CHAPTER XXV.

The next morning I rose early, and strolled out to the negro quarters.

At the distance of about a hundred yards from the mansion, the sun was

touching the tops of about thirty canvas camps, and, near them, large

numbers of horses, 'all saddled and bridled,' were picketed among the

trees. Some dozens of 'natives' were littered around, asleep on the

ground; and here and there a barelegged, barefooted woman was lying

beside a man on a 'spring' mattress, of the kind that is supposed to

have been patented in Paradise.

It was a beautiful morning in May, and one would have thought, from the

appearance of the motley collection, that the whole people had 'come up

to worship the Lord in their tents,' after the manner of the Israelites.

The rich planter, the small farmer, the 'white trash'--all classes, had

gathered to the negro sale, like crows to a feast of carrion.

A few half-awake, half-sober, russet-clad, bewhiskered 'gentry' were

lighting fires under huge iron pots; but the larger portion of the

'congregation' was still wrapped in slumber.

Passing them, I knocked at the door of Ally's cabin. The family was

already astir, and the various members gave me a greeting that cannot be

_bought_ now anywhere with a handful of 'greenbacks.' Boss Joe, Aggy,

and old Deborah had arrived, and were quartered with Ally.

'An' 'ou wusn't a gwine ter leff massa Preston's own chile be sole

widout bein' yere; wus 'ou, massa Kirke?' cried Dinah, her face beaming

all over with pleasurable emotion.

'No, Dinah; and I've come here so early to tell you how much I think of

_you_. A woman that can handle four white men as you did is fit to head

an army.'

'Lor' bress 'ou, massa! dat wusn't nuffin'. I could handle a whole

meetin'-house full ob sech as dem.'

'Joe, you know your master's plans, I suppose?'

'Yas, massa Kirke; he mean ter buy all de folks.'

'But can he raise money enough for the whole?'

'I reckon so. Massa Joe got a heap.'

'But don't you want to borrow some to help out your pile?'

'I'se 'bliged ter you, sar; but I reckon I doan't. I'se got nigh on ter

free thousan', an' nary one'll pay more'n dat fur a ole man an' two ole

wimmin.'

'I hope not.'

I remained there for a half hour, and then strolled back to the mansion.

On the lawn, at the side of the house, was the auction block--the

carpenter's bench which had officiated at Ally's wedding. It was

approached by a flight of steps, and at one end was the salesman's

stand--a high stool, in front of which was a small portable desk

supported on stakes driven into the ground. Near the block was a booth

fitted up for the special accommodation of thirsty buyers. The

proprietor was just opening his own and his establishment's windows, and

I looked in upon him. His red, bloated visage seemed familiar to me.

Perceiving me, he said:

'How is ye, stranger? Hev a eye-opener?'

'I reckon not, old fellow; but I ought to know you. Your name is Tom.'

'Thomas, stranger; but Tom, fur short.'

'Well, Thomas, I thought you had taken your last drink. I saw your store

was closed, as I came along.'

'Yas; th' durned 'ristocrats driv me out uv thet nigh a yar ago.'

'And where are you now?'

'Up ter Trenton. I'm doin' right smart thar. Me an' Mulock--thet used

ter b'long yere--is in partenship. But war moight ye hev seed me,

stranger?'

'At your store, over ten years since. I bought a woman there. You were

having a turkey match at the time.'

'Oh, yas! I 'call ye now. An' th' pore gal's dead! Thet d--d Yankee

'ooman shud pull hemp fur thet.'

'Yes; but the devil seldom gets his due in this world.'

'Thet ar's a fact, stranger. Come, hev a drink; I woan't ax ye a red.'

'No, excuse me, Tom; it's before breakfast;' and, walking off, I entered

the mansion.

* * * * *

Shortly after breakfast the people from the neighboring plantations

began to gather to the sale, and, by the hour appointed for it to

commence, about five hundred men and women had collected on the ground.

Some were on horseback, some in carriages, but the majority were seated

on the grass, or on benches improvised for the occasion.

A few minutes before the 'exercises' commenced, the negroes were marched

upon the lawn. No seats had been provided for them, and they huddled

together inside a small area staked off for their reception. They were

of all colors and ages. Husbands and wives, parents and children,

grandparents and grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and cousins, gathered in

little family groups, and breathlessly awaited the stroke of the hammer

which was to decide their destiny. They were all clad in their Sunday

clothes, and looked clean and tidy; but on every face except Joe's was

depicted an ill-defined feeling of dread and consternation. Husbands

held their wives in their arms, and mothers hugged their children to

their bosoms, as if they might soon part forever; but when old Joe

passed among them, saying a low word to this one and the other, their

cloudy visages brightened, and a heavy load seemed to roll off their

hearts. Joe was as radiant as a summer morning, and walked about with a

quiet dignity and unconcern that might have led one to think him the

owner of the entire 'invoice of chattels.'

As the auctioneer--a spruce importation from Newbern--mounted the bench,

a splendid carriage, drawn by two magnificent grays, and driven by a

darky in livery, made its way through the crowd, and drew up opposite

the stand. In it were Dawsey and his wife!

The salesman's hammer came down. 'Gentlemen and ladies,' he said, 'the

sale has commenced. I am about to offer you one hundred and sixty-one

likely negro men and women, belonging to the estate of Robert Preston,

Esq., deceased. Each one will be particularly described when put up, and

all will be warranted as represented. They will be sold in families;

that is, husbands and wives, and parents and young children, will not be

separated. The terms are, one quarter cash, the balance in one year,

secured by an approved indorsed note. Persons having claims against the

estate will be allowed to pay by authenticated accounts and duebills.

The first lot I shall offer you will be the mulatto man Joe and his wife

Agnes. Joe is known through all this region as a negro of uncommon worth

and intelligence. He is'--

Here he was interrupted by Dawsey, who exclaimed, in a hurried manner:

'I came here expecting this sale would be conducted according to

custom--that each hand would be put up separately. I protest against

this innovation, Mr. Auctioneer.'

The auctioneer made no reply; but the administrator, a small,

self-possessed man, mounted the bench, and said:

'Sir, _I_ regulate this sale. If you are not satisfied with its

conditions, you are not obliged to bid.'

Dawsey made a passionate reply. In the midst of it, Joe sprang upon the

stand, and, in a clear, determined voice, called out:

'Mr. Sheriff, do your duty.'

A large, powerful man, in blue coat and brass buttons, stepped to the

side of the carriage, and coolly opening the door, said:

'Catharine Dawsey, you are charged with aiding and abetting in the

murder of Phyllis Preston. I arrest you. Please come with me.'

'By ----, sir!' cried Dawsey; 'this lady is my wife!'

'It makes no difference whose wife she is, sir. She is my prisoner.'

'She must not be touched by you, or any other man!' yelled Dawsey,

drawing his pistol. Before he could fire, he rolled on the ground,

insensible. The sheriff had struck him a quick blow on the head with a

heavy cane.

As her husband fell, Mrs. Dawsey sprang upon the driver's seat, and,

seizing the reins from the astonished negro, applied the lash to the

horses. They reared and started. The panic-stricken crowd parted, like

waves in a storm, and the spirited animals bounded swiftly down the

avenue. They had nearly reached the cluster of liveoaks which borders

the small lake, when a man sprang at their heads. He missed them, fell,

and the carriage passed over him; but the horses shied from the road

into the trees, and in an instant the splendid vehicle was a mass of

fragments, and Mrs. Dawsey and the negro were sprawling on the ground.

The lady was taken up senseless, and badly hurt, but breathing. The

driver was dead!

The crowd hurried across the green to the scene of disaster. Joe and I

reached the man in the road at the same instant. It was Ally! We took

him up, bore him to the edge of the pond, and bathed his forehead with

water. In a few minutes he opened his eyes.

'Are you much hurt, Ally?' asked Joe, with almost breathless eagerness.

'I reckon not, massa Joe,' said Ally; 'my head, yere, am sore, an' dis

ankle p'raps am broke. Leff me see;' and he rose to his feet, and tried

his leg. 'No, massa Joe; it'm sound's a pine knot. I hain't done fur

_dis_ time.'

'Thank God!' exclaimed Joe, with an indescribable expression of relief.

Mrs. Dawsey was borne to the mansion, the negro carried off to the

quarters, and, in a few moments, the crowd once more gathered around the

auctioneer's stand. Dawsey, by this time recovered from the sheriff's

blow, was cursing and swearing terribly over the disaster of his wife

and--his property.

'Twenty-five hundred dollars gone at a blow! D--n the woman; didn't she

know better than that?'

As he followed his wife into the house, the sheriff said to the

administrator, who was a justice of the peace:

'Make me out a warrant for that man--obstructing the execution of the

law.'

The warrant was soon made out, and in fifteen minutes, Dawsey, raving

like a wild animal, was driven off to jail at Trenton. Mrs. Dawsey, too

much injured to be removed, was left under guard at the mansion, and the

sale proceeded.

Boss Joe and Aggy ascended the block, and 'Master Joe' took a stand

beside them.

'How much is said for these prime negroes?' cried the auctioneer.

Everybody knows what they are, and there's no use preaching a sermon

over them. Boss Joe might do that, but _I_ can't. He can preach equal to

any white man you ever hard. Come, gentlemen, start a bid. How much do

you say?'

'A thousand,' said a voice in the crowd.

'Eleven hundred,' cried another.

'It's a d--d shame to bid on them, gentlemen. Boss Joe has been saving

money to buy himself; and I think no white man should bid against him,'

cried a man at my elbow.

It was Gaston, who had just arrived on the ground.

'Thet's a fact.' 'Them's my sentiments.' 'D--n th' man thet'll bid agin

a nigger.' 'Thet's so, Gaston,' echoed from all directions.

'But I yere th' darky's got a pile--some two thousan'; _thet_ gwoes

'long with him, uv course,' yelled one of the crowd.

'Of course it don't!' said young Joe, from the stand. 'He's saved about

three thousand out of a commission his master allowed him; but he _gave_

that _to me_, long before my father died. It is _mine_--not _his_. I bid

twelve hundred for him and his wife; and I will say to the audience,

that I shall advance on whatever sum may be offered for them. So fire

away, gentlemen; I ask no favors.'

'Is there any more bid for this excellent couple?' cried the auctioneer.

'It is my duty to cry them, and to tell you they're worth twice that

money.'

There was no more bid, and Boss Joe and Aggy were struck down at twelve

hundred dollars--about two thirds their market value.

'Now, gentlemen, we will offer you the old negress, Deborah, the mother

of Joe. Bring her forward!' cried the man of the hammer.

Four strong negroes lifted the chair of the aged African, and bore her

to the block. When the strange vehicle reached the steps, young Preston

steadied it into its appropriate position, and then took a stand beside

it.

'This aged lady, gentlemen, is warranted over eighty; she may be a

hundred. She can't walk, but she can pray and sing to kill. How much is

bid for all this piety done up in black crape?' cried the auctioneer,

smiling complacently, as if conscious of saying a witty thing.

Joe turned on him quickly. 'Sir, you are employed to _sell_ these

people, not to sport with their feelings. Let me hear no more of this.'

'No offence, Mr. Preston. Gentlemen, how much is bid for old Deborah?'

'Five dollars,' said young Preston.

