The Colonel then rang a small bell, and a negro woman soon appeared.

'Sue,' he said, 'go to Aunt Lucy's and ask Scip to come here. Bring him

in at the front door, and, mind, let no one know he comes.'

The woman in a short time returned with Scip. There was not a trace of

fear or embarrassment in the negro's manner as he entered the room.

Making a respectful bow, he bade us 'good evening.'

'Good evening, Scip,' said the Colonel, rising and giving the black his

hand; 'let us be friends. Madam tells me I should forgive you, and I

do.'

'Aunt Lucy say ma'am am an angel, sar, and it am tru,--it am tru, sar,'

replied the negro, with considerable feeling.

The lady rose, also, and took Scip's hand, saying, '_I_ not only forgive

you, Scipio, but I _thank_ you for what you have done. I shall never

forget it.'

'You'se too good, ma'am; you'se too good to say dat,' replied the darky,

the moisture coming to his eyes; 'but I meant nuffin' wrong,--I meant

nuffin' dis'specful to de Cunnel.'

'I know you didn't, Scip; but we'll say no more about it;--good-by,'

said the Colonel.

Shaking hands with each one of us, the darky left the apartment.

One who does not know that the high-bred Southern gentleman considers

the black as far below him as the horse he drives, or the dog he kicks,

can not realize the amazing sacrifice of pride which the Colonel made in

seeking a reconciliation with Scip. It was the cutting off of his right

hand. The circumstance showed the powerful influence held over him by

the octoroon woman. Strange that she, his slave, cast out from society

by her blood and her life, despised, no doubt, by all the world, save by

him and a few ignorant blacks, should thus control a proud, self-willed,

passionate man, and control him, too, only for good.

After the black had gone, I said to the Colonel, 'I was much interested

in old Lucy. A few more such instances of cheerful and contented old

age might lead me to think better of slavery.'

'Such cases are not rare, sir. They show the paternal character of our

"institution." We are _forced_ to care for our servants in their old

age.'

'But have your other aged slaves the same comforts that Aunt Lucy has?'

'No; they don't need them. She has been accustomed to live in my house,

and to fare better than the plantation hands; she therefore requires

better treatment.'

'Is not the support of that class a heavy tax upon you?'

'Yes, it _is_ heavy. We have, of course, to deduct it from the labor of

the able-bodied hands.'

'What is the usual proportion of sick and infirm on your plantation?'

'Counting in the child-bearing women, I reckon about twenty per cent.'

'And what does it cost you to support each hand?'

'Well, it costs _me_, for children and all, about seventy-five dollars a

year. In some places it costs less. _I_ have to buy all my provisions.'

'What proportion of your slaves are able-bodied hands?'

'Somewhere about sixty per cent. I have, all told, old and young,--men,

women, and children,--two hundred and seventy. Out of that number I have

now equal to a hundred and fifty-four _full_ hands. You understand that

we classify them: some do only half tasks, some three-quarters. I have

_more_ than a hundred and fifty-four working men and women, but they do

only that number of full tasks.'

'What does the labor of a _full_ hand yield?'

'At the present price of turpentine, my calculation is about two hundred

dollars a year.'

'Then your crop brings you about thirty-one thousand dollars, and the

support of your negroes costs you twenty thousand.'

'Yes.'

'If that's the case, my friend, let me advise you to sell your

plantation, free your niggers, and go North.'

'Why so, my dear fellow?' asked the Colonel, laughing.

'Because you'd make money by the operation.'

'I never was good at arithmetic; go into the figures,' he replied, still

laughing, while Madam P----, who had laid aside her book, listened very

attentively.

'Well, you have two hundred and seventy negroes, whom you value, we'll

say, with your mules, "stills," and movable property, at two hundred

thousand dollars; and twenty thousand acres of land, worth about three

dollars and a half an acre; all told, two hundred and seventy thousand

dollars. A hundred and fifty-four able-bodied hands produce you a yearly

profit of eleven thousand dollars, which, saying nothing about the cost

of keeping your live stock, the wear and tear of your mules and

machinery, and the yearly loss of your slaves by death, is only four per

cent. on your capital. Now, with only the price of your land, say

seventy thousand dollars, invested in safe stocks at the North, you

could realize eight per cent.--five thousand six hundred dollars,--and

live at your ease; and that, I judge, if you have many runaways, or many

die on your hands, is as much as you really _clear_ now. Besides, if you

should invest seventy thousand dollars in almost any legitimate business

at the North, and should add to it, _as you now do_, your _time_ and

_labor_, you would realize far more than you do at present from your

entire capital.'

'I never looked at the matter in that light. But I have given you my

profits as they _now_ are; some years I make more; six years ago I made

twenty-five thousand dollars.'

'Yes; and six years hence you may make nothing.'

'That's true. But it would cost me more to live at the North.'

'There you are mistaken. What do you pay for your corn, your pork, and

your hay, for instance?'

'Well, my corn I have to bring round by vessel from Washington (North

Carolina), and it costs me high when it gets here,--about ten bits (a

dollar and twenty-five cents), I think.'

'And in New York you could buy it now at sixty to seventy cents. What

does your hay cost?'

'Thirty-five dollars. I pay twenty for it in New York,--the balance is

freight and hauling.'

'Your pork costs you two or three dollars, I suppose, for freight and

hauling.'

'Yes; about that.'

'Then in those items you might save nearly a hundred per cent.; and they

are the principal articles you consume.'

'Yes; there's no denying that. But another thing is just as certain: it

costs less to support one of my niggers than one of your laboring men.'

'That may be true. But it only shows that our laborers fare better than

your slaves.'

'I'm not sure of that. I _am_ sure, however, that our slaves are more

contented than the run of laboring men at the North.'

'That proves nothing. Your blacks have no hope, no chance to rise; and

they submit--though I judge not cheerfully--to an iron necessity. The

Northern laborer, if very poor, may be discontented; but discontent

urges him to effort, and leads to the bettering of his condition. I tell

you, my friend, slavery is an expensive luxury. You Southern nabobs

_will_ have it; and you have to _pay for it_.'

'Well, we don't complain. But, seriously, my good fellow, I feel that

I'm carrying out the design of the Almighty in holding my niggers. I

think he made the black to serve the white.'

'_I_ think,' I replied, 'that whatever He designs works perfectly. Your

institution certainly does not. It keeps the producer, who, in every

society, is the really valuable citizen, in the lowest poverty, while it

allows those who do nothing to be "clad in fine linen, and to fare

sumptuously every day."'

'It does more than that, sir,' said Madam P----, with animation; 'it

brutalizes and degrades the _master_ and the _slave_; it separates

husband and wife, parent and child; it sacrifices virtuous women to the

lust of brutal men; and it shuts millions out from the knowledge of

their duty and their destiny. A good and just God could not have

designed it; and it must come to an end.'

If lightning had struck in the room I could not have been more startled

than I was by the abrupt utterance of such language in a planter's

house, in his very presence, and _by his slave_. The Colonel, however,

expressed no surprise and no disapprobation. It was evidently no new

thing to him.

'It is rare, madam,' I said, 'to hear such sentiments from a Southern

lady--one reared among slaves.'

Before she could reply, the Colonel laughingly said,--

'Bless you, Mr. K----, madam is an out-and-out abolitionist, worse by

fifty per cent. than Garrison or Wendell Phillips. If she were at the

North she would take to pantaloons, and "stump" the entire Free States;

wouldn't you, Alice?'

'I've no doubt of it,' rejoined the lady, smiling. 'But I fear I should

have poor success. I've tried for ten years to convert _you_, and Mr.

K---- can see the result.'

It had grown late; and, with my head full of working niggers and white

slave-women, I went to my apartment.

The next day was Sunday. It was near the close of December, yet the air

was as mild and the sun as warm as in our Northern October. It was

arranged at the breakfast-table that we all should attend service at

'the meeting-house,' a church of the Methodist persuasion, located some

eight miles away; but as it wanted some hours of the time for religious

exercises to commence, I strolled out after breakfast, with the Colonel,

to inspect the stables of the plantation. 'Massa Tommy' accompanied us,

without invitation; and in the Colonel's intercourse with him I observed

as much freedom and familiarity as he would have shown to an

acknowledged son. The youth's manners and conversation showed that great

attention had been given to his education and training, and made it

evident that the mother whose influence was forming his character,

whatever a false system of society had made her life, possessed some of

the best traits of her sex.

The stables, a collection of one-story framed buildings, about a hundred

rods from the house, were well lighted and ventilated, and contained all

'the modern improvements.' They were better built, warmer, more

commodious, and in every way more comfortable than the shanties occupied

by the human cattle of the plantation. I remarked as much to the

Colonel, adding that one who did not know would infer that he valued his

horses more than his slaves.

'That may be true,' he replied, laughing. 'Two of my horses here are

worth more than any eight of my slaves;' at the same time calling my

attention to two magnificent thorough-breds, one of which had made

'2.32' on the Charleston course. The establishment of a Southern

gentleman is not complete until it includes one or two of these useless

appendages. I had an argument with my host as to their value compared

with that of the steam-engine, in which I forced him to admit that the

iron horse is the better of the two, because it performs more work, eats

less, has greater speed, and is not liable to the spavin or the heaves;

but he wound up by saying, 'After all, I go for the thorough-breds. You

Yankees have but one test of value--use.'

A ramble through the negro-quarters, which followed our visit to the

stables, gave me some further glimpses of plantation life. Many of the

hands were still away in pursuit of Moye, but enough remained to make it

evident that Sunday is the happiest day in the darky calendar. Groups of

all ages and colors were gathered in front of several of the cabins,

some singing, some dancing, and others chatting quietly together, but

all enjoying themselves as heartily as so many young animals let loose,

in a pasture. They saluted the Colonel and me respectfully, but each one

had a free, good-natured word for 'Massa Tommy,' who seemed an especial

favorite with them. The lad took their greetings in good part, but

preserved an easy, unconscious dignity of manner that plainly showed he

did not know that _he_ too was of their despised, degraded race.

The Colonel, in a rapid way, gave me the character and peculiarities of

nearly every one we met. The titles of some of them amused me greatly.

At every step we encountered individuals whose names have become

household words in every civilized country.[L] Julius Cæsar, slightly

stouter than when he swam the Tiber, and somewhat tanned from long

exposure to a Southern sun, was seated on a wood-pile, quietly smoking a

pipe; while near him, Washington, divested of regimentals, and clad in a

modest suit of reddish-gray, his thin locks frosted by time, and his

fleshless visage showing great age, was gazing, in rapt admiration, at a

group of dancers in front of old Lucy's cabin.

