Its many thousand reverend breathing souls With gesture simultaneous; when proud man Like multitudinous marble, moveless stands With God communing, then does silence seem, In its unworded eloquence, sublime. Therein, doth Romish worship point rebuke To him who doth ignore it, for therein It rises to a majesty of praise O'erspanning huge cathedrals, for it makes The censer, candle, rosary, and book But senseless mockeries. So sunk the sun Till on its amber throne, like drapery doffed, Lay piled th' imperial purple. Then the stir Of an awakened world swept through the crowd, As forest leaves are wind-swept after lulls, And, with the sense of a renewing joy, The murmurous people turned them to their homes. MANILA, 1856. MY MARYLAND! THE SEPTEMBER RAID. They took thy boots, they took thy coats, My Maryland! And paid for them in 'Confed' notes, My Maryland! They gobbled down thy corn like goats, And rooted up thy truck like shoats, But then--they didn't get thy votes Or volunteers--my Maryland! A MERCHANT'S STORY. 'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.' CHAPTER V. On the cleared plot in front of the store were assembled, as I have said, about a hundred men, women, and children, witnessing a 'turkey match.' It was a motley gathering. All classes and colors and ages were there. The young gentleman who boasted his hundred darkies, and the small planter who worked in the field with his five negroes; the 'poor trash' who scratched a bare subsistence from a sorry patch of beans and 'collards,' and the swearing, staggering bully who did not condescend to do anything; the young child that could scarcely walk alone, and the old man who could hardly stand upright; the brawny field hand who had toiled over night to finish his task in time for 'de shootin;' and the well-dressed body servant who had roused 'young massa oncommon airly' for the same purpose; all, white, black, and yellow--and some neither white, black, nor yellow--were there; scattered over various parts of the ground, engaged in lounging, playing, drinking, smoking, chewing, chatting, swearing, wrangling, and looking on at the turkey match. A live turkey was fastened to an ordinary bean pole, in a remote quarter of the ground, and when I emerged from the cabin, seven or eight 'natives' had entered for 'a shot.' The payment of a 'bit,' 'cash down,' to Tom, who officiated as master of ceremonies, secured a chance of hitting the turkey's head with a rifle bullet at 'long distance.' Any other 'hit' was considered 'foul,' and passed for nothing. Whoever shot the mark took the prize, and was expected to 'treat the crowd.' As 'the crowd' seemed a thirsty one, it struck me that turkey would prove expensive eating to the fortunate shots; but they were oblivious to expense, and in a state of mind that unfitted them for close financial calculations.