The old negress, who sat nearly double, straightened up her bent form,

and, looking at Joe with a sad, pleading expression, exclaimed:

'Oh, massa Joe! ole nussy'm wuth more'n dat. 'Ou woan't leff har be sole

fur no sech money as dat, will 'ou, massa Joe?'

'No aunty; not if you want to bring more. I'd give your weight in gold

for you;' and, turning to the auctioneer, he said: 'A hundred dollars is

my bid, sir.'

'Bress 'ou, massa Joe! bress 'ou! 'Ou'm my own dear, bressed chile!'

exclaimed the old negress, clutching at his hand, and, with a sudden

effort, rising to her feet. She stood thus for a moment, then she

staggered back, fell into her chair, uttered a low moan, and--was FREE!

A wild excitement followed, during which the body was borne off. It was

a full half hour before quiet was restored and the sale resumed. Then

about twenty negroes, of both sexes, were put up singly. All of them

were bought by Joe, except a young woman, whose husband belonged to

Gaston. The bidding on her was spirited, and she was run up to ten

hundred and fifty dollars. As Gaston bid that sum, he jumped upon a

bench, and called out:

'Gentlemen, I can stand this as long as you can. I mean to have this

woman, anyhow.'

No one offered more, and 'the lot' was struck off to Gaston. Joe did not

bid on her at all.

When the next negro ascended the stand, Joe beckoned to me, and said:

'Selly is next on the catalogue. Will you bring her here?'

As I entered the mansion, she met me. Her face was pale, and there was a

nervous twitching about her mouth, but she quietly said:

'You have come for me?'

'Yes, my child. Have courage; it will soon be over.'

She laid her head upon my shoulder for a moment; then, turning her

large, clear, but tearless eyes up to mine, she said:

'I trust in GOD!'

I took her arm in mine, and walked out to the stand. The auctioneer was

waiting for her, and we ascended the block together. A slight tremor

passed over her frame as she met the sea of upturned faces, all eagerly

gazing at her; and, putting my arm about her, I whispered:

'Do not fear. Lean on me.'

'I do not fear,' was the low reply.

'Now, gentlemen,' cried the auctioneer, in an unfeeling, business-like

way, 'I offer you the girl, Lucy Selma. She is seventeen years old; in

good health; well brought up--a superior lot every way. She has recently

been employed at cooking, but, as you see, is better adapted to lighter

work. How much shall I have for her? Come, bid fast gentlemen; we are

taking up too much time.'

Before any response could be made to this appeal, Joe stepped to the

side of Selma, and, in a slow, deliberate voice, said:

'Gentlemen, allow me a few words. This young lady is my sister. I have

always supposed--she has always supposed that she was the legitimate

child of my father. She was not. My mother bought her when she was very

young; gave her jewels--all she had--for her, and adopted her as her own

child. The law does not allow a married woman to hold separate property,

and Selma is therefore inventoried in my father's estate, and must be

sold. Rightfully she belongs to me! She has been delicately and tenderly

reared, and is totally unfitted for any of the usual work of slave

women. Her value for such purposes is very little. I shall bid a

thousand dollars for her, which is more than she is worth for any honest

use. If any man bids more, it is HIS LIFE OR MINE _before he leaves the

ground!_'

A breathless silence fell on the assemblage. It lasted for a few

moments, when Gaston called out:

'Come, Joe, this isn't fair. You've no right to interfere with the sale.

I came here prepared to go twenty-five hundred for her myself.'

In a firm but moderate tone, the young man replied:

'I intend no disrespect to you, Mr. Gaston, or to any gentleman

present; but I mean what I say. I shall stand by my words!'

'Come, youngster, none uv yer brow-beatin' yere. It woan't gwo down,'

cried a rough voice from among the audience. 'I've come all th' way from

Orleans ter buy thet gal; an' buy har I shill!'

Quite a commotion followed this speech. It lasted some minutes, and the

speaker was the object of considerable attention.

'He's some on th' trigger, ole feller,' cried one. 'He kin hit a

turkey's eye at two hundred paces, he kin,' said another. 'He'll burn

yer in'ards, shore,' shouted a third. 'Ye'll speak fur warm lodgin's, ef

ye bid on thet gal, ye wull,' cried a fourth.

'Come, my friends, ye karn't skeer me,' coolly said the first speaker,

mounting one of the rough benches. 'I've h'ard sech talk afore. It

doan't turn _me_ a hair. I come yere ter buy thet gal, an' buy har I

shill, 'cept some on ye kin gwo higher'n my pile; an' my pile ar

_eighty-two hundred dollars_!'

He was a tall, stoutly-built man, with bushy gray whiskers and a clear,

resolute eye. It was Larkin!

Turning to Joe, I exclaimed:

'I understand this. Get the auctioneer to postpone the sale for half an

hour for dinner. Take Selly into the house.'

'No. It might as well be over first as last. Let him bid--he's a dead

man!' replied Joe coolly, but firmly.

'You're mad, boy. Would you take his life needlessly?'

The auctioneer, who overheard these remarks, then said to me:

'I will adjourn the sale, sir;' and, turning to the audience, he cried,

drawing out his watch: 'Gentlemen, it is twelve o'clock. The sale is

adjourned for an hour, to give you a chance for dinner.'

SHYLOCK vs. ANTONIO.

OPINION OF THE VICAR.

The Vicar desires briefly, modestly, and by way of suggestion, rather as

Amicus Curiæ than as an advocate, to lay before his learned brethren of

the law a legal point or two, for their consideration.

The case to which I refer is well known to all the members of the bar as

that of Shylock--_versus_ Antonio, reported, in full, in 2 Shakspeare

299. The decision which I am desirous of having reviewed, is that of the

Chief Justice, or Ducal Magistrate, who heard that curious case, and who

yielded to the extraordinary arguments of the young woman, Portia. The

judgment rendered, and the argument or decision of the Lady Advocate, on

that occasion, have been regarded as models of judicial acumen, have

received the approbation of many worthy and enlightened students, and,

when theatrically represented, have been greeted with the plaudits of

nearly every theatre. It may be arrogant to impugn a judicial decision

of such antiquity and acknowledged authority; but, as a member in full

standing of the worshipful P. B., I have the right to be slightly

arrogant; for I am well aware that this is a tribunal the circumference

of whose jurisdiction is infinite, or rather is a circle whose centre is

a little village on the Hudson river, where I reside.

No false modesty shall restrain me, therefore, from discussing this case

upon its merits. Before entering upon it, however, I desire to call your

attention to a few preliminary points.

In the first place, I ask you--who are all familiar with the record--if

an undue sympathy for the defendant, Antonio, was not felt on the trial?

The favor and good wishes of the court, the spectators, and of the

reporter, were evidently enlisted for him as against his opponent. This

Antonio, perhaps, was a very worthy fellow in his way; and in a criminal

action--as on an indictment for murdering a family or two, or

slaughtering a policeman--might have been, able to prove previous good

character. But such a plea, in a civil action for _debt_, is entitled to

no weight, while the fact that he was a good fellow in a series of

scrapes, not the least of which was matrimony, does not entitle him to

our sympathy. The prejudices of the court ought to have been against

instead of for him. He had failed in business, could not pay his

outstanding liabilities, and thus stood before the commercial world in

the position of bankruptcy. The fact that he had made a foolish

contract, which imperilled his life, does not improve his moral

condition, or entitle him to any just sympathy, unless it could be shown

that there was insanity in his family. No such plea was entered. His

counsel did not attempt to prove that his great-grandfather owned a mad

dog; a plea from which the court, fortified by many modern criminal

decisions, might have inferred his moral insanity. No such attempt to

relieve Antonio from the consequences of his criminal folly was made,

and I can see nothing in the case to entitle him to the sympathy which

was and had been always entertained for him.

Again: The lengthy and much-admired plea of the defendant's counsel on

the subject of mercy was clearly out of place, especially if, as I have

endeavored to show, the defendant was not entitled to any particular

clemency or sympathy. The remarks of Portia, commencing,

'The quality of Mercy is not strained,'

(and, by the way, who but a woman would talk of straining an emotion as

one strains milk?) are wholly irrelevant to the issue, and ought not to

have been allowed. They were eloquent, indeed, but had nothing whatever

to do with _the trial_, which arose on a very plain case at law: A owed

B three thousand ducats, due and not paid on an ascertained day.

Whereupon B moves the court for the penalty, and demands judgment. If

the defendant had no answer at law, there is an end to the case; and it

was very irregular, impertinent, and contrary to well-settled practice

for the defendant's counsel to endeavor to lead off the mind of the

court from the true issue of the case. Portia, in what she says of mercy

being 'twice blessed' and 'dropping like the gentle rain from heaven,'

&c., &c., was, I fear, 'talking buncombe,' and all that part of her

speech should be stricken from the record, especially as it was

addressed to the plaintiff instead of the court, a highly indecorous

proceeding. Instead of indulging in all this sentimentality, her true

course would have been to have filed a bill in equity against Shylock,

and have obtained an injunction on an _ex parte_ affidavit, which only

requires a little strong swearing; or to have patched up a suit against

him for obtaining his knife under false pretences; than which (under the

New York code of procedure) nothing can be easier. But what better

conduct of a suit can you expect from a she-advocate--an

attorney-in-petticoats?

And this brings me to another point of some delicacy, and which nothing

but a conscientious devotion to abstract justice would induce me to

touch upon. What law, or what precedent, can be cited to authorize a

woman to appear as an advocate in a court of justice and usurp the

offices and prerogatives of a man? I will not dwell upon the impropriety

of such conduct; but on my honor, as a member of the bar, the behavior

of Portia was outrageous. This young female, not content with

'cavorting' around the country in a loose and perspicuous style,

actually practises a gross swindle on the court. She assumes to be a man

when she is only a woman, dons the breeches when she is only entitled to

the skirts, and imposes herself upon the Duke of Venice as a learned

young advocate from Rome, when in fact she is only a young damsel of

Belmont, with half a dozen lovers on hand, on her own showing. And yet

this young baggage, whose own father would not trust her to choose a

husband, whose brains are addled by her own love affairs, and who had no

more business in court than the deacon would have in Chancellor

Whiting's suit in the Lowber claim, not only came into court under a

fraudulent disguise, argued the case under false pretences, but actually

took the words from the judge's own mouth, and decided her case on her

own responsibility. I venture to say that such unparalleled impudence

was never witnessed out of the court of a justice of the peace, and that

even Judge ---- (unless the editor of the ---- had interfered) would have

marched this false pretender out of court, or have deposited her in the

Tombs on an attachment of contempt.

But these preliminary points appear of small moment when we come to

consider the plea, if it be worthy of that name, which the counsel for

the defendant opposed to the suit of the plaintiff. The bond is

admitted, the penalty is confessed, the pound of flesh is forfeited, the

bosom of Antonio is bared to the knife--when this brief but brief-less

barrister, this skylarking young judge of Belmont steps jauntily

forward, with a most preposterous quibble on her lips, and manages by an

adroit subtlety to defeat the judgment to which the plaintiff is legally

entitled. She awards the flesh, fibres, nerves, adipose matter, in

controversy, to Shylock; but declares his life and fortune confiscate if

he sheds a drop of blood, or takes more or less than the exact pound.