In this group about thirty men and women were making the ground quake

and the woods ring with their unrestrained jollity. Marc Antony was

rattling away at the bones, Nero fiddling as if Rome were burning, and

Hannibal clawing at a banjo as if the fate of Carthage hung on its

strings. Napoleon, as young and as lean as when he mounted the bridge of

Lodi, with the battle-smoke still on his face, was moving his legs even

faster than in the Russian retreat; and John Wesley was using his heels

in a way that showed _they_ didn't belong to the Methodist church. But

the central figures of the group were Cato and Victoria. The lady had a

face like a thunder-cloud, and a form that, if whitewashed, would have

outsold the 'Greek Slave.' She was built on springs, and 'floated in

the dance' like a feather in a high wind. Cato's mouth was like an

alligator's, but when it opened, it issued notes that would draw the

specie even in this time of general suspension. As we approached he was

singing a song, but he paused on perceiving us, when the Colonel,

tossing a handful of coin among them, called out, 'Go on, boys; let the

gentleman have some music; and you, Vic, show your heels like a beauty.'

A general scramble followed, in which 'Vic's' sense of decorum forbade

her to join, and she consequently got nothing. Seeing that, I tossed her

a silver piece, which she caught. Grinning her thanks, she shouted,

'Now, clar de track, you nigs; start de music. I'se gwine to gib de

gemman de breakdown.'

And she did; and such a breakdown! 'We w'ite folks,' though it was no

new thing to the Colonel or Tommy, almost burst with laughter.

In a few minutes nearly every negro on the plantation, attracted by the

presence of the Colonel and myself, gathered around the performers; and

a shrill voice at my elbow called out, 'Look har, ye lazy,

good-for-nuffin' niggers, carn't ye fotch a cheer for Massa Davy and de

strange gemman?'

'Is that you, Aunty?' said the Colonel. 'How d'ye do?'

'Sort o' smart, Massa Davy; sort o' smart; how is ye?'

'Pretty well, Aunty; pretty well. Have a seat.' And the Colonel helped

her to one of the chairs that were brought for us, with as much

tenderness as he would have shown to an aged white lady.

The 'exercises,' which had been suspended for a moment, recommenced, and

the old negress entered into them as heartily as the youngest present. A

song from Cato followed the dance, and then about twenty 'gentleman and

lady' darkies joined, two at a time, in a half 'walk-round' half

breakdown, which the Colonel told me was what suggested the well-known

'white-nigger' dance and song of Lucy Long. Other performances

succeeded, and the whole formed a scene impossible to describe. Such

uproarious jollity, such full and perfect enjoyment, I had never seen in

humanity, black or white. The little nigs, only four or five years old,

would rush into the ring and shuffle away at the breakdowns till I

feared their short legs would come off; while all the darkies joined in

the songs, till the branches of the old pines above shook as if they too

had caught the spirit of the music. In the midst of it, the Colonel said

to me, in an exultant tone,--

'Well, my friend, what do you think of slavery _now_?'

'About the same that I thought yesterday. I see nothing to change my

views.'

'Why, are not these people happy? Is not this perfect enjoyment?'

'Yes; just the same enjoyment that aunty's pigs are having; don't you

hear them singing to the music? I'll wager they are the happier of the

two.'

'No; you are wrong. The higher faculties of the darkies are being

brought out here.'

'I don't know that,' I replied. 'Within the sound of their voices, two

of their fellows--victims to the inhumanity of slavery--are lying dead,

and yet they make _Sunday_ 'hideous' with wild jollity, while they do

not know but Sam's fate may be theirs to-morrow.'

Spite of his genuine courtesy and high breeding, a shade of displeasure

passed over the Colonel's face as I made this remark. Rising to go, he

said, a little impatiently, 'Ah, I see how it is; that d---- Garrison's

sentiments have impregnated even you. How can the North and the South

hold together when even moderate men like you and me are so far apart?'

'But you,' I rejoined, good-humoredly, 'are not a moderate man. You and

Garrison are of the same stripe, both extremists. You have mounted one

hobby, _he_ another; that is all the difference.'

'I should be sorry,' he replied, recovering his good-nature, 'to think

myself like Garrison. I consider him the ---- scoundrel unhung.'

'No; I think he means well. But you are both fanatics, both 'bricks' of

the same material; we conservatives, like mortar, will hold you together

and yet keep you apart.'

'I, for one, _won't_ be held. If I can't get out of this cursed Union in

any other way, I'll emigrate to Cuba.'

I laughed, and just then, looking up, caught a glimpse of Jim, who

stood, hat in hand, waiting to speak to the Colonel, but not daring to

interrupt a white conversation.

'Hallo, Jim,' I said; 'have you got back?'

'Yas, sar,' replied Jim, grinning all over as if he had some agreeable

thing to communicate.

'Where is Moye?' asked the Colonel.

'Kotched, massa; I'se got de padlocks on him.'

'Kotched,' echoed half a dozen darkies, who stood near enough to hear;

'Ole Moye is kotched,' ran through the crowd, till the music ceased, and

a shout went up from two hundred black throats that made the old trees

tremble.

'Now gib him de lashes, Massa Davy,' cried the old nurse. 'Gib him what

he gabe pore Sam; but mine dat you keeps widin de law.'

'Never fear, Aunty,' said the Colonel; 'I'll give him ----.'

How the Colonel kept his word will be told in another number.

* * * * *

ACTIVE SERVICE; OR, CAMPAIGNING IN WESTERN VIRGINIA.

I have been to the war; I have seen armed secessionists, and I have seen

them run; but, more than that, I have seen _Active Service_. It was

_active_, and no mistake.

In April last, my country needed my services; I had been playing

soldier, and I felt it my duty to respond to the call of the President.

I did respond. I uncovered my head, raised my right hand, and solemnly

swore to obey the President of the United States for three months. The

three months have expired, and I am once more a free American citizen,

and for the first time in my life I know what it is to be _free_.

ACTIVE SERVICE! That's what the military men call it. I have often read

of it; I have heard men talk about it; but now I have seen it. I meet

people every day who congratulate me on my safe return, and say, 'I

suppose you are going again?' Perhaps I am.

It was a beautiful day when our company left home, and what a crowd of

people assembled to see us off! What a waving of banners and

handkerchiefs; what shouting and cheering; what an endless amount of

hand-shaking; how many 'farewells,' 'good-bys,' and

'take-care-of-yourselves,' were spoken; all of this had to be gone

through with, and our company run the gauntlet and nobody was hurt.

Going to war is no child's play, as many seem to suppose. Once sworn in

as a _private_, you become a tool, a mere thing, to do another's

bidding. I do not say this to discourage enlistments,--far from it. I am

only speaking the truth. 'Forewarned, forearmed.' If there is a hard

life upon earth, it is that of a common soldier; he may be the bravest

man in the army, he may perform an endless amount of daring deeds, but

it is seldom that he gains a tangible reward. He does all the fighting,

he performs all the drudgery, he is plundered by the sutler, he lives

on pork and hard-bread, but he gets none of the honors of a victory. As

Biglow says,--

'Lieutenants are the lowest grade that help pick up the coppers.'

I belonged to an artillery company. I joined this because somebody told

me I could ride. I wish I had that _somebody_ by the throat. The idea of

a man's _riding_ over the mountains of Western Virginia! I won't call it

ridiculous, for that's no name for it.

I will pass over the uninteresting part of the campaign, that of lying

in camp, as everybody now-a-days has ample opportunity to judge of camp

life, in the cities, and take the reader at once into 'active service,'

and show the hardships and trials, together with the fun (for soldiers

_do_ have their good times) of campaigning.

On the 29th day of May, 1861, we arrived at Parkersburgh, Va. It was my

first visit to the Old Dominion. We had been taught when youngsters at

school to regard Virginia as a sort of Holy Land, 'flowing with milk and

honey,' and the mother of all that is great and noble in the United

States, if not in the world. We were 'going South.'

It was at the close of a warm spring day that we landed there; the sun

was just sinking in the west as the boat rounded-to at the wharf. We

jumped ashore, and for the first time in our lives inhaled the 'sacred

atmosphere' of the so-called Southern Confederacy. All was bustle and

confusion; but we soon had our traps, _i.e._, guns, caissons and horses,

unloaded, and a little after dark were on the march. We proceeded a few

miles out of town, and at midnight halted, pitched our tents, stationed

guards, and all who were so fortunate as not to be detailed for duty

were soon sound asleep.

At Grafton, one hundred miles east of Parkersburgh, we were told there

was a party of some two thousand rebels. This then was the object of our

visit to Western Virginia, to drive these men east of the

mountains,--from whence most of them came,--and to protect the honor of

our flag in that portion of Virginia now known by the name of Kanawha.

At sunrise on the 30th, we marched to the depot of the north-western

branch of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and, after a hard half-day's

work in loading our guns, horses and wagons, stowed ourselves away in

cattle cars, and were once more ready for a start. As we rattled along

over the railroad, the scenery for the first few miles was beautiful,

and we began to think that Old Virginny was really the flower of the

Union. But a 'change soon came over the spirit of our dreams.'

After passing a small shanty, called Petroleum,--from the numerous

oil-wells in the vicinity,--we met with the first really hard work we

had seen since we began the life of a soldier. Here the rebels had burnt

one of the railroad bridges, and all hands had to 'fall in' and repair

damages. Never did men work with a better will. Slender youths, who, if

they had been told one month before, that on the 30th day of May, 1861,

they would be laying rails and cutting timber for Uncle Sam, for eleven

dollars a month, would have pitied their informant as insane, were here

working with a will that showed what a man can do if he only sets

himself about it. For two days and a night we toiled and ceased not, and

when, on the evening of the second day, we passed over the 'soldiers'

bridge' in safety, such a shout rent the air as I never heard before.

A few miles beyond the burnt bridge, the scenery began to change. In the

clear starlight, instead of beautiful streams and fine farms, we beheld

hills and mountains covered with an almost impenetrable growth of

underbrush, and large rocks hanging over our heads, ready to be hurled

down upon us by some unseen hand, and to crush our little handful of

men. On we went, at a snail's pace, till about ten o'clock, P.M., when

our joy was again turned to woe, for here too the dogs of Jeff Davis had

been doing their work, and had burnt another bridge. We waited until

morning, and then, after some hard swearing, were once more transformed

into 'greasy mechanics,' and before the sun went down had passed to the

'other side of Jordan' in safety.

Here began our first experience of the hospitality of the sons, or

rather daughters, of Virginia.

