Safely, through the skill of the chief, the chasm was passed, and they were beyond the reach of danger. All, then, after procuring some food, lay down to sleep, except a sentinel and the mother, who dug a grave with her own hands, in which to bury her child. This sad duty performed, she returned to the spot where her husband and his companions lay in deep slumber. It was not difficult for her to persuade the tired and sleepy sentinel to let her take his place, and soon she alone remained awake. Then stealthily approaching the spot where the father of her dead babe lay, she placed the muzzle of the piece she had taken from the sentinel within a few inches of his breast, and pulled the trigger. The ball passed through his heart! Here we have something of the reality attending the life of a “bold brigand.” A lawless robber and murderer is incapable of such a sentiment as the true love of a woman. This feeling lives only in the breast of the virtuous. And whenever the poet or the novelist represents a pirate or robber as loving faithfully and tenderly some beautiful, true-hearted woman, the reader may set it all down as mere romance. Such things are contrary to the very nature of things. They never exist in real life. True love of woman is an unselfish love; but the inordinate self-love of these men leads them so utterly to disregard the rights of others, as to commit robbery and murder. How, then, are they capable of loving any thing out of themselves? It is impossible. A bitter fountain cannot send forth sweet water. * * * * * BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. II. BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A. [Illustration: Resaca de la Palma.] ONCE again was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fife Called our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life: We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary night Had traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene of PALO ALTO’S fight— For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side, Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide. All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the field, They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield. One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay— Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray; But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood, Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood. When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a man And a father, sent them back before the onward march began— When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train, Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain— We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath, While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.