Now if there be one principle of law better settled than another (and

probably it was as clearly set forth in the Revised Statutes of Venice

as is set forth in our own common law), it is that a party entitled to

the possession of a commodity, whether grain, guano, dead or live men's

flesh, bones and sinews, is entitled, also, to pursue the usual

necessary and appropriate means of obtaining the possession of the same.

I appeal to Colonel W---- if this be not good law, and asking whether,

if he be entitled to a dinner, he has not a right to seize upon it,

whenever or however he can find it; whether, if a man owes him a bottle

of champagne, he has not the right to break the neck of the bottle if a

corkscrew is not convenient? So, to use a drier example, the sale of

standing timber entitles the purchaser to enter the land upon which it

is situated, and to cut down and carry off his own property. On the same

principle, if A sells B a house and lot, entirely surrounded by other

land owned by A, B has clearly a right of way to his own wife and

fireside over A's land. (2 Blackstone 1149.) A hundred examples might be

given in point, but it would be insulting the dignity of this court to

argue at length a theory so transparently clear. If the shedding of a

few drops of blood, more or less, was incidental and necessary to the

rights of the plaintiff, if the article of personal property, forfeited

to him on the bond, could be obtained in no other way, then, according

to all the principles of law and common sense, he _had_ a right to spill

those drops, more or less; and that, too, without legal risk.

If the penalty was legal, and that were admitted, the method of exacting

it was legal also. Portia's quibble was so transparent and barefaced

that the decision of the court can only be explained on the theory that

the court was drunk, or in love, which seems to have been the condition

of several of the prominent parties in this proceeding, excepting always

the plaintiff. As to the other part of Portia's plea, it is doubtless

true that the plaintiff would take more of the commodity involved in the

suit than the court awarded him at his peril; but as half a pound, or a

quarter of a pound, cut off from the right spot would have answered his

purpose, I do not see under what principle of law he was defrauded of

that satisfaction. There was nothing to have prevented him from cutting

less than a pound from Antonio's body, and of so releasing him, the

defendant, from a portion of the penalty; and the court should have

instructed the plaintiff as to his rights in this particular, instead of

adopting a quibble worthy of only a Tombs lawyer or a third-rate

pettifogger.

I cannot then believe that Mr. Reporter Shakspeare, in handing down to

posterity the record of this remarkable case, meant to express an

approval of Portia's subterfuge. My inference rather is that he was

aiming a covert sarcasm at those women who thrust themselves

conspicuously upon the notice of the public, and that he meant to hint

that those who thus unsex themselves often make a showy appearance

without displaying much solid merit. If this subtle, sharp, and

strong-minded female did not turn out to be something of a shrew, before

her husband was done with her, I am much mistaken. Possibly, however,

Shakspeare's sarcasm might bear a more general interpretation, and

implies that women in an argument seldom meet the true issue presented

to them, but are prone to go off at a tangent on some side quibble, and

to repel the arguments of their antagonists by the subtlety of their

inventions rather than by the cogency of their logic. I appeal to my

friend, the sage of Cattaraugus, who has a large knowledge of the

customs of the sex, if this be not the usual result.

Not to cut the reply of the deacon too short, I go on to remark that

whether he agrees with me or not, neither he nor any other well-balanced

man would have descended, on the trial of so important a case as the one

we are discussing, to a trivial playing upon words. Even my friend, the

district attorney, than whom no man is more remorselessly given--in

private life--to the depraved habit of quibbling, and who never

hesitates to impale truth upon the point of a verbal criticism, would by

the temptation of a fee commensurate with the vigor of the moral effort

required, have discussed the question on broader and truer principles.

Had he been retained on the part of Antonio, he would have proved

himself equal to the occasion, and have unfolded a logical and

consistent answer to the claim of the plaintiff.

He would have boldly attacked the bond itself, as absolutely void in its

inception, because it was aimed at the life of a citizen of Venice, and

would have called upon the court to abrogate a contract which violated

the very laws that the court was bound to administer. With his usual

eloquence, he would have urged that a penalty so illegal, immoral, and

monstrous, and which involved the commission of the highest crime,

except treason, known to the laws of the state, could never be enforced

in a civilized country. He would have offered to the court no woman's

quibble like that of Portia, based upon the assumption that the penalty

of a bond which sanctioned a high and capital crime could be enforced in

a court of law; and in fine, would have addressed an argument to the

reason and understanding of the court which might render a consideration

of this case by the tribunal unnecessary.

But no good plea to the plaintiff's cause of action was made on the

trial, and the court was, and I fear that the whole world has been

deceived by Portia's subterfuge. We must, therefore, regard Shylock as a

badly used man. After all, he was no worse than many creditors and note

shavers of this day, who _only_ demand the life blood of their victims,

and if on the pleas before the court he was entitled to judgment, like

them he should have had it. Doubtless in private life Shylock was a very

honest and well-behaved gentleman, not a mere mountebank as he is

sometimes represented on the stage, but a vigorous and energetic man of

the world, shrewd, sagacious, and long sighted in business, honored on

change, respected by his friends, and a pattern of prudence and

morality. And then, perhaps, he was only carrying on a joke, a kind of

_Jew d'esprit_, conceived in a moment of amiable eccentricity, and never

to be executed. If not a joke, however, the judgment of Judge Portia

should be set aside, and a new trial, with costs, should, in my opinion,

have been ordered.

A HEROINE OF TO-DAY.

We had watched with her alternate nights throughout all her illness, but

this night we thought would be her last, and neither of us was willing

to leave her. The surgeons and nurses had gone, and we were at last

alone. We sat through the remaining hours in deathly stillness,

occasionally moistening the lips and tongue of the sufferer. It was the

last office of friendship, and I yielded it, though reluctantly, to her

earliest and dearest friend. Monotonous the hours were, but not long. We

would have made them longer if we could, for though the waning life

before us was but the faintest shadow of the life we had companioned

with, we were loath to lose it--to face the blank that would be left

when it was gone.

One, two, three o'clock sounded, and still no perceptible change; but

soon after the breathing became shorter, a slight film gathered on her

eyes, and we stood in the presence of the last great mystery. Shorter

and shorter grew the breath, deeper and deeper the film, till, just as

the first gray light showed itself in the eastern horizon, came the last

sigh, and Mrs. Simmons, leaning forward, exclaimed in a low voice, 'It

is over.' As for me, I buried my face in the pillow and wept

unrestrainedly.

In a hospital the day treads closely on the night, and soon the morning

came. We retired to our apartment for rest, but we could not sleep. We

could only think of our loss, and after an hour or two we rose, somewhat

rested, but not refreshed. Ever since my first acquaintance with

Laetitia Sunderland, I had eagerly desired to learn her previous life.

Glimpses of it I had obtained, but I wanted it as a whole, and now I was

with one, perhaps for the last time, who could give me a full account of

it. It was an opportunity not to be lost, and while partaking of our

morning coffee, I asked Mrs. Simmons if she would tell me what I so

longed to know. She willingly assented, and as I was relieved from duty

for the day, and the morning was mild and beautiful, we sought a rustic

seat in the garden, and there in a little nook retired from view, I

heard the story of that life to which my own during the past year had

been so closely knit.

'There is one thing,' said Mrs. Simmons, 'in regard to our friend, to

which we have never alluded, and which, perhaps, you would rather have

me now pass over; but on that very thing her whole character and history

turn, and to omit it would leave nothing worth the telling--I mean her

personal appearance.

'When I was a child, my parents moved into the suburbs of Condar, and as

there were no houses between ours and Mr. Sunderland's, the two families

soon became well acquainted. On the day that I was ten years old, my

mother told me there was a baby girl at Mrs. Sunderland's, and said she

would take me to see it. I was delighted, and wanted to go immediately,

but mother said I must wait till to-morrow. To-morrow came, and I was

sick; and at last the baby was a week old when I was taken, the happiest

little mortal in existence, into that upper room where the little one

lay in its nurse's arms. I looked at it, and then at my mother.'

"What is the matter, Mary?' said she.

"It isn't a very pretty baby, is it, mother?'

"Oh it will grow prettier," said my mother, and with that I was

satisfied. I was extravagantly fond of babies, and this one I adopted as

my especial care, for there was no other in the neighborhood; and

besides, in my childish confusion of ideas, I supposed we were twins,

our birthdays being the same.

'From the time Laetitia first learned to speak, she came to me with all

her troubles and her interests, and I was always glad to be her

sympathizer, her counsellor, and her playmate. When she was five or six

years old she went to the nearest district school. She was always a

marked girl, from her extreme homeliness, her excellent scholarship, her

boldness in all active sports, and an odd humor which never failed to

interest and amuse. My mother's prophecy, alas! was not fulfilled. She

grew no prettier, but rather the reverse. She was the same in childhood

as when you knew her, with the high, bold forehead, crowned with white,

towy hair, small greenish-gray eyes, shaded and yet not shaded with

light yellowish eyelashes, short and thin; scanty eyebrows of the same

color; a nose so small and flat it seemed scarcely a projection from her

face; teeth tolerably good, but chin and mouth receding in a peculiar

manner, and very disagreeably; and a thick, waxy complexion, worse in

childhood than of late years, for the spirit had not then found its way

through it, as it did afterward. Moreover, by a singular malignancy of

fortune, when she was twelve years old, she was attacked with varioloid,

and taking a severe cold as she was getting well, had a relapse, and was

left as you see her, not closely marked, but sufficiently pitted to

attract attention.

'My parents thought more of education than the Sunderlands, and my

advantages were much better than Laetitia's. I went for some time to a

good select school in the town, and afterward two years to an excellent

boarding school. When Laetitia had learned all that her instructors in

the little district school could teach her, she came to me and begged

that I would let her read with me. I was very glad to do so, and soon

after my cousin and niece joined us. To those readings I am indebted for

some of the most delightful hours of my life. My pupils, as I used to

call them, were at that age when childhood is verging into womanhood,

and it was my delight to watch the first dawnings of consciousness in

their minds, the first awakening to the realities of life. Laetitia was

the youngest of the three, but she was as intelligent and mature as the

others. How well I remember the glow of enthusiasm with which she read

of the heroes and martyrs of old, the intense sympathy with which she

entered into the _amor patriæ_ of the Greek and Roman, and her fervent

admiration for the nobleness of action which this feeling called forth

in them!

'The second year I began to see the development of new sentiments. The

romance of life, as well as its heroism and duties, was revealed to

them. Pieces of poetry which before had been read listlessly, or with

only a distant apprehension of their meaning, were now full of interest.

The sentiment which had passed unnoticed, now kindled their imaginations

with delight; and there came, too, all the new attentions to dress and

looks which first show themselves at this time. Life lay before them,

golden and beautiful, and they saw all its shining angels coming to meet

them--love, friendship, duty, praise, self-sacrifice, each with a joy in

her hand, but the sorrow was concealed from their eyes, or, rather, was

but another form of joy. They admitted its probability, but it was with

the disguised pleasure which we feel in the troubles of the heroines of

romance.

'Laetitia shared these feelings with the others, though with less

reason; but her thought and imagination were so vivid, and gave color so

completely to her life, that it would have been as absurd for her as for

them to have looked at the probabilities of the case. Never once did she

say to herself, that to one in her circumstances, life would most likely

be full of disappointments and commonplace incidents. But time, the

great revealer, soon opened to her those pages which her wisest friend

would not have dared to show her so early.