A small farm-house stood near the bridge, numerous cows were grazing in

the pasture close by, and everything denoted a home of comfort and

plenty. This, I thought, must be the home of some F.F.V., and I will

take a pail--or rather camp kettle--and 'sarah forth' to buy a few

quarts of milk. Wending my way to the house, I knocked at the door, and

instantly six female heads protruded from the window. Presently one of

them, an elderly woman, opened the door, and inquired what I wanted.

'Have you any milk to spare?' I said.

'I reckon,' replied the woman.

'I would like to get a few quarts,' I said, handing her my kettle. I

took a seat on the door-step, and wondered what these six women were

doing in this lonely spot. They evidently lived alone, for not a man was

to be seen around. The table was spread for dinner, six cups, six

plates, six spoons, and no more. I was about to ask for the man of the

house, when the old woman returned with my kettle of milk.

'How much?' I asked, as I thrust my hand deep into my pocket, and drew

forth one of the few coins it was my fortune to possess.

'Only four bits,' said the ancient female.

I thought milk must have 'riz' lately, but I paid the money and left.

From observations since taken, I infer these six women were 'grass

widows,' whose husbands had enlisted in the rebel army, and left them

behind to plunder the Union troops by selling corn-bread and milk for

ten times its value.

I took a seat on a log, and congratulated myself on the prospect of a

good dinner. By the aid of a stone I managed to crumble 'two shingles'

of hard bread into a cup of the milk, and then, with an appetite such as

I never enjoyed in _America_, sat to work. I took one mouthful, when,

lo! the milk was sour! Hurling cup and contents toward the hospitable

mansion, I fell back upon my regular diet of salt pork.

Leaving the Virginia damsels to plunder the next regiment of Federals

that came along, we were soon once more on our way, and on Saturday, the

1st of June, arrived at Clarksburgh. Here we learned that the rebels had

left Grafton and gone to Phillippi, some twenty miles back in the

country. We remained at Clarksburgh until Sunday morning, when, once

more stowing ourselves 'three deep' on flats and stock cars, we

proceeded as far as Webster. Here we left the railroad, and pursued the

rebels afoot.

Webster is a big name, and there we flattered ourselves we could get

some of the comforts of life. But once again we were doomed to

disappointment. Two stores, a dozen or so of shanties, and a secession

pole, make up this mighty town. Parkersburgh is a 'right smart place;'

Clarksburgh 'isn't much to speak of;' the only thing of interest about

it is the home of Senator Carlisle; but Webster is a little the worst

place I have ever seen. I am sorry to say, in the language of the great

man whose name it bears, 'It still lives.'

Observing a shanty on the summit of a small hill, with the words, 'Meals

at all hours,' over the door, I wended my way over sundry cow-paths and

through by-lanes towards it, until at last, fatigued, and with hands

torn and bleeding from catching hold of roots and bushes to keep myself

from falling, I arrived at the summit of the hill. A young woman stood

in the door-way of the shanty, and I asked her if I could obtain a

dinner.

'Yes,' she said. 'Walk in and take a cheer.' She shoved a three-legged

stool towards me, and I took it.

She was about eighteen years of age, and had a very pretty

face,--though it was thickly covered with a coating of the sacred

soil,--a musical voice, and a small hand. Her eyes sparkled like

fire-flies on a June night, and her hair hung in wavy ringlets over what

would have been an 'alabaster brow,' had it not been for the

superabundance of _dirt_ above mentioned. She was the only good-looking

woman I saw in Western Virginia.

I took a seat at the table, and from a broken cup drank a few swallows

of tolerable coffee. As for the edibles, 'twas the same old story,--corn

bread and maple molasses, fried pork and onions. I staid there perhaps

fifteen minutes, and learned from my hostess that Webster was, previous

to the war 'a right smart village,' but that the male inhabitants had

mostly joined the rebel army, then at Phillippi. She, different from

most women I met in Virginia, expressed sympathy for the Union cause. It

seemed so strange to find a _Union_ woman in that part of the country, I

was induced to ask if Webster had the honor of being her birth-place.

'Oh no,' she said; 'I was born in 'Hio.'

That solved the whole mystery. I willingly paid the 'four bits' for my

dinner; and, as a storm was coming on, made all haste back to the

railroad, where we were getting ready to march on Phillippi, distance

thirteen Virginian, or about twenty _American_, miles.

'Fall in, Company Q!' shouted the orderly. 'Numbers one, two, three, and

four, do so and so; five, six, seven, and eight, do this, that, and the

other!' So at it we went; and never in my life did I perform a harder

afternoon's work than on Sunday, the 2d of June, 1861. It was a warm,

sultry day, and our morning's ride in the cars had been dusty and

fatiguing; and when, about dusk, a heavy rain-storm set in and drenched

us to the skin, we were sorry-looking objects indeed.

Although we had been in service six weeks, we had but just received our

uniforms that morning. My pants, when I put them on, were about six

inches too long, and the sleeves of my blouse ditto. After marching all

night in the rain, my trowsers only came down as far as my knees; they

shrank two feet in twelve hours. Many of the men threw away their shoddy

uniforms after wearing them one day, as they were totally unfit for use.

They tore as easily as so much paper, and were no protection whatever

from the weather. Somebody, I don't pretend to say who, made a good

thing when he furnished them to the government. No doubt they were

supplied by some _loyal_ and _respectable_ citizen, who would not

knowingly cheat his country out of a penny! We have reaped a bountiful

harvest of such patriots during the past year. May the Lord love them!

At eleven o'clock on the night of the 2d of June we started for

Phillippi. It commenced raining about seven o'clock in the evening, and

we were all wet to the skin. The night was very dark, and the road,

though they called it a 'pike,' was one of the worst imaginable; it

wound 'round and round,'--

'It turned in and turned out,

Leaving beholders still in doubt

Whether the wretched muddy track

Were going South or coming back,'--

and seemed to run in every direction but the right one. It was a road

such as can be found only in Virginia. The mud was almost up to the hubs

of the wagon-wheels; the horses pulled, the drivers laid on the lash and

a string of oaths at the same time; the wind blew, and the rain came

down in torrents. More than once on that awful march did we lend a

helping hand to get the horses out of some 'slough of Despond.' Over the

mountains and through the woods we went, at the rate of about two miles

an hour. Many gave out and lay down by the wayside; and when at last

morning dawned, a more pitiable set of beings never were seen upon

earth. The men looked haggard and wan, the horses could hardly stand,

and we were in anything but a good condition for invading an enemy's

country.

At daylight we were within two miles of Phillippi. Col. (now General)

Lander was with the advance, and had discovered that the enemy were

ready for a retreat. Their baggage was loaded, and if we did not make

the last two miles at 'double-quick,' he was fearful we would be too

late to accomplish the object of the expedition. So the order was given,

'Double-quick!' and jaded horses and almost lifeless men rushed forward,

buoyed up with the prospect of having a brush with the rascals who had

given us so much trouble.

We had gone about a mile and a half, when, at a turn in the road, an old

woman rushed out from a log cabin, and, in a loud and commanding voice,

exclaimed,--

'Halt, artillery, or I'll shoot every one of you!'

Not obeying the order, she fired three shots at us, none of which took

effect. At the same time three men rushed from the back of the house

toward the rebel camp at the foot of the hill, shouting at the top of

their voices to give warning of our approach. A squad of our fellows

took after them, and soon overtook them in a corn-field, when they

denied coming from the house, and said they were out planting corn! A

likely story, as it was hardly daylight, and the rain was falling in

torrents. However, during the forenoon they took _oath_, and were set

free!

Past the log house we went at 'double-quick,' and in less time than it

takes to tell it, the artillery took position in a small piece of wood

on the summit of a hill overlooking the town. At once the order was

given, 'Action front!' and the first the rebels knew of our approach was

the rattling of canister among their tents. Out they swarmed, like bees

from a molested hive. This way and that the chivalry flew, and yet

scarcely knew which way to run. 'Bould sojer boys,' with nothing but

their underclothes on, mounted their nags bareback, and fled 'over the

hills and far away' towards Beverley, firing as they ran a few random

shots. Before the infantry reached the town most of them had made good

their escape, leaving behind, however, nearly all their baggage, a large

number of horses, wagons, tents, and about eight hundred stand of arms,

together with a nicely-cooked breakfast, which they had no idea they

were preparing for 'Lincoln's hirelings.'

We took about fifty prisoners, among them the man who wounded Col. (now

General) Kelley. They were retained until the next day, when the oath

was administered, and they were let loose to rejoin their companions in

arms. About four weeks after this, we had the pleasure of retaking,

several of these fellows; some of them, in fact, were taken three or

four times, each time taking the oath, and being set at liberty, and

each time, true to their nature--and Jeff Davis--immediately taking up

arms again against the government.

Phillippi, from any of the neighboring hills, or rather mountains,

presents a rather picturesque appearance. It was, previous to the war, a

place of about one thousand inhabitants. It boasts a good court-house, a

bank, and two hotels, and was by far the most civilized-looking town we

had then seen in Virginia. But, alas! what a change had come over its

once happy populace. When we entered it, not a dozen inhabitants were

left. We were told that Phillippi was the head-quarters of rebellion in

Western Virginia. Here was published the Barbour County _Jeffersonian_,

a rabid secession newspaper, now no more, for the press was demolished,

and the types thrown into a well. The editor had joined the rebel army a

few days before our arrival, and was among the loudest denunciators of

our government. He boasted he would shed the last drop of his blood (he

was very careful as to shedding the first) before he would retreat one

inch before the _Abolitionists_. We afterwards learned from some of his

men that he was among the first to mount his horse and run to the

mountains; the last that was seen of him he was going at lightning speed

toward Richmond, and in all probability _il court encore_,--he is

running yet.

We had taken possession of the town and most of the enemy's baggage and

equipments; still our commanding officer was not satisfied, neither were

the men. We had intended to completely surround the enemy and to cut off

every possible chance of his retreat. The attack was to have been made

at five o'clock, A.M.; but one column, that which marched from Grafton,

was about twenty minutes too late, and when at last it did make its

appearance, it entered town by the wrong road, having been misled by the

guide. The consequence was, the enemy retreated on the Beverley road,

where they met with little or no resistance. Our men were too much

fatigued to follow the fast-fleeing traitors, and most of them made good

their escape.

After the excitement of the attack, the men dropped down wherever they

stood, in the streets, in the fields, or in the woods, and slept soundly

until noon, the rain continuing to fall in torrents. But what was that

to men worn out with marching? I never slept better than when lying in a

newly-plowed corn-field, with the mud over my ankles, the rain pelting

me in the face, and not a blanket to cover me.

