Secure and tight a gloveless hand
Grasped the reins with stern command;
And full and black her long hair streamed,
Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed.
And on she rushed for the colonel's weal,
Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M'Neal.
Hark! from the hills, a moment mute,
Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit;
And a cry from the foremost trooper said,
" Halt! or your blood be on your head;
She heeded it not, and not in vain
She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein.
So into the night the gray horse strode;
His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road;
And the high-born courage that never dies
Flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes.
The pebbles flew from the fearful race;
The rain-drops grasped at her glowing face.
"On, on, brave beast !" with loud appeal,
Cried eager, resolute Jennie M'Neal.
" Halt!” once more came the voice of dread;
"Halt! or your blood be on your head !"
Then, no one answering to the calls,
Sped after her a volley of balls.
They passed her in her rapid flight,
They screamed to her left, they sereamed to her right;
But, rushing still o'er the slippery track,
She sent no token of answer back,

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Except a silvery laughter-peal,
Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M'Neal.
So on she rushed, at her own good will,
Through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill ;
The gray horse did his duty well,
Till all at once he stumbled and fell,
Himself escaping the nets of harm,
But flinging the girl with a broken arm.
Still undismayed by the numbing pain,
She clung to the horse's bridle-rein,
And gently bidding him to stand,
Petted him with her able hand;
Then sprung again to the saddle-bow,
And shouted, “One more trial now !"
As if ashamed of the heedless fall,
He gathered his strength once more for all,
And, galloping down a hill-side steep,
Gained on the troopers at every leap;
No more the high-bred steed did reel,
But ran his best for Jennie M'Neal.
They were a furlong behind, or more,
When the girl burst through the colonel's door,
Her poor arm helpless hanging with pain,
And she all drabbled and drenched with rain,
But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are,
And her eyes as bright as a blazing star,
And shouted, “ Quick! be quick, I say!
They come! they come! Away! away !"
Then sunk on the rude white floor of deal,
Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M'Neal.
The startled colonel sprung, and pressed
The wife and children to his breast,
And turned away from his fireside bright,
And glided into the stormy night;
Then soon and safely made his way
To where the patriot army lay.
But first he bent in the dim fire-light,
And kissed the forehead broad and white,
And blessed the girl who had ridden so well
To keep him out of a prison-cell.
The girl roused up at the martial din,
Just as the troopers came rushing in,
And laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan,
Saying, "Good sirs, your bird has flown.
"Tis I who have scared him from his nest;
So deal with me now as you think hest."
But the grand young captain bowed, and said,
* Never you hold a moment's dread.

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Of womankind I must crown you queen;
So brave a girl I have never seen.
Wear this gold ring as your valor's due;
And when peace comes I will come for you."
But Jennie's face an arch smile wore,
As she said, “There's a lad in Putnam's corps,
Who told me the same, long time ago;
You two would never agree, I know.
I promised my love to be true as steel,"
Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

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ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR.*-GEORGE LIPPARD.

*

Benedict Arnold sailed from our shores and came back Qo more. From that time forth, wherever he went, three whispered words followed him, singing through his ears into his heart-ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR.

When he stood beside his king in the House of Lordsthe weak old man whispered in familiar tones to his gorgeously attired General--a whisper crept through the thronged Senate, faces were turned, fingers extended, and as the whisper deepened into a murmur, one venerable lord arose and stated that he loved his sovereign, but could not speak to him while by his side, there stood-ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR.

He went to the theatre, parading his warrior form amid the fairest Aowers of British nobility and beauty, but no sooner was his visage seen than the whole audience rosethe lord in his cushioned seat, the vagrant of London in the gallery--they rose together, while from the pit to the dome echoed the cry—“ARNOLD, THE Traitor!"

When he issued from his gorgeous mansion, the liveried servant, that ate his bread, and earned it, too, by menial offices, whispered in contempt to his fellow lackey as he took his position behind his master's carriage—“ BENEDICT ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR."

One day, in a shadowy room, a mother and two daughters, all attired in the weeds of mourning, were grouped in a sad circle, cazing upon a picture shrouded in crape. A

* A rening, giving a vivid description of “ The Death-Bed of Benedict Arnold," will be found in No. 2 of this series.

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visitor now advanced; the mother took his card from the hands of the servant, and the darghters heard his name. ‘Go!” said that mother, rising with a flushed face, while a daughter took each hand-“Go! and tell the man that my threshold can never be crossed by the murderer of my son -by ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR."

Grossly insulted in a public place, he appealed to the company-noble lords and reverend men were there-and breasting his antagonist with his fierce brow, he spat full in his face. His antagonist was a man of tried courage. He coolly wiped the saliva from his cheek. “Time may spit upon me, but I never can pollute my sword by killingARNOLD, THE TRAITOR !"

He left London. He engaged in commerce. His ships were on the ocean, his warehouses in Nova Scotia, hi plantations in the West Indies. One night his warehouse was burned to ashes. The entire population of St. John's,accusing the owner of acting the part of incendiary to his own property, in order to defraud the insurance companies assembled in that British town, in sight of his very window they hung an effigy, inscribed with these words—“ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR.”

When the Island of Guadaloupe was retaken by the French, he was among the prisoners. He was put aboard a French prison-ship in the harbor. His money-thousands of yellow guineas, accumulated through the course of years, was about his person. Afraid of his own name, he called himself John Anderson, the name once assumed by John André. He deemed himself unknown, but the sentinel, approaching him, whispered that he was known and in great danger. He assisted him to escape, even aided him to secure his treasure in an empty cask, but as the prisoner, gliding down the side of the ship, pushed his raft toward the shore, that sentinel looked after him, and in broken English sneered--"ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR."

There was a day when Talleyrand arrived in Havre, hotfoot from Paris. It was in the darkest hour of the French Revolution. Pursued by the bloodhounds of the Reign of Terror, stripped of every wreck of property or power, Talleyrand secured a passage to America in a ship about to sail

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