'One evening I went to Mrs. Sunderland's on some trivial errand. The

family were all out excepting Laetitia, whom I found sitting by the

window, in the dark, with her head resting on her hand. Her manner

indicated great depression; and I looked at her a moment and said, 'My

dear child, what is the matter with you this evening?'

'Her head dropped upon the table, and she burst into tears. She

continued to weep and sob, till, seeing she was not relieved, I put my

hand upon her shoulder and said, 'Laetitia, Laetitia, don't cry so.'

'Don't call me Laetitia,' she replied. 'I shall never be Laetitia

again.'

'The answer seemed melodramatic, but I knew she was suffering. Still I

responded lightly: 'Oh yes, you will be Laetitia many, many times yet.

'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,' you

know.'

'She did not reply, and we sat a while in silence, till at length I

begged of her to tell me the cause of her grief, just to see if I could

not help her. I think she wanted to tell it, for she tried two or three

times, but could not get any further than 'Yesterday afternoon'--At last

she said, 'I have a very great trouble; it will never be any less as

long as I live, and it will forever keep me from being happy. I _cannot_

tell it to you: can you help me without knowing it?'

'This was a new appeal, and I did not know how to answer it, but a

thought came to me, and I replied: 'Go and tell God about it.'

'This I said at a venture, for, old as I was, I had never called upon

Him in deep distress, and I did not know what the effect would be; but I

saw immediately that the advice was unexpected, and seemed to meet the

exigency.

'Her mother's voice was at that moment heard at the door, and I went out

to give Laetitia an opportunity of slipping off to her room without

meeting the family.

''Have you seen 'Titia?' said Mrs. Sunderland to me.

''Yes, she has just gone to her room.'

''Well, I don't know what's the matter with the child since last night,

she's acted so queer. I 'spect she'll get over it, though; she always

did have tantrums.'

'In one sense, however, she never did get over it, and it was many years

before she really recovered much of her old light-heartedness, although

she had an appearance of it to superficial companions. For a long time

her inner life was shut from the view of her friends; but I am at

present able to read it for you, partly from what she herself told me

afterward, and partly from that insight which we all have into those

lives and experiences with which we are in sympathy.

'One afternoon she left me very happy and gay, and went to see a friend

near the town. She was returning slowly toward home, satisfied with

herself, and enjoying intensely the beauty of the season, when she saw

two ladies approaching her. They were strangers, and she looked at them

with interest, attracted by their pleasing faces and graceful bearing.

As they passed her, she overheard one of them say in an undertone, 'What

a frightfully homely girl!'

'There could be no mistake. She only was meant, and the words went like

a sharp dagger to her heart.

'While she was thinking how charming they were, she to them appeared

only frightful. The whole future in an instant opened before her, and

she saw herself, as she moved through it, constantly exciting, wherever

she went, only repulsion in the minds of strangers and friends.

'All the charm and interest of life fled at the moment. That day and the

next she was in a stupor of grief, from which she was first awakened by

my tones of sympathy. My advice, too, opened a door of relief by giving

her something to _do_. For the first time she remembered there was a

Being who knew all about her sorrow, knew it was coming, understood its

cause, and its effects. This Being she could open her mind to, and only

to Him. He would not be surprised, and He would not annoy her with

sympathy which could not cure and would only irritate. She knelt down,

and with minute fidelity told Him every thought of her heart. The next

day she felt cheerful--she thought she was resigned; but it was only the

reaction caused by the tears and confession of the previous night, and

it soon passed away. The words 'frightfully homely' echoed and re-echoed

through her heart. All that was dreary, hopeless, and miserable

clustered around them, and shut out from her the bright, happy life of

the past. Her duties were performed as before. With others she was

sufficiently animated; but when alone, she was wretched. Thus the months

rolled on, till they became a year; and I, who had never been deceived

by her occasional liveliness, began to think what I could do to change

the current of her thoughts, which seemed to have no tendency to change

of themselves.

'But Laetitia's life was not all feeling. Feeling suffers passively,

with greater or less endurance, according to the strength of the

physical frame, but the intellect always seeks a remedy for sorrow. It

seemed horrible to her that she of all the world--of all her world, at

least--should be so homely that no one could look on her without pain.

It was intolerable, it ought not to have been, but it _was_ permitted,

it must be. Rebellion came of course, bitter rebellion, but it could do

no good. There was the fate, it was impossible to escape it. What then?

Drag through a miserable life till death came happily to relieve it? She

was too young. Fifty, sixty years of travel over a dreary, barren waste,

with no joy upon it? No, no, she could not do it--suicide first. But

suicide was wrong, and could never be resorted to. There _must_ be some

relief elsewhere. Where was it? what was it?

'Continual dropping will wear away a stone, and continual thinking will

wear a hollow into the stoniest of mysteries. At length, through all the

mists of proximate causes and natural laws, some glorious truths became

clear to her. The near and the visible receded to their proper

importance, and she learned to hold principles and ideas more dear than

the externals which embody them. She saw that God loves His children

equally, and though the laws of nature must take their course, there is

room for each result in His design; and in the infinite of His heart and

His work each individual has place and purpose. She found, too, that

angels laden with joy might descend and ascend between His soul and hers

without a ladder made of earthly triumphs and successes. Thus in place

of rebellion came happy acquiescence.

'But she was not yet contented. She was convinced that there was a life

for her which she could not or would not lead if she were like others;

but this life she could not find. She saw no intimations of it in

herself. She had no genius for any special thing, and she continued

restless and disturbed, wondering what it was appointed to her to do. At

length it came to her.

'One day, as she was passing the house of her physician, through the

open window she saw and heard that which induced her to go in and offer

her services. A man in a disgusting stage of intoxication had cut his

arm badly, and had come to have it bound up. His little child was with

him, shrieking with terror, her face and clothes covered with dirt. The

doctor roughly and with ill-concealed repugnance was caring for the

wound, while the cook, with no attempt at concealment, was loudly

expressing her disapprobation of the whole proceeding. Laetitia assisted

the doctor, and washed off the blood; then took the child home with her,

bathed her, gave her clean clothes and a dinner, and sent her away with

a new happiness in her heart. While she was doing all this, she found

what she had been seeking. There are very many things in this world

disagreeable in the extreme, which ought to be done with interest, with

care, with _love_. Why should she not undertake to do them? In

themselves they would be repugnant, but _she_ would do them for God, and

she loved her Heavenly Father so well that the hardest thing done for

Him would be the sweetest. In a day or two the feeling settled itself:

it was firmly impressed upon her mind that in these employments she

would have rest.

'One morning, about two years perhaps after the first day of her sorrow,

she dropped into my room with something of her old suddenness, and,

after the customary greetings, said simply: 'I am happy again now.'

''You need not tell me that: I can see it in your face.'

'The pleased expression remained for a moment, and then an intensely

black cloud fell upon her countenance. She said nothing more, and in a

few minutes went away. You see how it was--by one of those freaks by

which the imagination loves to torture us, my remark recalled her whole

misery and its unalterable cause, and having lost for the time the

keynote to her new-found joy, the other took entire possession of her

mind and overwhelmed it. In a few days she came back to me, and I said:

'I pained you when you were here before. I do not know how, but I am

very sorry.'

'You did pain me, but you were entirely innocent. Afterward it grieved

me still more that I _was_ pained--that what you said had the _power_ to

pain me. I will tell you all, if you will hear it;' and, without waiting

for my answer, she gave me the key to the last two years of her life.

'She finished, but I had nothing to reply. She had said all. Hitherto I

had led her, but now her experience was deeper than mine. Besides, I

could then less than ever understand the life that was opening before

her, for I had just yielded my heart and promised my hand to one whom I

loved; and though I by no means thought it impossible that she, too,

might have tried the same path, yet I knew she thought so; and I could

not conceive how she could look forward with contentment to a life in

which that element of happiness was wanting. I could only assure her of

my own warm affection, an assurance which gave her a pleasure that it

always makes me happy to think of.

'Notwithstanding the apparently contradictory evidence of her late

depression, her new experience was not precarious and uncertain: it was

firm, enduring, to be _rested_ upon in the most trying emergencies; yet

it was not, for many years, unwavering. During all that period of a

woman's life when looks and manners pass for so much, and the real

character for so little, she suffered at times greatly. As she went

onward, every new phase of the feelings which possess a girl's heart

brought with it its own pang, and each had to be overcome, some by

stifling, some by postponement to another existence, and others by

studying to dissever, if possible, the essential sentiment from the

shows in which it was imbedded. She was unwilling passively to outgrow

her trials, feeling that thereby she would lose the strength they were

intended to give. Her work, however, helped her more than anything. She

was not eager to enter upon it. She did not stretch forth impatient,

unskilled hands toward what her Father had designed for her. Entirely

confident, she was right, she was at ease, knowing her work would come

to her in the proper time, and it did.

'I must say something about this work of hers, else you will be misled.

She undertook to do that which others would not do, or would not do

well, owing to a natural dislike to the thing itself. Not intending to

become a drudge, she did not allow indolence or sentimentality to shift

upon her that which others would be all the better for doing themselves.

She knew what Master she served, and looked to Him for guidance, and not

to the wishes and opinions of her fellow mortals. Gradually she found

enough to do, first in her own house, and then outside. Friends and

acquaintances called upon her, philanthropic societies applied for her

services, surgeons and nurses sought her assistance, and even strangers

learned that there was one who would willingly do for them, in cases of

emergency, what they could not do, and what no wages could procure well

done. As her life became known, she obtained the respect of some, the

contempt of others, and the wonderment of most. I will not specify what

she did, for my story is already getting too long; but you would be

surprised to know how often she was needed.

'Her means, though small, were large enough to allow her to do most of

her work gratuitously, but she received sufficient pecuniary

compensation during the year to enable her to provide well for herself

and give much to others.

'In pursuing the duties of her vocation, she came in contact at one time

or another with almost every kind of misery, and though, from

familiarity, she ceased to be shocked at new forms of suffering, yet she

never became hardened, but each year grew more tender and sympathizing.

'In due time the practical workings of the great sin of the nineteenth

century came under her observation. She talked with fugitive slaves, and

all the pent-up fire within her burst forth in intense indignation. She

had not thought of the question before--it had not been in her way; but

now every feeling, her love of God, her love of country, her great

interest in human rights and destinies, conspired to make her throw her

whole soul into it, and she saw slavery as it is, its intense wickedness

and its fearful results. She looked with dismay at its effect upon the

country, its 'trail' upon everything in it, on church, on politics, on

society, on commerce, on manufactures, on education. There was nothing

which had not been corrupted by it--it was fast eating into the vitals

of religion and liberty. The more she studied the subject the more

earnest grew her feeling. But what should she do? She had not lost

self-love, that passion which never deserts us; but she had lost its

_glamour_--eyes that have wept much see clear--and she knew that the

least valuable offering which a woman without good looks, high position,

or great talent, can make to an unpopular cause, is--herself. So far

from her conspicuous support of a new thing being an encouragement and

assistance to others, it would be a hindrance: fear of being identified

with her would be another lion to be encountered in the path.