_Bang! bang! bang!_ and up I jumped from my bed of mud, thinking the

fight had again commenced. Somewhat bewildered, I rubbed the 'sacred

soil' from my eyes and looked about me. It was noon; the rain had

ceased, and from the constant sound of musketry, I supposed a battle was

then raging. But instead of fighting the 'secesh,' I soon found the

Indiana boys were making havoc among the fowls of the chivalry. They

fired too much at random to suit my taste, and I made tracks for a safer

abode. Beating a hasty retreat to the hill where my company was

stationed, I found a large crowd gathered around some of the captured

wagons, overhauling the plunder. And what a mixed-up mess! Old guns,

sabres, bowie-knives, pistols made in Richmond in 1808, old uniforms

that looked like the property of some strolling actor, and love-letters

which the bold chivalry had received from fair damsels, who all

expressed the desire that, their 'lovyers' would bring home, Old Abe's

scalp. These letters afforded great amusement to our boys, though it was

hard to read many of them, and were they put into print, Artemus Ward

would have to look to his 'lorrels.'

Bang! bang! bang! they kept on shooting till dark. It is useless to say

we had chickens for supper that night; and I would not be surprised if

the chicken crop of Phillippi and vicinity should be rather small for a

few years to come.

Wild rumors were running through the camp all day that the 'secesh' had

been reinforced, were ten thousand strong, and, with forty pieces of

cannon, would attack us that night. Some said they were commanded by

Gov. Wise, the lunatic, others by Beauregard, and some positively

asserted that Jeff Davis led the rebel forces himself. At all events, it

was pretty well settled that we were to be attacked forthwith. Our men

slept on their arms, but not a secesh appeared.

I, as usual, was on guard that night, and, feeling that a great

responsibility rested on my shoulders, was 'doubly armed.' A well-known

professor, a member of the same company as myself, was on the first

relief; I was on the second. I went on duty at ten o'clock, P.M., and

the professor kindly loaned me his revolver, and, in addition, soon

returned with an extra musket, a secession sabre, and one of the

captured pistols. Thus loaded down with swords, pistols, and muskets,

and guarding a six-pounder, I felt _tolerably_ safe. After walking up

and down my beat a few times, I found the two muskets began to feel

rather heavy, and the two sabres to be rather uncomfortable dangling

about my legs; and thinking that two revolvers and a _secesh_ pistol

would be all that I could use to advantage, I divested myself of the

extra equipments, and passed the residue of my 'two-hours' watch' in

committing to memory 'my last dying words,' for use in case the secesh

put an end to my existence.

Our colonel's name was Barnett; the countersign for the night was Buena

Vista. About eleven o'clock I observed a man coming towards me. 'Halt!'

I exclaimed; 'who goes there?'

'A _friendt_,' was the reply.

'Advance, friend, and give the countersign.'

The man walked towards me, and whispered in my ear 'Barnett's Sister!'

at the same time attempting to pass. Placing my bayonet close against

his breast, I ordered him to 'halt!' and called for the corporal of the

guard. The Dutchman--for such he was--begged and plead, but it was of no

use; I told him he was trying to 'run the guard,' and he must go to the

guard-house.

'Barnett's Sister! Barnett's Sister! Barnett's Sister!' shouted the

Dutchman. 'I know nothing about Barnett's Sister,' said I; 'stop your

noise, or you will rouse the camp.'

Just then, the officer of the guard came round. I stated the case to

him, and the man was taken to the guard-house. The next morning he was

released, and on inquiry at head-quarters it was found that he had the

password, but had confounded 'Buena Vista' with 'Barnett's Sister.' We

all enjoyed a good laugh over it, and ever after 'Barnett's Sister' was

the password for all who attempted to 'run the guard.'

We lay at Phillippi nearly six weeks. Every day or two an alarm would

occur, the long roll would beat, and the men would form in line of

battle. It is needless to say the alarms were all false. There are

always hundreds of rumors in every camp, and ours was not an exception.

But after the first week we paid little attention to the many wild

reports which were in circulation. Although Gov. Wise had said he would

take dinner in Phillippi or in ---- on the fourth of July;

notwithstanding Gov. Letcher had issued a proclamation warning us to

leave the State in twenty-four hours or he would hang every one of us;

although a proclamation dated Staunton, Va., June 7th, 1861, stated to

the people of Western Virginia that their little band of _volunture (?)_

had been forced from Phillippi by the ruthless Northern foe, led on by

traitors and tories, and that Jeff Davis and John Letcher had sent to

their aid a force of cavalry, artillery and rifles; and although the

proclamation wound up by saying To-morrow an ARMY will follow! we felt

tolerably safe at Phillippi. We had determined, if the aforesaid army

did appear, it should have a warm reception.

Every day or two scouting parties went out and captured a few stray

'Bush-Whackers,' to whom the oath was administered, and they were

released. Days and weeks passed, but the army of Davis, Beauregard, and

Co., failed to appear. They had, however, congregated and entrenched

themselves at Laurel Hill, about thirteen miles east of Phillippi.

We were reinforced from time to time, until our force numbered some

forty-five hundred men, when Gen. McClellan determined to rout the enemy

from Laurel Hill and Rich Mountain. How well he succeeded, history will

tell.

On the night of the 6th of July, we left Phillippi for Laurel Hill,

starting at midnight. The road was rather rough, but much better than we

expected to find it. When we were within about five miles of the enemy's

camps; we passed a toll-gate, where an old woman came to the door to

'collect toll.' Some of our boys stopped at the house to get a drink of

water, and asked the old lady how far it was to camp,--meaning the rebel

camp. 'About four miles,' she said, 'but you can't get in without a

pass.'

The artillery was just then passing her door; the boys pointed to that,

and told her 'they thought they had a pass that would take them in.'

'Oh!' she exclaimed, as the thought struck her that we were Federals,

'you won't find it as easy work as you did at Phillippi; they're going

to fight this time.'

On our return home this same woman was at the door, but she didn't

demand _toll_ this time. 'Well, old lady,' said one of our fellows,

'what do you think _now_ about the fighting qualities of your men?'

'They who fight and run away,

Will live to fight another day,'

she exclaimed, and, slamming the door, vanished from sight, I trust

forever.

At daylight we drove in the rebel pickets at Laurel Hill. We were within

a mile and a half of their main camp, and halted there to await orders

from Gen. McClellan, before beginning the attack. He was advancing on

the enemy at Rich Mountain and Beverley.

We threw a few shells into the rebel camp, producing great consternation

among their men and horses. For four days we kept up skirmishing, but on

the fifth day it rained, and little was done. All were anxious to

commence the attack, but, as we had heard nothing from Gen. McClellan,

all had to 'wait for orders.' That night the enemy, hearing of the

Federal victory at Rich Mountain, and the occupation of Beverley by

McClellan, and evidently thinking himself in a 'bad fix,' retreated from

Laurel Hill toward St. George. In the morning our forces took possession

of his camp and fortifications, and part of our column pursued the

flying forces, overtaking them at Cornick's Ford, where a sharp

engagement ensued, which resulted in a total rout of the rebels, and the

death of Gen. Garnett. Only a portion of his army escaped over the

mountains to Eastern Virginia.

So hasty was the retreat from Laurel Hill, that the enemy left behind

all the sick and wounded, telling them the Union troops would kill them

as soon as they took possession of their camp. A large number of tents,

a quantity of flour, and a few muskets, fell into our hands. The

fortifications at Laurel Hill were strong, and evidently planned and

constructed by men who understood their business.

Among the numerous letters which we found in the rebel camp, was one

written to one of the Richmond papers, during the _siege_ of Laurel

Hill. In that part of the letter which was intended for publication, the

writer said:--

'The Yankees have at last arrived, about ten thousand strong. For the

past two days we have had some sharp skirmishing, during which time we

have killed one hundred of the Hessians. We have, as yet, lost but one

man.'

In a _private note_ to the editor, the writer adds:--

'I guess the Yankees have got us this time. There is a regiment here who

call themselves the Indiana Ninth, but they lie,--they are regulars.

They have got good rifles, and they take good aim. If it wasn't for

this, we would attack them.'

This little item shows how the masses of the Southern people are

deceived. Through the medium of the press they are made to believe they

are gaining great victories, and repulsing the 'abolitionists' at every

step, killing hundreds of our men, and losing none of their own. Our

total loss at Laurel Hill was six men. The rebel loss, as near as could

be ascertained, was forty. The rebel leaders know they are playing a

game for life or death, and so long as they can keep in power by

deceiving the people, just so long will this rebellion continue. Could

the _truth_ be forced upon the people of the South, the rebellion would

go down as quickly as it rose.

Many laughable incidents occurred while we were skirmishing with the

enemy at Laurel Hill. We received a newspaper containing the message of

President Lincoln. One of the Indiana boys, thinking it might do the

secesh good to hear a few loyal sentiments, mounted a stump, paper in

hand, and exclaimed, 'I say, secesh, don't you want to hear old Abe's

message?' He then commenced reading, but had proceeded only a short way,

before 'ping, ping' came the rifle balls around the stump; down jumped

Indiana, convinced that reading even a President's message amidst a

shower of bullets isn't so agreeable, after all.

We staid at Laurel Hill about two weeks. The enemy had been completely

routed from that part of Virginia, and our term of enlistment having

expired, our thoughts began to turn homeward. That ninety days'

soldiering was the longest three months we ever experienced. It seemed

an age since we had tasted a good meal, and all were anxious to once

more cross the Ohio, and see a civilized country. The long looked-for

order came at last, ''Bout face!' and we were on our homeward march. A

more jovial, ragged, dirty, and hungry set of men, were never mustered

out of service. We reached Camp Chase at Columbus, Ohio, about the last

of July, and as each man delivered up his knapsack and etceteras, he

felt as if a 'great weight' had been taken from his shoulders. We were

once more free men; no one could order us about, tell us where we should

or where we should not go. There was no more touching of hats to upstart

lieutenants and half-witted captains or colonels. We could go where we

liked, and do as we pleased, and not be reported, or sent to the

guard-house. If my memory serves me aright, we _did_ do pretty much as

we pleased; in other words, for two days, 'we made Rome howl!'

What we saw of Western Virginia and its inhabitants left anything but a

favorable impression on our minds. The country is wild and romantic, but

good for little or nothing for farming purposes. The houses are mostly

built of logs, being little more than mere huts, and around each of

these 'mansions' may be seen at least a dozen young 'tow-heads,' who are

brought up in ignorance and filth. The inhabitants are lazy and

ignorant, raising hardly enough to keep starvation from their doors.

School houses are almost unknown; we did not see one in the whole course

of our march; the consequence is, not more than one in ten of the

population can read or write. And the few who 'can just make out to

spell' are worse off than their more ignorant brethren.

'A little learning is a dangerous thing.'