'She loved her cause better than she loved herself, and would not make

it more odious by any marked advocacy of it. It was a new trial to her,

but she did not murmur. One who in early youth has rebelled against the

very laws by which he has his existence, and has become reconciled, does

not go through life hitting his head against every projection which

society thrusts in his way. She did what she could. She cleared

_herself_, as far as possible, from all participation in the sin, gladly

avowed her views when called upon, and never hesitated to show, by

suitable words and acts, her sympathy with a despised people. Yet she

could not accomplish much. But if she did little for the cause, it did a

great deal for her. It broadened her life, enlarged her views, increased

her comprehension of the world's progress as revealed in history, and

brought her into closer sympathy with reformers of all ages. It gave her

a perpetual object of interest. It was like a great drama, whose acts

were years and whose scenes were continually passing before her. It gave

a new zest to life, made this world more real, and diminished her

longings for the next. In narrowing her friendships it made them more

vital and satisfactory; and being in communion with hundreds of other

minds in the country, reading their thoughts became almost like personal

intercourse with them, and was a new happiness to her. Studying daily a

subject of such vast complications, her mind perceptibly grew, and from

year to year she was able to grasp new and higher truths. She gained the

hatred of a few clear-sighted opponents, but most persons only ridiculed

her, contemptuously wondering why she should pursue this course when her

interest lay so clearly the other way. But she was now far beyond the

reach of such weapons.

'I have given you, thus, a sketch of the history and character of

Laetitia, but I cannot reproduce her as she appears to my own mind. You

must fill up the outlines from your own personal knowledge. I fear I

have rendered her too intense, and, perhaps, too sombre. Intense she

certainly was, but it did not oppress one in ordinary intercourse; and

she was not at all sombre. After she recovered fully from her youthful

grief, her elasticity of temperament returned, and her love of fun. She

looked on the bright side of all things, and was full of encouragement

and hope for her friends. To me, besides being, during the last five

years particularly, a valuable friend and adviser--no one but myself can

know how valuable--she was always an interesting companion. And yet she

was not generally liked. She was seldom understood. Her life was so

deep, her tone of thought so peculiar; and her dependence upon the

opinions of others so slight, that persons ordinarily could not 'make

her out,' as they said. Still she had very warm friends, and derived

great pleasure from their friendship. I have never seen any one derive

more. But she distrusted strangers; I mean their interest in her. She

did not expect new persons to care for her, and it took her a long while

to be sure that they did. I must myself confess, for the first and last

time, that until within two or three years I never met her after an

absence without being newly impressed with her exceeding homeliness. It

was a sin against friendship, I knew, and I was glad when I felt I was

free from it.'

'It was not so with me,' I said. 'After I became accustomed to her face

it never affected me unpleasantly. I did not see the features, but the

spirit which animated them.'

'Yes, you were with her continually, and, besides, she must have been so

completely identified in your mind with the relief of pain, that you

could think of her only as an angel of mercy. It was a great advantage

to her that she was always scrupulously neat in her dress and person;

and her clothes, too, were well put on, if without a great deal of

taste.

'Upon the whole, her life was a happy one, though not perhaps triumphant

except in periods of exaltation, for there was a large part of her

nature unsatisfied; but she was thoroughly contented, willingly living

as long as was necessary, glad to go whenever the time came. She never

expected to die young, but she did; she was only thirty-six.'

'She seemed older,' I said.

'Yes, she always looked older than she was, and then she had lived so

much that she necessarily impressed one as being old.

'She followed,' continued Mrs. Simmons, resuming her narrative, 'with

increasing interest the progress of the grand anti-slavery drama, until

that winter which, in defiance of all mathematical measurements, every

American _knows_ to be the longest in the annals of his country. With

fixed attention she watched every event, every indication. What next

would come she could not see, but she felt sure she should have some

part in it, whatever it was. At length the signal gun pealed forth, the

first shot was fired, the spell was broken. She wrote me, 'America calls

her sons and daughters. Up! up! to work! all true-hearted men and women!

live for me, die for me, and your reward shall be everlasting. There is

a work for all, for all who love freedom, for all who love democracy,

for all who love humanity, for all who love right law, union, and

peace.'

'She felt that all her life had been preparing for this moment. Averse

to war as she was from instinct and principle, she yet believed it

necessary in the progress of the world, and her clear eyes scattered all

the sophisms which made both sides partly wrong and partly right. She

looked only at essential principles, and she saw that on one side was

God, and in the current of His good will to men they were fighting; on

the other was Satan, and by whatever plausible arguments he might

deceive some, he could never do aught but cause and perpetuate evil. Her

mind was quickly made up, and she asked me in her letter what steps she

should take. I sent for her to come to me, and we applied to a committee

to receive her as nurse. A great many questions were asked her, and then

her application was accepted; but she was kept waiting for the final

answer more than a week. Fast as heads and hearts and hands moved in

those days, still time could not be annihilated--it must have its place

in every work. I was present when her case was discussed.

''I think she is an enthusiast,' said one; 'I am sure she will not do.'

''We are all enthusiasts now,' answered another; 'that does not make any

difference.'

''I don't believe she is,' exclaimed a pretty young woman; 'behind such

a face there can be only a very matter-of-fact mind.'

'A tall, cold-looking lady said: 'No, she is a devotee; I know it by her

manner. We do not want such persons.'

''I do not think we can afford to lose her services,' interrupted

another, who had been looking over a pile of papers. 'Listen to her

testimonials. Here is one from Dr. Weston, another from the Rev. Mr.

Samuels, and others. Listen, she is just the one we want.'

All listened, and when Laetitia came, after another flood of questions,

her credentials were given her. During this delay, though she was, like

all the rest of us, at white heat regarding her country, she was

entirely quiet about herself. I asked her what she would do if she were

not accepted. 'I shall go,' said she, 'whatever obstacles are thrown in

the way.' She started very soon for the seat of war. I came here with

her to see that she had everything she needed, and you know the rest

better than I do.'

Yes, I knew the rest, for I had been with her ever since.

Though a resident of Washington, I was not 'to the manor born,' but a

'mudsill' from Vermont, and when the war broke out I applied to be

received into the hospitals, but was refused on account of want of

experience. Intent, notwithstanding, upon making my services necessary,

I passed part of every day in one or other of them. One day I noticed a

new comer. Her head was bent down as I approached her; but when I

passed, she looked up for a moment, and I had a glimpse of her face.

'That is the homeliest face I ever saw,' said I to myself. It will be a

perpetual annoyance to me. I am sorry she has come.' The next day I was

again in that hospital, and, standing near a door which opened into a

side room, I overheard a conversation going on between a surgeon and a

lady. It was not of a private nature, and I kept my place and listened

to it. I was charmed by the agreeable tones of the lady, her well-chosen

words, and the great good sense and tender kindness of her remarks. 'I

must know that woman,' said I, 'she will be a treasure if she is going

to stay here.' She came out, and I recognized the homely nurse of the

previous day. I was astonished, but my prejudice was entirely disarmed.

I soon made her acquaintance, and gradually established myself as her

assistant, until, at her request, I was allowed to take up my abode in

the building.

Her presence in the hospital was soon evident. The surgeons found with

surprise that her skill and knowledge were equal to every requirement,

that she shrank from no task, however fearfully repelling it might be,

and they quickly began to avail themselves of her womanly deftness. To

the soldiers she was a perpetual blessing. Every means which her

thoughtful experience could suggest she put in requisition to soothe

their pain or strengthen them to bear it. Nature, who never denies all

gifts to any of her children, had given her a good voice, not powerful,

but sweet and penetrating, and often, when all else failed, I have seen

her lull a patient to sleep with some favorite tune set to appropriate

words. Priceless indeed were her services, and priceless was the

recompense she received.

But for the humor that peeped out occasionally in Miss Sunderland, to an

ordinary observer her character--as she moved unambitiously through the

wards, doing always the right thing at the right time, unexpectant of

blame and regardless of praise, obeying directions apparently to the

very letter, yet never allowing the mistakes or carelessness of the

director to mar her own work--would have seemed almost colorless; but I

have never considered myself an ordinary observer where character is

concerned, and I soon saw that hers was not the unreasoning goodness of

instinct, that it derived life and tone from a past full of culture and

discipline. I noticed in her three things particularly: First, complete

and unusual happiness, a happiness entirely independent of the incidents

of the day. It was as if an unclouded sun were perpetually shining in

her heart. This came, I knew afterward, from the fact that she was

serving the cause she loved most, that she was doing her work well, and

that through it and connected with it she found place for all her best

qualities and highest knowledge. Second, her thorough refinement.

Without, as I perceived, hereditary breeding, and without conventional

pruderies, she had a rare purity and elevation of feeling, which exerted

a manifest and constant influence, sadly needed in a soldiers' hospital.

Third, her life within. From choice, not from necessity, her life

continually turned upon itself; from within she found her chief motive,

sanction, and reward, and this took from her intercourse with others all

pettiness, and made their relations to herself uncommonly truthful.

From time to time, as the scene of battle shifted, we removed to other

hospitals, I always accompanying Miss Sunderland; but at last, in the

spring, we again got back to Washington. The battles all around were

raging fearfully, and the wounded were continually brought to us in

scores. Day and night Miss Sunderland was engaged. Usually careful of

herself in the extreme, she seemed now to forget all prudence.

'You cannot endure this,' said I one day to her. 'Your first duty is to

take care of your health.'

'No, no,' said she, 'my first duty is to save the lives of these men;

the second, to take care of my health for their future benefit; but I

cannot give out now. Don't you see how necessary my work is?'

'Yes, I see it,' I replied. 'I don't know how you could spare yourself,

but it does not seem right that you should be entirely worn out.'

'Yes, it _is_ right,' answered she; 'a life saved now is of as much

consequence as one saved next year. I am useful at this time, for I

understand my profession; but others are learning the art of nursing in

no feeble school, and if I die, you will find plenty of new comers ready

to fill my place.'

I knew from this that she anticipated the result, yet neither did I

myself see how it could be avoided; but I resolved to watch and spare

her all I could.

During all the year, notwithstanding her unceasing cares, she had kept

herself well informed on public affairs. She knew every incident of the

war, and particularly all its moral defeats and victories. At one time

defeats of both kinds seemed to come thick and fast. She would shudder

sometimes, as she laid down the newspaper, and say: 'This prolongs the

war such a time;' weeks, months, or years, as it might be; but she never

was really disheartened. She did not doubt that the contest, when it did

come to a conclusion, would end in the triumph of the right, in the

triumph of freedom, in the regeneration of the nation; and her courage

never yielded, her resolution never faltered, till one day in the latter

part of May.

She went out then in the afternoon to breathe the fresh air she so much

needed, but in a half hour came back with a new look in her face. A

stern, forbidding expression did not leave her during the day, and at

night she tossed about on her bed, wakeful and disturbed. At length she

rose, and sat for more than an hour by the window in the darkness,

seeking that peace which had left her so unaccountably. A new thought,

in time, took possession of her. She went back, and slept. In the

morning she called me to her, and told me that on the previous day she

had seen a black man knocked down in the streets of Washington and

carried in chains to slavery. Then she said in earnest tones: 'Child'

(she always called me _child_, though I was not much younger than

herself), 'have you in your life done all that you could do against this

abomination?'

'No,' said I.

'You hate it?' She asked; 'you understand its vileness, and hate it?'

'Yes, I do now, from the bottom of my heart.'

'Will you not promise me that until you die, you will, regardless of

self, use every effort in your power against it?'

'I will, in all solemness and truth.'

She was satisfied, and said no more, for she never wasted words, and I

recognized this as her legacy to me. The next day she was taken ill. I

immediately sent for Mrs. Simmons, who thought she would be able to take

her home with her; but before she arrived, I saw it would not be

possible. Her only hope of recovery was in remaining where she was.

Mrs. Simmons came, and Miss Sunderland, notwithstanding our careful

preparations, was so overcome with emotion at meeting her old friend,

that for some time she could scarcely speak. After this warmth of

feeling had subsided, she looked up in her face with a pleasant smile,

and said:

'I was well named, after all. I have entered into the joy of my Lord.'

The next day she had an earnest talk with her friend on the present

state of the country. Her faith had returned through intuition, but the

grasp of her intellect was weakened by disease, and she could not see

clearly the grounds of it. Mrs. Simmons, though she had, like the rest

of us, seasons of doubt, was in a very hopeful mood that morning,

hopeful for our leading men, for the common people, and for the tendency

of events; and she explained the reasons for her belief that the

enormities of that period were no new crime, but a remnant of the old

not to be eradicated at once, any more than it is possible for an

individual to turn from great baseness to real goodness without some

backslidings, even after the most unmistakable of conversions. Miss

Sunderland was satisfied, the future again became clear to her, and

after that she seemed to lose interest in the details of affairs. Her

thoughts and conversation were filled with heaven and a regenerated

earth.

We clung to hope as long as possible, but she herself saw the end of the

disease from the beginning. She talked with us, and with the soldiers

who were permitted to see her, as long as she was able. Wise words she

spoke, and words ever to be remembered; but at last weakness overcame

her, and her life was but a succession of gasps. One morning, after

being unconscious for many hours, she opened her eyes wide and looked at

us. She glanced from one to the other, and then, fixing her gaze on Mrs.

Simmons, said:

'Mary, I am glad--I am glad'--but she was too weak, she could not finish

the sentence. Again she essayed. We heard the words 'frightfully

homely,' but we could not catch the rest. The light faded from her eyes,

and we thought we had seen the last expression of that wise and vigorous

mind; but the next day the bright, conscious look came again into her

face, but it gave no evidence of recognition, though ardent affection

sought eagerly for it. For a moment she lay still, and then said, in a

feeble but distinct voice:

'It is better to enter into life maimed and halt than, having two hands

and two feet, to be cast into hell.' A half hour afterward she said

softly, as if to herself:

'The joy of my Lord.'

They were her last words. She relapsed into unconsciousness, and

lingered till the dawn of the next day, when she went to join that

glorious and still-increasing band of martyrs who have been found worthy

to die for our country.

SIMONY.

Thou hast diamonds and emeralds and greenbacks,

Thou hast more than a mortal can crave;

Thou canst make a big pile, yet be honest,

Contractor--oh, why wilt thou shave?

NATIONAL ODE.

SUGGESTED BY THE PRESIDENT'S PROCLAMATION OF JANUARY 1, 1863.

I.

Shine forth upon the earth,

Bright day of dedicated birth,

And breathe in thundering accents thy command!

A mighty nation's heart awake,

Her self-enwoven fetters shake,

And vivify the pulses of the land!

Arising from the past

With stormy clouds o'ercast,

And darkened by a long-enduring night,

The Future's child and Freedom's--seraph bright!

Arise great day, and legions of the free,

Beneath thy conquering flag, lead forth to victory.

II.

Great Freedom dead! Foul thought

From lies of vaunting Treason caught,

And Fear's pale minions, wrapped in sorrow's pall.

Great Freedom dead! In God-like power,

'Tis Freedom rules e'en this dread hour,

And guides the tempest 'neath whose blows we fall.

Yea! War and Anarchy

Discord and Slavery,

And drunken Death, and all these tears

Shaking our hearts with unaccustomed fears--

E'en these are Freedom, waiting to arise

In glad eternal triumph from her foul disguise.

III.

Our country's glory slain!

Her kingdom rent and torn in twain!

Her strong foundations crumbling into dust!

With Truth's shield armed, and sword of light,

Speak thou, Columbia, in thy might,

Unharmed by thy false children's hate and lust.

Arise--no more betrayed

By fears too long obeyed,

And bid, from shore to distant shore,

Ten million voices, like the ocean's roar,

In one full chorus gloriously proclaim

The pride and splendor of thy star-immortal fame.

IV.

Arise! no more delay!

Arise! For this triumphant day

Shall crush the serpent cherished in thy breast.

E'en now the slimy coils unfold,

The venomed folds relax their hold,

The tooth is drawn that stung thee from thy rest.

Arise! For with a groan

Falls Slavery from his throne!

While, seizing Song's immortal lyre,

And girt afar with Heaven's Promethean fire,

Eternal Freedom, winged with prophecy,

Awakes, in swelling chords, the Anthem of the FREE.

V.

No more Conspiracy,

With Treason linked and Anarchy,

Shall dig, with secret joy, their country's grave.

No more thy waning cheek shall pale,

Thy trembling limbs with terror fail,

Thy bleeding wounds Heaven's balsam vainly crave.

Uplift thy forehead fair,

And mark the monstrous snare

Of subtle foes, who sucked thy fainting breath,

And yielding thee to the embrace of death,

Awaited the fulfilment of their reign,

To shed thy lovely limbs dismembered o'er the plain.

VI.

No more, degenerate,

And heedless of their darkening fate,

Shall thine own children revel in thy woes--

Enchained to Mammon's loathsome car,

Led on by War's red, baleful star,

No longer shall they sell thee to thy foes--

No more abandoned, bare,

Piercing with shrieks the air,

Thy millioned slaves shall lift on high

Their black, blank faces, dragging from the sky

The curse, which, riding on the viewless wind,

Sweeps Ruin's hurricane o'er all of human kind.

VII.

No longer in sad scorn

Shall Freedom wander forth forlorn,

Forsaking her false kingdom in the West,

Quitting a world too sunk in crime

To heed that glorious light sublime--

No longer shall she hide her burning crest--

No more her children's cries

In vain appeal shall rise,

While ruthless War's fierce earthquake shocks

With throes convulsive thy dominion's rock,

And tyrants, in their proud halls, celebrate

The anguish of a nation tottering to her fate.

VIII.

Thy courts no more defiled,

Thy people's hearts no more beguiled!

What foes, what dangers shall Columbia fear?

Prosperity and holy Peace

Within thy borders shall increase--

The Future's dawning glory draweth near!

The vine-clad South shall rest

Upon her brother's breast,

And, smiling in the glory of his worth,

Her teeming wealth and sunny gifts poured forth,

While tributes of the world's full treasures blent

With tides of plenty lave the love-girt continent!

IX.

Joy! Joy! Awake the strain,

And still repeat the glad refrain

Of Liberty, resounding to the sky.

Around thee float thy sacred dead,

Whose martyr blood for thee was shed,

Whose angel choirs, celestial, hover nigh!

Joy! Joy! No longer weep:

Rich harvests shalt thou reap,

Whose seeds, in tears and anguish sown,

With bounteous rapture thy rich feasts shall crown,

When, rising to fulfil thy destiny,

Thou leadest the nations on to Peace and Liberty.

X.

Hail then to thee, great day,

Bright herald of the coming sway

Of Truth immortal and immortal Love--

Uplift in fuller strains thy voice,

Call all the nations to rejoice,

And grasp thy olive--Time's long-promised dove!

No longer tempest-tost,

Redeem dark ages lost;

And may the work by thee begun

Ne'er pause nor falter 'till yon rising sun

Beholds the flag of Promise, now unfurled

'Neath Freedom's conquering smile, extending o'er the world.

THE SURRENDER OF FORTS JACKSON AND ST. PHILIP, ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.

A complete history of the bombardment and subsequent surrender of Forts

Jackson and St. Philip, and of the brilliant passage of our fleet up the

Mississippi river, which resulted in the capitulation of New Orleans, is

yet wanting, to afford the public a full comprehension of all the

attendant circumstances, respecting which there appears to have been

some misunderstanding. The daring exploit of running by the forts must

be recorded as another evidence of the historic valor and coolness of

the American navy. No less renown will attach in future times to the

bombardment of the forts by the mortar fleet, conducted as it was

entirely on scientific principles, and proving the efficiency of

mortars, when used with discretion and with a knowledge of the

localities. The great destruction in the forts was only fully

ascertained after the surrender, and shows that the success of the

fleet, in passing them safely, depended, in a great measure, upon the

inability of greater resistance on the part of Fort Jackson.

A number of vessels, comprising the 'Western Gulf Squadron,' were

commanded by comparatively young officers, and that very important

branch of the same, the mortar flotilla, was mostly under the individual

guidance of captains (acting masters) selected from the merchant marine.

It became necessary for the navy department to select a

commander-in-chief (flag officer) and a commander for the mortar

flotilla, possessed of such qualities as to manage and render effective

the various branches of this peculiar combination of armed vessels, as

well as to inspire confidence and give satisfaction to their respective

commands.

The appointment of Captain David G. Farragut as flag officer of the

squadron, was acknowledged as a judicious one. He was popular in his

fleet, and has realized the expectations of the country. His personal

bravery was demonstrated during the hazardous passage of the

forts--while his ship was enveloped in flames, kindled from an opposing

fire raft--by his dashing attack on the Chalmette forts near New

Orleans, and his speedy reduction of the city.

The choice of a suitable commander for the mortar flotilla was less

difficult, inasmuch as this little fleet was a creation of the officer

who was chosen as its leader. David D. Porter, for gallantry and

ingenuity, for theoretical and practical seamanship, and for general

popularity among the officers of his own rank and date, has no superior

in the navy, and his appointment to this command was truly fortunate.

The squadron, after having rendezvoused at Key West and Ship Island,

arrived without any material detention, at the South West Pass of the

Mississippi. A want of acquaintance with the changes in the bar,

occasioned probably by the sinking of four or five rafts, flatboats, and

an old dry dock by the enemy, resulted in some delays, but the whole

squadron at length, with the exception of the frigate Colorado, got

safely over, and anchored twelve miles up the river at the head of the

passes.

The efficiency of mortars, elevated permanently at forty-five degrees,

depends chiefly upon an accurate knowledge of the distance to the object

to be fired upon. This distance determines the quantity of powder

necessary for the discharge, and the length of the fuses to be employed.