And these people know just enough to make them _dangerous_. They have

read in some of their county newspapers that Vice-President Hamlin is a

negro, and that Lincoln is waging this war for the purpose of liberating

the slaves and killing their masters. This they believe, and any amount

of reasoning cannot convince them to the contrary. It seems to be enough

for them to know that they are _Virginians_; upon this, and this alone,

they live and have their being. They are by far the most wretched and

degraded people in America,--I had almost said in the world. The women,

if possible, are worse than the men; they go dressed in a loose, uncouth

manner, barefooted and bareheaded; their principal occupation is chewing

tobacco and plundering Union troops by getting ten prices for their

eggs, butter, and corn bread. And these are the people our children--and

their fathers before them--have been taught to regard as the true

_chivalry_ of America! The people of the United States are beginning to

see that Virginia and her sons have been greatly over-estimated. That

Virginia has produced true and great men, no one will deny. There are a

few such still within her borders; but, taking her as a whole, the

picture I have drawn is a true one.

By my soldiering experience I learned some things which it would have

been impossible to learn had I never 'gone for a soger.' First, I

ascertained--shall I say from my _personal_ experience?--that a man

dressed in soldier-clothes can stand twice as much bad liquor as one

clothed in the garb of a citizen. Secondly, that to be a good soldier a

man should be able to go at least forty-eight hours without eating,

drinking, or sleeping, and then endure guard-duty all night in a

drenching rain, without grumbling or fault-finding. Thirdly, I _think_ I

have discovered that the martial road to glory '_is a hard road to

travel_.'

* * * * *

A CABINET SESSION.

_The President: Secretaries Seward, Chase, Bates, Smith, Blair and

Welles. Enter Mr. Stanton._

_Mr. Lincoln._ Gentlemen, I officially present Mr. Stanton!

[_Mr. Stanton, bowing with graceful dignity, seats himself at the

table._]

_Mr. Seward (breaking the momentary pause in his jocular way)._

Remember, Mr. Secretary of War, you are now in the old chair of Floyd

and Davis: and sit thee down as if on nettles.

_Mr. Chase._ Aye; but out of the 'nettle danger' pluck thou 'the flower

safety.'

_Mr. Stanton (with emphasis)._ Believe me, I appreciate not so much the

honor as the responsibilities of my new position. I claim a good omen,

for, as I turned just now towards the gate, a little boy, seated upon

one of the granite blocks for the new building hereabout, trolled out as

my salutation the lines of the national air,--

'Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,

And this be our motto, In God is our trust.'

_Mr. Welles._ Amen!

_Mr. Bates._ I suppose you passed not a few interesting hours in this

room at the twilight of Mr. Buchanan's day, whilst holding _my_

portfolio?

_Mr. Stanton._ Too momentous to be called by _me_ interesting.

Posterity, reading, will say _that_. And those twilight hours, as you

felicitously term them, were followed by anxious vigils. But these

belong to confidences.

_Mr. Lincoln (abruptly and familiarly)._ Talking of confidences, what do

you think of the news about Zollicoffer?

_Mr. Stanton._ It appears reliable, and is a most providential success.

Eastern Tennessee was tending to the position which Lucknow sustained

towards the Indian rebellion. It is now relieved, and a fortnight or so

will bring intelligence that the whole of it has practically joined

forces to Western Virginia. I regard it as of the highest importance to

prove, by industrious acts, that we recognize and reward the sufferings

of these American Albigenses in their Cumberland fastnesses. How grandly

would swell the old Miltonian hymn, properly paraphrased, when a brigade

of the loyal Tennessians may sing

'Avenge, Columbia, thy slaughtered hosts, whose bones

Lie scattered on the Western mountains cold,'

and so forth!

_Mr. Lincoln._ Now, you are stepping into Seward's province. _He_ is the

poet of my cabinet!

_Mr. Seward._ Granted for the argument: but there is more truth than

poetry in what our new brother has just said. Throughout how many weary

months have those brave thousands who voted against secession awaited

the crack of our rifles and our cannon-smoke--true music and sacred

incense to them.

_Mr. Blair (practically)._ Next to the border States we must take care

of the newspapers.

_Mr. Welles._ Ah, those newspapers: bothersome as urchins in a nursery,

and yet as necessary to the perfect development of life's enjoyment.

_Mr. Chase._ Well said for the navy. But what do you say of the

magnificent Neckars, whose monied articles from Boston to Chicago would

swamp the treasury in a week, if they were believed in?

_Mr. Lincoln._ Being born and raised so far from the great metropolitan

centres, I don't seem to take to newspapers so kindly as the rest of you

do.

_Mr. Stanton._ With great respect to your Honor (as we say in court), I

deem it a great mistake to neglect newspaper suggestions, however

provincial. 'Do you hear (as Hamlet says), let them be well used; for

they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time.' And your

metropolitan editor, after all, follows the bent of the public opinion

of the provinces as he scissors it from his thousand and one exchanges.

The village or country editor has time to mix among the people, and

hears them talk to reproduce it artistically. The city editor finds

little time for this. Besides, there _is_ very little of reliable public

opinion amid cities. The American mind is styled fickle; so it may be in

the great marts. From _them_ come your sensations and spasms. The

interior is more stable, and less swayed by impulses. Aggregate a

hundred county editorials all over the North, then strike an average,

and you will find the product in the last big journal. The misfortune of

Washington social life is that we walk in it over a circle. Hither come

'needy knife-grinders,' and axe-sharpeners, and place-hunters, who say

what they think will be agreeable to the ears of power. But the other

kind of mails, presided over by Mr. Blair, bring us wholesome, although

sometimes disagreeable, truths. They are worth attending to, Mr.

President. Let us 'strike,' but let us 'hear.'

_Mr. Seward._ In the matter of newspapers, my son Fred and I divide

reading. He distils the metropolitan gazettes, and I those of England

and France. Then we exchange commodities at breakfast time. Fred, having

been an editor, can boil down the news very rapidly, and so put its

essence into our coffee-pot. The foreign journals, however, have so much

in them that is dissimulative and latent, they require more care and

discernment. Mr. Hunter aids me in dissecting them.

_Mr. Lincoln._ You are the son of an editor, Montgomery; how do you

stand on this subject of Colfax's bill to carry all the papers in your

mails? The rebel postmaster-general, in _his_ report, made, you

remember, an elaborate argument to justify the Jeff Davis law, which

forbids the sending of newspapers and periodicals by expressmen.

_Mr. Blair._ When Colfax will accept as an amendment a prohibition of

telegrams, and the obliging our mails to transmit _all_ intelligence,

then I will consider of his views.

_Mr. Smith._ Well said; as good an extract that from the last edition of

Blair's rhetoric as could be wished for.

_Mr. Chase._ Or in the Tribune satires of Horace! But let me ask Mr.

Blair what he thinks of a newspaper tax.

_Mr. Blair._ Very favorably. I am for a mill stamp on every paper,

obliging every ten readers to pay the government one cent.

_Mr. Stanton._ Mr. Secretary of the Interior, what is the average

circulation of newspapers in the loyal section?

_Mr. Smith._ A thousand million.

_Mr. Chase_ (rapidly computing). Which on Mr. Blair's proposition would

yield a million dollars revenue.

_Mr. Welles._ And support the government at our present rate of

expenditure _for one day!_

_Mr. Seward._ The public would bear half a cent on each paper. The

publisher could make his readers insensibly pay the tax, and improve

both paper and issue by receiving another half cent: and so add one cent

of charge per copy.

_Mr. Chase._ Which would yield a revenue of five millions per year.

_Mr. Lincoln._ Would the people stand such a charge?

_Mr. Stanton (good humoredly)._ Will our friend the Secretary of State

smoke fewer cigars when you come to tax tobacco?

_Mr. Welles (naïvely)._ But newspaper reading is not a vice.

_Mr. Bates._ Be not so sure of that. The passion for newspapers excites

the minds of the whole republic. Now-a-days your servant reads the news

as he works. The clergy peruse the Sunday extras, and the

crossing-sweeper begs your worn-out copy instead of a cigar-stump.

_Mr. Blair._ Yet Gen. McClellan has not read a newspaper in three

months.

_Mr. Lincoln._ The subject brings to my mind a good old parson in

Springfield who used to complain that the _Weekly Republican_ was as bad

as himself. He was preaching his old sermons over and over again with

new texts. Come to find out, he had a waggish grandson who for three

previous weeks had neatly gummed the fresh date over the old one, and

the dear divine had been perusing the same paper as many times.

_(Omnes laughing heartily.)_

_Mr. Stanton._ Talking of General McClellan,--I had my first engagement

with him last night at one o'clock.

_Mr. Welles (startled)._ One o'clock! No wonder he has had typhoid

fever.

_Mr. Lincoln._ I think he is napping it now. He has a wonderful facility

at the sleep business. Forty winks seem to refresh him as much as four

hours do other people. At my last levee, according to the newspapers, he

and his wife retired early. _He_ went up stairs and napped for two

hours, desiring to see me for half an hour alone afterward. Then he

spent several hours at the topographical bureau, hunting for some old

maps which he insisted had been there since the Creek campaign. He was

rewarded for his industry by finding also an admirable map and survey of

the situation around New Orleans.

_Mr. Seward._ The General is a believer in Robert Bruce's spider. The

American spider's-web didn't reach Richmond in July, nor Columbus in

November, but McClellan has kept on busily spinning.

_Mr. Blair._ Can any one tell me what is the General's platform?

_Mr. Stanton._ I can. Long before I dreamed of being here, he told me.

It is in three words.

_Mr. Lincoln._ That's the shortest I ever heard of next to that of the

English parson--'What _I_ say is orthodox, what I don't believe is

heterodox.'

_Mr. Smith._ But the three words?

_Mr. Seward._ Cæsar's was in these words: _Veni, vidi, vici_.

_Mr. Stanton._ It is to be fervently hoped _they_ will become the Latin

translation of his own platform. McClellan's is, 'TO RETRIEVE BULL RUN!'

_Mr. Lincoln (laughing)._ Then, if the General told you that, he is a

plagiarist: for that is _my_ platform. When he was made commander here,

he asked me what I wanted done. Said I, 'Retrieve Bull Run.' He said he

would, and turned to go. I jocularly added, 'But can't you tell us how

you are going to do it?' He mused a moment, and then said, 'I must work

it out algebraically, and from unknown quantities produce the certain

result. "Drill" shall be my "_x_" and "Transportation" my "_y_" and

"Patience" my "_z_." Then _x_ + _y_ + _z_ = success.' And now that Mr.

Stanton is here, I doubt not the slate is ready for the figuring.

_Mr. Stanton._ Thank you, Mr. President, for the compliment. May it

prove a simple equation.

_Mr. Chase (with energy)._ Now we call for your platform, Mr. Secretary

of War.

_Mr. Stanton (gracefully bowing)._ The President's--yours--_ours

(looking all around)_.

_Mr. Seward._ But the allusion is a proper personal one, nevertheless.

Remember court-martial law--the youngest always speaks first!

(_Omnes compose themselves in a listening attitude._)

_Mr. Stanton._ First and foremost, I believe slavery to be the _casus

belli_. To treat the _casus belli_ above and beyond all other

considerations I hold to be the duty of the true commander-in-chief: as

the surgeon disregards secondary symptoms and probes the wound. I would

treat this _casus belli_ as the Constitution allows us to treat it--not

one hair's breadth from the grand old safeguard would I step. Under the

Constitution I believe slavery to be a purely local institution. In

Louisiana and Texas, a slave is an immovable by statute, and is annexed

to the realty as hop-poles are in the law of New York. In Alabama and

Mississippi, the slave is a chattel. In the first-named States he passes

by deed of national act and registration; in the other, by simple

receipt or delivery. Thus even among slave States there is no uniform

system respecting the slave property. To the Northern States the slave

is a person in his ballot relation to congressional quota and

constituency, and also an apprentice to labor, to be delivered up on

demand. The slave escaping from Maryland to Pennsylvania is not to be

delivered up, nor cared about, nor thought about, until he is demanded.

Liberty is the law of nature. Every man is presumed free in choice, and

not even to be trammeled by apprenticeship, until the contrary is made

clearly to appear. One man may be a New York discharged convict, for

instance--an unpardoned convict. He emigrates southward, he obtains

property, according to local law, in a slave. The slave escapes to New

York. The convict--unpardoned--master enters the tribunal there on his

demand. Quoth the escaped apprentice, producing the record of the

conviction, 'Mr. Claimant, you have no standing in court. Your civil

rights are suspended in this State until you are pardoned. You are _not_

pardoned, therefore I will not answer aye or no to your claim, until you

are legitimately in court, and recognized by the judges.' I take it that

plea would avail. And if the crier wanted to employ a person to sweep

the court-room the next moment, he could employ that defendant to do it.

There is not a man in the rebel States (_whom we publicly know of_) who

has a standing under the Constitution regarding this slavery question.

By his own argument he lives in a foreign country; by our own argument

he is not _rectus in curia_. Were I an invading general and wanted

horses, I would decoy them from the rebels with hay and stable

enticements. If I wanted trench-diggers, camp scullions, or

artillerists, or pilots, or oarsmen, or guides, and, being that general,

saw negroes about me, I should press them into my service. Time enough

to talk about the rights of some one to possess the negroes by better

claim of title to service when that somebody, with the Constitution in

one hand and stipulation of allegiance in the other, demands legal

possession. Even the fugitive slave is emancipated practically whilst in

Ohio, and whilst not yet demanded. Rebel soldiers daily leave their

plantations and abandon their negroes. _Pro tem_, at least, the latter

are then emancipated. Let them, when within Our lines, continue

emancipated.

_Mr. Welles._ Would you arm them?

_Mr. Stanton._ Yes, if exigencies of situation so demanded. The

beleaguered garrison at Lucknow armed every one about the place--natives

or not, servants or masters. Did General Washington spare the whisky

stills in the time of the insurrection in Western Virginia when they

were in his way? Yet the stills were universally agreed to be property,

and were not taken by due process of law. Shall we fight a rebel in

Charleston streets, and at the same time protect his negro by a guard in

the Charleston jail?

_Mr. Blair._ But what instructions would you give to the soldiers about

this _casus belli_?

_Mr. Stanton._ None at all. The soldier should know nothing about _casus

belli_. General Buell answered the correspondent well when he said, 'I

know nothing about the cause of this war. I am to fight the rebels and

obey orders.' Cries a general to a subaltern--'Yonder smokes a

battery--go and take it.' Do we issue specific instructions to the

troops about the women, the children, the chickens, the forage, the

mules-persons or property--whom they encounter? The circumstances and

the exigencies of the situation determine their conduct. A household

mastiff who will pin a rebel by the throat when he passes his kennel,

flying from pursuit, is just as serviceable as would prove a loyal

bullet sped to the rebel's brain. I believe that the acknowledged fact,

the necessary fact, that wherever our army advances, emancipation

practically ensues, will carry more terror to the slave-owner than any

other warlike incident. But I would have them understand that this

result is not our design, but a necessity of _their_ rebellion.

_Mr. Bates._ You are like the last witness upon the stand--subjected to

a vigorous cross-examination upon everything gone before. Have you ever

thought what is to be the upshot of the contention?

_Mr. Stanton._ Restoration of the Union!

_Mr. Bates._ Aye, but how to be brought about? Are not the pride and the

obstinacy growing stronger every day at the South?

_Mr. Stanton._ 'Men are but children of a larger growth.' Who of us has

not conquered pride and obstinacy in the nursery? I have seen the boy of

a mild-tempered father fairly admire the parent when he broke the truce

of affection and vigorously thrashed him. The large majority of the

Southern people have been educated to believe the men of the North

cowardly, mean, and avaricious. Cowardly, because they persistently

refused the duel. Mean, because all classes worked, and there seemed

among them no arrogance of birth. Avaricious, because they crouched to

the planters with calico and manufactures, or admired their bullying for

the sake of their cotton.

And the great masses of the South have been and are learning how the

present leaders have duped them upon all these points. They have

discovered we are not cowards. Every prisoner, from the chivalric

Corcoran to the urchin drummer-boy at Richmond who spat on the sentinel,

has afforded proof of courage and fortitude, whilst thousands and

thousands of people have secretly admired it. The very death vacancies

at family boards throughout the plantations perpetually remind the

Southrons that _we are not_ cowards in fight. They have learned, too,

that we are neither mean nor avaricious, when the millionaire merchant,

whom they knew two years ago, cheerfully accepts the poor man's lot of

to-day; or when they behold all classes without one murmur hear of a

million dollars per day being spent on the war, and then _clamor to be

taxed_! If they perceive the negroes leaving them, they at once also

perceive that in loyal Maryland, loyal Virginia, loyal Kentucky and

loyal Missouri,--in Baltimore, St. Louis, and Louisville,--the slaves

under local laws are protected to their owners. Thus the most stupid

will reason, It is our own act which has placed in jeopardy this our

property. With a restored Union, Georgia and Louisiana must be as

Maryland and Kentucky continued even in the midst of camps. Who, during

the acme of the French revolution, could have believed that the people

of Paris would so soon and so readily accept even despotism as the

panacea of turmoil? Show a real grievance, and I grant you that

rebellion achieves the dignity of revolution. Provide an imaginary or a

colored evil as the basis of insurrection, and even pride and obstinacy

will eventually comprehend the sophistry of the leaders.

_Mr. Lincoln._ Seward's secret correspondence with Southern loyalists

proves these things. Mr. Stanton must read that last letter from....

_Mr. Stanton._ Indeed! You surprise me. Pray how could you receive

intelligence from him?

_Mr. Lincoln (opening a drawer)._ Do you see this button? I unscrew this

eye. The two discs now separate. Between them you can put a sheet of

French letter paper. When the troops advanced to Bull Run, certain of

the soldiers were provided with such buttons. Various deserters have had

them.

_Mr. Seward (laughing.)_ Who knows but General Scott's coachman had one

or two?[M]

_Mr. Stanton._ This practically corroborates my theories. If we in

Washington find it so difficult to repress communication and spies, is

it not fair to presume that in Richmond, Savannah, New Orleans and

Memphis (where there is _real_ incentive from suffering and

persecution), it is equally impossible to stop information? It was

impossible to procure it when the three rifled cannon at the Richmond

foundry were found spiked. It would prove serviceable to the patience of

the nation, could it only step behind the scenes and learn much--known

to us--which it must ere long understand.

* * * * *

_Mr. Lincoln._ I have just received by our secret mail a very affecting

letter from Col. Corcoran. I will read an extract. [_Reads._]

'Of my physical suffering I will not speak. If restored to friends and

home I shall, however, be a memorable example of the victory of mind

over body. I determined to lay down my life for my country when I left

that home; and if it will serve the cause, as I have repeatedly told the

people here, to hang, or draw, or quarter me, I am ready for the

sacrifice. But there are hundreds among the prisoners whose minds are

not so buoyant as mine, who do suffer terribly. Can not some means be

devised to clothe and feed _them_, or to exchange for them?'

_Mr. Blair._ A patriot soul. The clerkship left in the New York

post-office when the Colonel departed for the war has been retained for

him.

_Mr. Lincoln (quickly)._ Ah! _that_ heroic sufferer shall have something

better than a clerkship if he ever returns.

_Mr. Stanton._ I have thought much of this exchange of prisoners and

captivity amelioration. When the insurrection was inchoate, we could

afford to be punctilious. But its present gigantic proportions surely

affect the question (so to term it) of ransom. When our countrymen were

in the Algerine prisons we took means to treat for them. What say you,

gentlemen, against sending commissioners to Richmond for the purpose of

supervising the medicines, clothing, food and exchange of our prisoners?

_Mr. Seward._ That may only be conceded by accepting commissioners for a

similar purpose from the rebel government.

_Mr. Chase._ Our plans are now so perfectly matured that even the danger

of spies recedes. I am in favor of Mr. Stanton's proposition.

_Mr. Lincoln._ I think you can try it. There are so many prisoners, from

all parts of the country, that public sentiment must uphold the measure.

_Mr. Smith._ Mr. Secretary of State, you were taking notes whilst Mr.

Stanton was giving his views upon the restoration question. Were they on

that subject?

_Mr. Seward._ Yes. Some fleeting thoughts occurred to me which I was

desirous of preserving for to-morrow. _I_ have a great deal of faith in

establishing Southern 'doughfacery.'

_Mr. Welles._ Doughfacery?

_Mr. Seward._ Yes: that supremacy of pocket over pride which so long

afflicted the North. Above and beyond the slave-owners must rise the

great class of manufacturers and merchants,--almost every third man of

Northern origin, too,--whose pocket is the great sufferer, and without

whose property, hereafter, plantations can not prosper. Given a decent

pretext for adjustment, when pride will go to the wall. Once allow the

masses to grasp the reins, and the slave-owners will be driven to the

wall-side of the political highway also. This I call Southern

doughfacery for the sake of a phrase well understood.

_Mr. Blair._ Then your old plan of the great national convention comes

in vogue?