Captain Porter understood the impossibility of judging and estimating

distances and bearings correctly, particularly when the objects are for

the most part hidden from view, as was the case with the forts on the

wooded and crooked Mississippi, and had therefore requested of the

department the aid of a party from the U. S. coast survey, and the writer

of these notes had been detailed by Prof. A. D. Bache, the

superintendent of that work. One acting assistant, two sub-assistants,

and one aid were attached to the party, and the steam gunboat Sachem was

placed at their disposal. This vessel arrived in the Mississippi on the

11th of April. Captain Porter at once requested Mr. Gerdes to furnish a

reliable survey of several miles of the river, below and including the

fortifications. In this service a number of gunboats belonging to the

fleet and to the mortar flotilla accompanied the Sachem, partly to

afford protection, and partly to draw the enemy's attention from the

operations of the surveyors. Mr. Gerdes commenced work with his party on

the 13th of April, and continuing for five consecutive days, made a

reliable map of the river and its shores from the 'Jump' to and

including Forts Jackson and St. Philip, with their outworks and water

batteries; the hulks, supporting the chain across the river, and every

singular and distinguishable object along its banks. The survey was made

by triangulation carried forward simultaneously on both sides of the

river. Two coast survey signals were found, the 'Jump telegraph post,'

and 'Salt-work's chimney top,' of which the geodetic relations were

known, and the work was founded upon a base line connecting these two

points. Sub-assistant Oltmanns, and Mr. Bowie as aid, were detailed for

the west shore, Mr. Gerdes and acting assistant Harris taking the

eastern side, while sub-assistant Halter observed angles from permanent

stations. The angular measurements were made with all kinds of

instruments found suitable to the locality. Only a few of the stations

were on solid ground, nearly all the shore being overflowed. Frequently

the members of the party were compelled to mount their instruments on

the chimney tops of dilapidated houses. In other places boats were run

under overhanging trees on the shore, in which signal flags were

hoisted, and the angles measured below with sextants. It was very

satisfactory, however, that the last measurement determined (leading to

the flagstaff on St. Philip) agreed almost identically with the location

given by the coast survey several years ago. It seemed to be a regular

occupation of the garrison in the fort, to destroy, during the

night-time, the marks and signals which were left daily by the party;

and for this reason, Mr. Gerdes caused numbered posts to be set in the

river banks, and screened with grass and reeds so that they could not be

found by the enemy in the dark. From these marks, which were separately

determined, he was enabled to furnish to Captain Porter the distances

and bearings, from almost any point on the river to the forts, and by

the resulting data the commander selected the positions for his mortar

vessels.

On the 17th day of April the mortar schooners were moved to their

designated positions, and the exact distances and bearings of each

vessel being ascertained from the map, were furnished to the respective

captains. Then the bombardment fairly commenced, and was continued, with

only slight intermission, for six days. Twice Captain Porter ordered

some of the vessels to change their positions when he found localities

that would answer better; the coast survey party furnished the new data

required. From the schooners, which were fastened to the trees on the

riverside, none of the works of the enemy were visible, but the exact

station of each vessel and its distance and bearings from the forts had

been ascertained from the chart. The mortars were accordingly charged

and pointed and the fuses regulated. Thus the bombardment was conducted

entirely upon theoretical principles, and as such with its results,

presents perhaps a new feature in naval warfare. When the whole number

of shells discharged from the flotilla is compared with those that fell

and left their marks on the dry parts of Fort Jackson (to which must be

added, in the same ratio, all those falling in the submerged parts), the

precision of the firing appears truly remarkable, and must command our

highest admiration, particularly when we consider that every shot was

fired upon a _computed_ aim.

During the days of the bombardment, the exact damage done to the forts

could not be ascertained. A deserter from the garrison came to the fleet

and stated that Jackson was a complete wreck, but his information was

considered rather doubtful. After six days' firing, when the forts

showed no disposition to surrender, and when our stock of ammunition was

considerably reduced, Captain Porter submitted to the flag officer a

plan for passing with the fleet between the forts. The order to pass the

forts was given on the 23d of April, and a favorable reference in this

order was made to Captain Porter's plan. On the morning of the 24th of

April, at three o'clock, the fleet got under weigh. The steam gunboats

of the flotilla ran up close to the western fort and engaged the water

battery and the rampart guns, and from the mortar vessels a shower of

shells was thrown into the besieged work. This bombardment made it

impossible for the leaders of the enemy to keep their men on the

ramparts. Three times they broke, although they were twice driven back

to their guns at the point of the bayonet. From Fort St. Philip a much

greater resistance was offered to the ships in their passage up between

the works, as that fort had not been (comparatively speaking) so

effectively attacked, nor had it suffered previously nearly so much as

the other from the mortars of Captain Porter. That the resistance of

Jackson was much slighter on this occasion, is further demonstrated, by

the fact, that our ships received little injury from the port side (Fort

Jackson), while nearly all the shot holes were found to be on the

starboard, the Fort Philip side.

After the fleet had thus passed the stronghold of the enemy, and

destroyed ten or twelve of his armed steamers, the famous ram 'Manassas'

among them, Captain Farragut gallantly ascended the river, took and

occupied the quarantine, where he paroled the garrison, and then

continued his course for New Orleans. In the mean time, it had been

ascertained, that the iron-clad battery Louisiana, fourteen guns, and

two or three other armed steamers of the enemy were still unharmed near

the forts, and it appeared therefore precarious, for Captain Porter to

remain with his mortar schooners (all sailing vessels) quite unprotected

and liable to momentary attack from such overpowering structures. He

consequently despatched them to the gulf, to watch and cut off in the

rear all communication with the forts, while he remained with the few

steam gunboats of the flotilla, at the station occupied during the

bombardment. The Sachem, commanded by Mr. Gerdes, he had sent east of

Fort St. Philip, to aid Major-General Butler in landing troops by the

back bayou, leading to the quarantine. This duty was successfully

executed by the coast survey party. They sounded the channel, and buoyed

it out with lamps, and thus facilitated the landing of about one

thousand five hundred soldiers during the night in boats and launches of

the transports.

By this time, flag officer Admiral Farragut had successfully silenced

the extensive batteries of Chalmette, and finally appeared with his

fleet before New Orleans.

LIST of the Mortar Flotilla, attached to the

Western Gulf Squadron, under the command

of Com. D. D. PORTER.

STEAMERS.

STEAMER DIVISION.

_Harriet Lane_, Lt. Com. J. M. Wainwright.

Flagship of Com. D. D. Porter.

_Westfield_, Com. W. B. Renshaw.

_Owasco_, Lt. Com. J. Guest.

_Clifton_, Act. Lt. Com. Charles Baldwin.

_Jackson_, Lt. Com. S. E. Woodsworth.

_Miami_, Lt. Com. A. D. Harrel.

_Sachem_, Ass't. Coast Survey, F. H. Gerdes.

MORTAR VESSELS.

FIRST DIVISION

_Norfolk Packet_, Schooner, Lt. Com. W. Smith.

_Oliver H. Lee_, " Act. Mas. W. Godfrey.

_Para_, " Act. E. G. Furber.

_C. P. Williams_, " Act. A. R. Langthorn.

_Arletta_, " Act. T. E. Smith.

_W. Bacon_, " Act. W. P. Rogers.

_Sophronia_, " Act. L. Bartholomew.

SECOND DIVISION

_T. A. Ward_, " Lt. Com. W. W. Queen.

_M. J. Carlton_, " Act. Mas. Charles E. Jack.

_Mathew Vasser_, " Act. H. H. Savage.

_George Mangham_, " Act. J. Collins.

_Orvetta_, " Act. F. C. Blanchard.

_S. C. Jones_, " Act. J. D. Graham.

THIRD DIVISION

_John Griffith_, " Act. H. Brown.

_Sarah Bruen_, " Act. A. Christian.

_Racer_, " Act. A. Phinney.

_Sea Foam_, " Act. H. E. Williams.

_Henry James_, " Act. L. W. Pennington.

_Dan Smith_, " Act. G. W. Brown.

_Horace Beal_, Bark, Act. G. W. Summer.

The First Division Commanded by Lt. Com. W. Smith.

The Second Division Commanded by Lt. Com. W. W. Queen.

The Third Division Commanded by Lt. Com. K. R. Breese.

The Steamer Division Commanded by Com. W. B. Renshaw.

LIST of Vessels and Officers commanding

them, that passed up the river:

FIRST DIVISION, CAPT. T. BAILY, Commanding.

_Cayuga_, Lt. Com. N. B. Harrison.

_Pensacola_, Capt. Henry W. Morris.

_Mississippi_, Com. M. Smith.

_Oneida_, Com. S. P. Lee.

_Varuna_, Com. Charles S. Boggs.

_Katahdin_, Lt. Com. G. H. Preble.

_Wissahickon_, Lt. Com. A. N. Smith.

SECOND DIVISION, Fleet Captain H. H. BELL,

Commanding.

_Hartford_, Capt. R. Wainwright.

_Brooklyn_, Capt. Thomas T. Craven.

_Richmond_, Com. James Alden.

_Sciota_, Lt. Com. E. Donaldson.

_Iroquois_, Com. John De Camp.

_Pinola_, Lt. P. Crosby.

_Winona_, Lt. Com. Edward T. Nichols.

_Itasca_, Lt. Com. C. H. B. Caldwell.

_Kennebec_, Lt. Com. J. H. Russell.

When this fact became known to General J. K. Duncan, he accepted terms

for the surrender of Forts Jackson and St. Philip to Commodore Porter.

While negotiations were progressing on board the 'Harriet Lane,' between

our own and the confederate officers, (that vessel, and the Westfield,

Clifton, Jackson, and Owasco, were at anchor between the two forts, each

carrying a large white flag at the masthead,) the leaders of the enemy's

marine forces set fire to the iron-clad battery Louisiana, cast her

loose, and sent her adrift straight for our fleet. This dishonorable act

on the part of the enemy during a time of truce, and while their own

officers were in consultation with the commander of our forces, on board

of a United States vessel, might have resulted in a very serious

disaster to us, had not the magazine of the Louisiana exploded before

she reached the fleet, which it did in full view of our vessels, and not

far off. This explosion was succeeded by a crash, presenting a scene

such as has been rarely witnessed. After this fearful episode, the

capitulation was concluded, and both the forts, the garrison, the

armament, ammunition, stock, and provisions, were formally surrendered

to Commander Porter, of the mortar flotilla, and transferred by him, on

the next day, to Major-General Butler, commanding the United States army

in the Department of the Gulf.

Many contradictory opinions existed regarding the actual damage

inflicted by the bombardment, as well as by the broadside fire of the

passing fleet; and, Captain Porter desired Mr. Gerdes to make such a

survey of Fort Jackson, as would settle all doubts touching the matter

in question. Under his supervision, Acting Assistant Harris, aided by

the other members of his party, traced in their corresponding places on

the large existing detailed plan of the fort, all the injuries arising

from the attack. Every hole in the ground, (whether caused by the mortar

shells or round shot,) break in the walls, crack in the masonry, each

gun dismantled or disabled, the burnt citadel, the hospital and

outbuildings, the destroyed bridges and injured magazines, were noted by

actual measurement.

The levees, which before the attack had kept the high water of the

Mississippi from entering the fort, were found destroyed in numerous

places by bomb-shells. Much of the area of the fort was in consequence

overflowed. The number of balls and shells which fell in the inundated

parts, was estimated from the proportion found in the dry parts. In the

plan, the submerged parts were distinctly marked, and it plainly shows,

that hardly one quarter of the whole area remained dry or above the

level of the water.

From this survey the following statistics are gathered:

1. Number of 13 in. shells fired

from the mortar flotilla that fell

on solid ground 1,113

2. Number of shells purposely

exploded over the forts 1,080

3. Number of shells that fell in

overflowed ground (computed) 3,339

4. Number of round shot visible

on dry ground fired from the

fleet and the gunboat of the

flotilla 87

5. Number of round shot that

fell on overflowed ground

(computed) 261

6. The total destruction of the citadel

of the forts, of the hospitals, the outbuildings,

the magazines, the bridges,

and of thirteen scows for use in the

moat.

7. The very severe injury to the ramparts,

particularly on the northwest side

to the casemates, all along the front,

(which were cracked from end to end,)

to the levees, which were completely

riddled, and to the works in general.

The demolition was so great, that the

shell holes in the ground left hardly

anywhere a free passage for walking.