_Mr. Lincoln._ _My_ plan! (_Good humoredly._) You must not _all_ steal

my thunder. By the way, Seward, your pleasant friend Judge D----, who

came from New York about Col. Corcoran, told me the meaning of that

phrase. It seems a Dublin stage manager got up a scenic play with

thunder in it perfectly imitated by a diapason of bass drums. A rival

got up another scenic play, to which, out of jealous _pique_, the

inventor repaired as a spectator. To his surprise he heard his own

invention from behind the scenes. He instantly exclaimed aloud, 'The

rascal, he's stolen my thunder!'

_Mr. Seward (jocularly)._ The President finds a parallel between a

national convention and thunder. Well, well, the clearest atmosphere is

breathed after the clouds culminate in thunder and lightning. I accept

the application.

_Mr. Chase._ But if the South is to surrender pride, what are _we_ to

surrender?

_Mr. Seward (quickly)._ _Political_ pride. The battle of freedom was

fought and won when the Inaugural was pronounced. The South can not

recover from the present stagnation in a quarter-century, by which time

it will again have accepted contentedly the original belief that

slavery, like one of the lotteries of Georgia, or one of the red-dog

banks of Arkansas, is a purely local institution.

_Mr. Stanton._ I heartily accept the project of a national convention.

But I am against any agitation or committal to leading ideas which are

to control it. One convention ruined France, and another saved it. We

can better obtain consent of North and South to holding a convention by

forbearance from discussing its probable platform. Let it meet. No fear

but it will elucidate _some_ satisfactory result.

_Mr. Welles._ You have just discussed this question of war. I wish

something could be done to settle this affair of privateering. To my

reflection it appears to embrace a very important consideration of

'policy' as well as of law. A man does not always punish his embezzling

clerk because the law gives him authority to do so. The ocean rebel who

to-day captures our transports laden with soldiers, may to-morrow put

off twenty boats in the Potomac, and capture our men on the river

schooner. The Attorney General's opinion and the law of Judge Kelson in

New York hang the former; but military law will exchange the latter

whenever a satisfactory opportunity presents itself.

_Mr. Lincoln._ The policy question has become a grave one. I have been

much struck by the letter of Judge Daly, of New York, to Senator

Harris--a most opportune, learned, and temperate paper.

[_Enter an attendant._]

_Mr. Lincoln._ Gen. McClellan is at the door. Invite him in.

_Mr. Stanton._ By all means. He is 'the very head and front of our

offending.'

[_Enter Gen. McClellan._]

_Gen. McC._ Good evening, Mr. President and Cabinet. (_Speaking rapidly

and brusquely._) The bridge equipages are now entirely complete. Here is

a dispatch acknowledging the receipt of the last supply. With February

is ushered in the Southern spring, which, as you all know, _must_ end

'this winter of our discontent.' The Western V now is perfect from Cairo

and Harper's Ferry at the top to Cumberland Gap at the bottom. It is the

first letter in Victory.

_Mr. Lincoln._ When the General becomes oratorical, then indeed has he

good news.

_Gen. McC._ I have, sir; but, with great respect to all these our

friends, it must be for your own ears, to-night at least.

_Mr. Lincoln (rising)._ We will withdraw to the library. Gentlemen, pray

come to some understanding during our absence respecting the reply to be

sent to M. Thouvenel's extraordinary secret dispatch. I will rejoin you

in--

_Gen, McC._ Seven minutes, Mr. President--those are all I can spare.

Good evening, gentlemen.

* * * * *

LITERARY NOTICES.

BORDER LINES OF KNOWLEDGE IN SOME PROVINCES OF MEDICAL SCIENCE. An

Introductory Lecture delivered before the Medical Class of Harvard

University, Nov. 6, 1861. By Oliver Wendell Holmes, M.D., Parkman

Professor of Anatomy and Physiology. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1861.

It is a pleasant thing to realize, in reading a work like this, how

perfectly GENIUS is capable of rendering deeply interesting to the most

general reader topics which in the hands of mere _talent_ become

intolerably 'professional' and dry. The mind which has once flowed

through the golden land of poetry becomes, indeed, like the brook of

Scottish story, more or less alchemizing,--communicating an aureate hue

even to the wool of the sheep which it washes, and turning all its fish

into 'John Dorées.' And in doing this, far from injuring the practical

and market value of either, it positively improves them. For genius is

always general and human, and rises intuitively above conventional

poetry and conventional science, to that higher region where fact and

fancy become identified in truth. And such is the characteristic of the

lecture before us, in which solid, nutritive learning loses none of its

alimentary value for being cooked with all the skill of a _Ude_ or of a

_Francatelli_. Many passages in the work illustrate this power of

æsthetic illustration in a truly striking manner.

In certain points of view, human anatomy may be considered an

almost exhausted science. From time to time some small organ,

which had escaped earlier observers, has been pointed out,--such

parts as the _tensor tarsi_, the otic ganglion, or the Pacinian

bodies; but some of the best anatomical works are those which have

been classic for many generations. The plates of the bones of

Vesalius, three centuries old, are still masterpieces of accuracy,

as of art. The magnificent work of Albinus on the muscles,

published in 1747, is still supreme in its department, as the

constant references of the most thorough recent treatise on the

subject--that of Theile--sufficiently show. More has been done in

unravelling the mysteries of the faciæ, but there has been a

tendency to overdo this kind of material analysis. Alexander

Thompson split them up into cobwebs, as you may see in the plates

to Velpeau's Surgical Anatomy. I well remember how he used to

shake his head over the coarse work of Scarpa and Astley

Cooper;--_as if Denner, who painted the separate hairs of the head

and pores of the skin, in his portraits, had spoken lightly of the

pictures of Rubens and Vandyck_.

Laymen can not decide, where doctors disagree; but there are few who

will not at least read this lecture with pleasure.

JOHN BRENT. By Major Theodore Winthrop.

Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1862.

It is strange that so soon after the appearance of _Tom Tiddler's

Ground_, with its one good story of a wild gallop over the Plains, a

novel should have appeared in which the same scenes are reproduced,--the

whole full of wild-fire and gallop.--American life-fever and

prairie-dust,--uneasy contrasts of the feelings of gentlemen and

memories of _salons_ with pork-frying, hickory shirts, and whisky. The

excitement and movement of _John Brent_ are wonderful. Had the author

been an artist, we should have had in him an American Correggio,--with

strong lights and shadows, bright colors, figures of desperadoes

inspired with the air of gentlemen, and gentlemen, real or false, who

play their parts in no mild scenes. It is the first good novel which has

given us a picture of the West since California and Mormondom added to

it such vivid and extraordinary coloring, and since the 'ungodly

Pike'--that 'rough' of the wilderness--has taken the place of the

well-nigh traditional frontiersman. It is entertaining and exciting, and

will attain a very great popularity, having in it all the elements to

secure such success. Those who recognized in _Cecil Dreeme_ the

vividly-photographed scenes and characters of New York, will be pleased

to find the same talent employed on a wider field, among more vigorous

natures, and assuming a far more active development. Never have we felt

more keenly regret at the untimely decease of an author than for

WINTHROP, while perusing the pages of _John Brent_. There went out a

light which _might_ have shown, in Rembrandt shadows and gleams, the

most striking scenes of this country and this age.

MEMOIR, LETTERS AND REMAINS OF ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE. Translated from

the French, by the Translator of Napoleon's Correspondence with King

Joseph. In two volumes. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1862.

No French writer enjoys a more truly enviable popularity in America than

M. DE TOCQUEVILLE. That he should have discussed the vital principles of

our political and social life, in a manner which not only made him no

enemies among us, but established his 'Democracy' as a classic

reference, is as wonderful as it was well deserved. The present work is,

however, a delightful one by itself, and will be read with a relish. We

sympathize with the translator (a most capable one by the way) when he

declares that he leaves his task with regret, fearing lest he never

again may have an opportunity of associating so long and so intimately

with such a mind. The typography and paper are of superior quality.

POEMS BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. ('Blue and gold.') First American Edition.

Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

'Fresh, beautiful, and winsome.'--Among the living poets of England

there may be many who are popularly regarded as 'greater,' but certainly

there is none more unaffectedly natural or simply delightful than

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. We are pleased at his probably unconscious Irish-isms

in his humbler lyrics, which have deservedly attained the proud eminence

of veritable 'Folk-songs' in the mouths of the people, and are touched

by the exquisite music, the tender feeling, and the beautiful picturing

which we find inspiring his lays. It requires but little knowledge of

them to be impressed with the evident love of his art with which our

Irish bard is filled. It would be difficult to find in the same number

of songs by any contemporary so little evident effort allied to such

success.

THE CHURCH MONTHLY. Edited by Rev. George M. Randall, D.D., and Rev.

F.D. Huntington, D.D. Vol. II. No. 6. Boston: E.P. Dutton & Co. 1861.

This beautiful and scholarly magazine, which abounds in 'the elegant

expression of sound learning,' contains, in the present number, a noble

article on _Loyalty in the United States_, by Rev. B.B. BABBITT, which

we would gladly have read by every one. Almost amusing, and yet really

beautiful, is the following Latin version of 'Now I lay me down to

sleep,' by Rev. EDWARD BALLARD.

_In Canabulis_.

'Nunc recline ut dormirem,

Precor te, O Domine,

Ut defendas animam;

Ante diem si obirem,

Precor te, O Domine,

Us servares animam.

Hoc que precor pro Iesu!'

WORKS OF BAYARD TAYLOR. Vols. I. & II.

New York: G.P. Putnam.

BAYARD TAYLOR has the pleasant art of communicating personal experiences

in a personal way. It is not an unknown X, an invisible essence of

criticism, which travels for us in his sketches, but a veritable

traveler, speaking, Irving-like, of what he sees, so that we see and

feel with him. In these volumes, the ups and downs, the poverties and

even the ignorances of the young traveler are set forth--not

paraded--with great vividness, and we come to the end of each chapter as

if it were the scene of a good old-fashioned comedy. CORYATT without his

crudities, if we can imagine such a thing, suggests himself, with

alternations of 'HERODOTUS his gossip' without his craving credulity.

Perhaps these volumes explain more than any of their predecessors the

causes of TAYLOR'S popularity, and like them will do good work in

stimulating that love of travel which with many becomes the absorbing

passion sung by MULLER,--'_Wandern! ach! Wandern!_'

THOMAS HOOD'S WORKS. Edited by Epes

Sargent. New York: G.P. Putnam. 1862.

A beautifully printed and bound volume, on the best paper, with two fine

illustrations,--one by HOPPIN, setting forth Miss Kilmansegg and her

golden leg with truly Teutonic grotesquerie. It contains Hood's Poems,

never made more attractively readable than in this edition. As a gift it

would be difficult to find a work which would be more generally

acceptable to either old or young.

NATIONAL MILITARY SERIES. Part First.

By Captain W.W. Van Ness. New York:

Carleton, 413 Broadway.

A neat little work on military tactics, conforming to the army

regulations adopted and approved by the War Department of the United

States. It is thoroughly practical, 'being arranged on the plainest

possible principle of question and answer,' and being within the reach

of the dullest capacity, and thoroughly comprehensive of all required of

the soldier, will probably become, as its author trusts, 'a standard

military work.'

FORT LAFAYETTE; OR, LOVE AND SECESSION.

By Benjamin Wood. New York:

Carleton, 413 Broadway. 1862.

Even while a tree is being blown down by the hurricane, small fungi or

other minute vegetation spring up in its rifts; every social shock of

the day is promptly scened and 'tagged' at the minor theatres; and shall

this war escape its novels? Mr. WOOD votes in the negative, and supplies

us with a somewhat sensational yet not badly manufactured article,

which, like the melo-dramas referred to, will be received with delight

by a certain line of patrons, and, we presume, be also relished. It is a

first-rate specimen of a second-rate romance.

HEROES AND MARTYRS: Notable Men of the Time. With Portraits on Steel.

New York: G.P. Putnam, 532 Broadway. C.T. Evans, General Agent. 1862.

Price 25 cents.

The first number of a large quarto, exquisitely printed, biographical

series of sketches of the military and naval heroes, statesmen, and

orators, distinguished in the American crisis of 1861-62, and edited by

FRANK MOORE. The portraits of Commodore S.F. DUPONT and Major THEODORE

WINTHROP, in this first number, are excellent; while the literary

portion, devoted to WINFIELD SCOTT, deserves praise. The cheapness of

the publication is truly remarkable.

TRANSACTIONS of THE MASSACHUSETTS HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY, FOR THE YEAR

1861. Boston: Henry W. Dutton & Son, Printers, Transcript Building.

1862.

A work testifying to the great extent and efficacy of the labors of the

society, and one which, among a mass of merely business detail, contains

much interesting information. An article on the first discovery of the

heather in America, by EDWARD S. RAND, is well worth reading. Can any of

our wise men re-discover the lost Pictish art of making good beer from

that plant?

* * * * *

BOOKS RECEIVED.

DINAH. New York: Charles Scribner, 124 Grand Street. Boston: Brown &

Taggard. 1861.

THE REBELLION RECORD. A Diary of American Events, with Documents,

Narratives, Illustrative Incidents, and Poetry. Edited by Frank Moore.

New York: G.P. Putnam.

THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT; OR, SPEAKING THE TRUTH FOR A DAY. By Mrs. Emma

D.E.N. Southworth. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson. Price 25 cents. 1861.

THE AMERICAN CRISIS: Its Cause, Significance, and Solution. By Americus.

Chicago, Illinois: Joshua R. Walsh, 1861.

* * * * *

EDITOR'S TABLE.

Step by step the vast net is closing in on the enemy,--little by little

the vice is tightening,--and if no incalculable calamity overtake the

armies of the Union, it is but fair to assume that at no distant day the

rebel South will find itself in the last extremity, overwhelmed by

masses from without and demoralized by want of means within. Government

at present holds the winning cards,--if they are only skillfully played

the game is its own. It is impossible to study the map and the present

position of our forces with our resources, and not realize this. 'Hemmed

in!' is the despairing cry from Southern journals, which but the other

day insolently threatened to transfer the war to Northern soil, and to

sack New York and Philadelphia; and, with their proverbial fickleness

and fire, we find many of them half rebelling against the management of

Mr. JEFFERSON DAVIS and his coadjutors.

This is all encouraging. On the other hand, we are beginning to feel

more acutely the miseries of war, and its enormous cost. The time is at

hand when the whole country will be called on to show its heroism by

patient endurance of many trials, and by _living_ as well as dying for

the great cause of liberty and Union. Let it all be done patiently and

without a murmur. Every suffering will be repaid tenfold in the hour of

triumph. Let it be remembered that as we suffer our chances of victory

increase, and that every pain felt by us is a death-pang to the foe.

Now, if ever, the Northern quality of stubborn endurance must show

itself. We, too, can suffer as heroically as the South boasts of doing.

It is this which in the course of events must inevitably give us the

victory, for no spirit of chivalry, no enthusiasm, can ultimately resist

sturdy Saxon pluck. The South, foolishly enough, has vaunted that it is

inspired by the blood and temper of the Latin races of Southern Europe,

and it can not be denied that their climate has given them the

impulsiveness of their ideal heroes. In this fiery impatience lies the

element which renders them incapable of sustaining defeat, and which,

after any disaster, must stimulate dissension among them.

It should also be borne in mind that the most direct causes of our

sufferings all involve very practical benefits. The Southern press

taunts our soldiers with enlisting for pay. Let us admit that vast

numbers have truly been partially induced by the want of employment at

home to enter the army. It is a peculiar characteristic of all Northern

blood that it can and does combine intelligence and interest with the

strongest enthusiasm. No man was ever made a worse soldier by being

prudent, any more than by being a religious Christian. Taunts and jeers

can not affect the truth. The Protestant mechanic soldiery of Germany

during the wars of the Reformation, the men of Holland, and the Puritans

of England, were all reviled for the same cause--but they conquered. God

never punishes men for common-sense, nor did it ever yet blind zeal,

though it may prevent zeal from degenerating into sheer madness. The

war, while it has crippled industry, has also kept it alive,--it has

become a great industrial central force, giving work to millions. Again,

in the creation of a debt we shall find such a stimulus to industry as

we never before knew. Taxation, which kills a weak country crippled by

feudal laws and nightmared by an extravagant court and nobility, simply

induces fresh and vigorous effort to make additional profits in a land

of endless resources and of vast territory, where every man is free to

work at what he chooses. Taxation may come before us like a raging lion,

but, in the words of BEECHER, we shall find honey in the carcass. Let us

only cheerfully make the best of everything, and uphold the

administration and the war with a right good will, and we shall learn as

we never did before the extent of the incredible elasticity and

recuperative power of the American.

It is evident that the present war will have a beneficial result in

making us acquainted with the real nature of this arrogant and peculiar

South-land. It was said that the Crimean struggle did much good by

dispelling the cloudy hobgoblin mystery which hung over Russia, and,

while it destroyed its prestige as a bugbear, more than compensated for

this, by giving it a proper place abreast of civilized nations in the

great march of industry and progress. Just so we are learning that the

South is perfectly capable of receiving white labor, that it is not

strangely and peculiarly different from the rest of the cis-tropical

regions, that the negro is no more its necessity than he is to Spain or

Italy, and that, in short, white labor may march in, undisturbed, so

soon as industry ceases to be regarded as disgraceful in it. We have

learned the vital necessity of union and identity of feeling between all

the States, and found out the folly of suffering petty local state

attachments to blind us to the glory of citizenship in a nation, which

should cover a continent. We have learned what the boasted philanthropy

of England is worth when put to the test of sacrifice, and also how the

British lion can put forth the sharpest and most venomous of feline

claws when an opportunity presents itself of ruining a possible rival.

More than this, we have learned to be self-reliant, to take greater and

more elevated views of political duty, and to be heroic without being

extravagant. Since we were a republic no one year has witnessed such

national and social progress among us as the past. We have had severe

struggles, and we have surmounted them; we have had hard lessons, and we

have learned them; we have had trials of pride, and we have profited by

them. And as we contend for principles based in reason and humanity and

confirmed by history, it follows that we must inevitably come forth

gloriously triumphant, if we but bravely persevere in enforcing those

principles.

The large amount of political information regarding the South and its

resources which has been of late widely disseminated in the North, is a

striking proof that, disguise the question as we will, the extension of

free labor is, from a politico-economical point of view (which is, in

fact, the only sound one), the real, or at least ultimate basis of this

struggle. The matter in hand is the restitution of the Union, laying

everything else aside; but the great fact, which will not step aside, is

the consideration whether ten white men or one negro are to occupy a

certain amount of soil. There is no evading this finality, there is no

impropriety in its discussion, and it SHALL be discussed, so long as

free speech or a free pen is left in the North. So far from interfering

with the war, it is a stimulus to the thousands of soldiers who hope

eventually to settle in the South in districts where their labor will

not be compared with that of 'slaves,' and it is right and fit that they

should anticipate the great and inevitable truth in all its relations to

their own welfare and that of the country.

We cheerfully agree with those who try with so much energy that

Emancipation is not the matter in hand, and quite as cheerfully assent

when they insist that the enemy, and not the negro, demands all our

present energy. But this has nothing to do with the great question,

whether slavery is or is not to ultimately remain as a great barrier to

free labor in regions where free labor is clamoring for admission. That

is all we ask, nothing more. The instant the North and West are assured

that at some time, though remote, and by any means or encouragements

whatever, which expediency may dictate, the great cause of secession and

sedition--will be removed from our land, then there will be witnessed an

enthusiasm compared to which that of the South will be but lukewarm.

That this will be done, no rational person now doubts, or that

government will cheerfully act on it so soon as the fortunes of war or

the united voice of the people strengthen it in the good work. And until

it _is_ done, let every intelligent freeman bear it in mind, thinking

intelligently and acting earnestly, so that the great work may be

advanced rapidly and carried out profitably and triumphantly.

The leading minds of the South, shrewder than our Northern

anti-emancipation half traitors and whole dough-faces, foreseeing the

inevitable success of ultimate emancipation, have given many signs of

willingness to employ even it, if needs must be, as a means of

effectually achieving their 'independence.' They have baited their hooks

with it to fish for European aid--they have threatened it armed, as a

last resort of desperation, if conquered by the North. Knowing as well

as we that the days of slavery are numbered, they have used it as a

pretense for separation, they would just as willingly destroy it to

maintain that separation. Since the war began, projects of home

manufactures, and other schemes involving the encouragement of free

labor, have been largely discussed in the South,--and yet in spite of

this, thousands among us violently oppose Emancipation. In plain,

truthful words they uphold the ostensible platform of the enemy, and yet

avow themselves friends of the Union.

We have said it before, we repeat it: we ask for no undue haste, no

unwise measures, nothing calculated to irritate or disorganize or impede

the measures which government may now have in hand. But we hold firmly

that Emancipation be calmly regarded as a measure which _must_ at some

time be fully carried out. Be it limited for the time, or for years, to

the Border States, be it assumed partially or entirely under the

modified form of apprenticeship, be it proclaimed only in Texas or South

Carolina, it has in some way a claim to recognition, and _must_ be

recognized. Its friends are too many to be ignored in the day of

settlement.

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