It is further ascertained from this survey, that the armament of the

fort consisted of fifty 32-pounders, seven columbiads, ten short guns,

three rifle guns, two brass field pieces, and three mortars, in all

seventy-five guns.

* * * * *

The following are extracts from Mr. Harris' report to Assistant Gerdes,

accompanying the plan, which was published by the Navy Department:

'My informant, (an intelligent and reliable eyewitness,)

voluntarily gave the credit of reducing the forts to the bomb

fleet. The fort was so much shaken by this firing, that it was

feared the casemates would come down about their ears. The loss of

life by the bombs was not great, as they could see them coming

plainly, and avoid them, but the effect of their fall and explosion

no skill could avert.

'About one shell in twenty failed to explode; even those that fell

in the water going off. It is worth noticing, that the bombs that

fell in the ditches close to the walls of the fort and exploded

there, shook the fort much more severely, than any of those that

buried themselves in the soft ground.

'The fort was in perfect order when the bombardment commenced, the

dirt which now disfigures everything is the accumulation of a few

days. The water did not enter the fort until the levee had been

broken by the bombs; during the summer of 1861, when the

Mississippi was even higher, the parade ground remained entirely

dry.'

The above statistics and information show, that the surrender of the

forts was caused by the terrific bombardment of the mortar fleet, a fact

which should always remain identified with the brilliant achievements,

that ended in the recapture of the second commercial city of our

country.

REASON, RHYME, AND RHYTHM.

All arts are one, howe'er distributed they stand,

Verse, tone, shape, color, form, are fingers on one hand.'

INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME FIRST.

The first volume of this work contains an inquiry into the principles of

art, and an attempt to present a rational solution of the delight felt

in the contemplation of Beauty. The related thoughts upon art and

beauty, found scattered almost at random over so many pages, and in so

many different tongues, have been brought together, and, closely linked

in logical sequences, placed in such connections that they now mutually

illustrate and corroborate one another. No longer drifting apart in the

bewildering chaos of multitudinous pages, they now revolve round a

common centre, the heart of all artistic beauty, through whose

manifestations alone it gains its power to charm the human soul: viz.,

'the infinite attributes of the Author of all true Beauty.'

These thoughts on Art and Beauty have been carefully compiled,

condensed, and arranged from many writers of eminence: Tissandier,

Ruskin, Schlegel, etc., etc.; and are interwoven with much original

matter, placing their great truths in new relations, and developing

their complex meanings. By working up _with them_ the thoughts suggested

_by them_, the author has sedulously endeavored to form them into a

whole of higher power.

The first volume being devoted to the theory of art, an attempt has been

made in the second to bring the more general thoughts to a focus, and

concentrate their light upon the vexed and confused subject of

versification. The second volume may indeed be considered as a 'Manual

of Rhythm,' for the most _practical_ rules are given for its

construction and criticism, and simple and natural solutions offered of

its apparent irregularities and anomalies; while examples of sufficient

length are cited from our most musical poets to give just ideas of the

characteristics and power of all the measures in use in English

versification.

That the book may prove useful to the reader, is the earnest wish of the

author!

* * * * *

LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO EUGENE B. COOK.

When the busy little sailor bird builds himself a nest in which he--with

his mate and their tiny brood--may swing secure through the sudden

storms of fitful springs, and find shelter from the heats of summer,

sewing it so tightly together that the rain cannot permeate it, nor the

wild winds waft away the light beams and rafters of the swinging home,

we do not quarrel with the little architect because he has industriously

gleaned such materials as were needed for his purpose, because he has

torn his leaves from the great forest book of nature. The leaves are

freely given by God, and the little builder has a natural right to play

the artist with them, if he can succeed in forming them into a _new

whole_, fitted for the maintenance of a higher order of life. Thus the

thoughts of great men are the common heritage of humanity.

Or, when we eat of the fragrant honey, we do not quarrel with the thymy

bees because they have blended for us the sweets of Hybla. The flowers

from which they were drawn are lovely and perfumed as before, but the

workers have made from them a _new whole_, in which the pilfered sweets

have gained a higher value from their perfect union. Those who prefer

the dewy juice as it exists in the plant, may use their own powers to

extract it, for the bee has not injured the flowers, and they may still

be found blooming in the keen mountain air; but let those who may not

scale the heights, nor work the strange transmutation, who yet love the

fragrant honey, eat--blessing the little artist for his waxen cells and

winged labor.

Who would quarrel with a friend because he had roamed through many a

clime to find flowers for a wreath woven for our pleasure? Virgin Lilies

from the still lakes of Wordsworth, Evergreens from the labyrinthine

forests of Schlegel, Palm from the holy hills of Tissandier, Amaranth

with the breath of angels fresh upon it from the Paradise groves of

Ruskin, interwoven with Passion Flowers and Anemones of his own

wilds,--shall we not acknowledge our wreath as a new whole, seeing that

the isolated fractions are raised to a higher power in becoming

essential parts of a new unity?

Eugene, the wreath of Lilies, Evergreen, Palm, and Amaranth--the honey

of Hybla--the many-leaved nest of the little architect, in which you may

swing through the storms of the finite, into the deep and cloudless blue

of the infinite,--are now before you!

Will you not look up from the fleshless and skeleton perfection of the

problemed forms, which start at your slightest touch from the formal

squares of the chess board,--forms which confuse me with their

complexity, bewilder me in the mazes of their ceaseless combinations,

dazzle me with their chill erudition, and appal me with want of

life,--and smile acceptance on the glowing gifts here lovingly tendered

you?

* * * * *

CONTENTS OF VOLUME FIRST.

CHAP. I, _Beauty._

CHAP. II, _The Soul of Art._

CHAP. III, _The Infinite._

CHAP. IV, _Unity._

CHAP. V, _Order, Symmetry, and Proportion._

CHAP. VI, _Truth and Love._

CHAP. VII, _The Artist and his Realm--The Ideal._

BEAUTY

'The awful shadow of some unknown Power

Floats, though unseen, among us, visiting

This various world with as inconstant wing

As summer winds that creep from flower to flower.'

SHELLEY.

A philosophical theory of poetry and the fine arts should consider, in

the first place, the fundamental and general laws of Beauty; in the

second place, analyze the faculties necessary for the perception or

creation of the Beautiful; and, in the last place, should strive to

account for the pleasure always experienced in its contemplation. Such

an analysis is necessary, as an introductory study, to the full and

complete comprehension of any specific branch of art.

On the other hand, every specific art has its own special theory,

designed to teach the limits of its means, and the difficulties peculiar

to the medium through which it is to manifest the Beautiful, with the

various rules by which it must be regulated in its realization of the

fundamental laws of Beauty.

A clear, deep, and comprehensive view of the origin and nature of the

Fine Arts, is the work most needed by the readers and thinkers of the

present century. Some noble attempts have indeed been made in this

direction, but, valuable as such essays may be, they do not yet

correspond to the growing, requisitions of the public mind. It is true

such a work would be one of great difficulty, exacting immense stores of

information, and highly cultivated tastes. The writer must possess the

logical power requisite for the most subtle analyses; he must have the

_creative_ genius to combine the scattered facts of natural beauty, with

their varied effects upon the human consciousness, into one great whole;

while, at the same time, the tenderness and susceptibility of the

_receptive_ genius must be equally developed in him. He should blend the

loving and devout soul of a Fra Angelico with the logical acumen of a

Bacon. How seldom is the creative genius sufficiently tender and humble

to be, in the full sense of the term, at the same time, _receptive_!

After its treatment of the philosophical theory of Art, such a work

should also throw its light upon the special theories, and more general

rules of specific arts; for such rules, when true, are never arbitrary,

but spring from the fundamental laws, of universal Beauty. They are but

the external manifestation, through material mediums, of eternal laws.

The compiler of the present article can offer no such great work to the

reader. An earnest effort will however be made to bring together the

related thoughts upon Art and Beauty. They are found scattered almost at

random over so many pages; to link them together by arranging them in

their logical sequences, placing them so that they will illustrate and

mutually corroborate one another: and, working up with them the thoughts

suggested by them, the author has labored to form of them a compact and

easily perused _whole._ For the ideas selected are _essentially

related_, and, scattered as they may have hitherto been, naturally

gravitate round a common centre. No longer drifting apart through the

chaos of multitudinous pages, they are now formed into a system of

order, a galaxy of which the central sun is--the Divine attributes as

manifested through the Beautiful.

If the writer shall succeed in suggesting to some lucid and

comprehensive mind the fact that a noble field for the culture of the

human heart and soul remains almost unexplored, and induce one worthy of

the task to undertake its cultivation; or if her humble work shall

induce one lover of pure art to direct his attention to the glorious

promises which it reveals to him of a closer communion with the Great

Artist, the beneficent Creator of the Beautiful--she will feel herself

more than compensated for her 'pleasant labor of love.'

All true art is symbolic; a thought, an idea, must always constitute the

significance, the soul of its outward form. The mere delusive

imitations, the servile copyings of the actual shapes of reality, are

not the proper objects of art. To form a master work of art, the idea

symbolized must be pure and noble; the technical execution, faultless.

No heavier censure can, however, be passed upon an artist, than that he

possesses only the technic or rhetoric of art, without having penetrated

to its subtle essence of forming thought.

Man is chiefly taught through _symbolism_. Living in a symbolic world of

sensuous emblems, he seeks in them a substitute for the wondrous powers

of immediate cognition which he lost in his fall. His highest

destination is _symbolical_, for is he not made in the Divine image?

Through the symbolism of the matter is the soul taught its first lessons

in the school of life: when it is known and felt that nature is but the

symbol of the Great Spirit, the instinct of our own immortality awakes.

In the Old Covenant, the twilight of faith was studded with the starry

splendor of a marvellous symbolism; and the new era of the ascending and

ever-brightening dawn still bears on its front the glittering morning

star of symbolic Christian art.

Notwithstanding its earthly intermixture, however it may have wandered

from its true source, however sensuous and worthless it may have become,

art, in its essence, is still divine. Men devoted to the pursuit of mere

material well being, have been too long in the habit of regarding poetry

and the arts as mere recreations, to be taken up at spare moments,

pursued when we have nothing better to do; as a relief for the ennui of

idleness, or an ornament for the centre table; without remembering how

many good and great men have given up their whole lives to its

advancement; without considering into how many hearts it has borne its

soothing lessons of faith and love.

Men look upon art as if it were to be pursued merely for the sake of

art, for the egotistic pleasure of the artist, and not as a moral power

full of responsibility and dignity. We might as well suppose that

science is to be pursued merely for the sake of science, that we are to

think only that we may think. But while everything has its determinate

end in the lower world of matter, concurring in its degree to the life

of the whole; can there exist faculties and tendencies without aim in

the soul; permanent, regular, and general facts without a final cause?

Can art exist as an accidental fact in the bosom of society? Is it not

rather an important means for the development of the finer feelings of

the heart, the higher faculties of the soul?

Man was created 'to glorify God and enjoy him forever,' says the

elementary catechism of the sternest of all creeds. Anything, therefore,

which sets before us more preëminently the glory of God, thus placing

more vividly before us the only source of all true enjoyment, must be,

in the highest sense of the word, useful to us, as enabling us to fulfil

the very end of our creation. Things that only help us to draw material

breath, are only useful to us in a secondary sense: if they alone are

thought of, they are worse than useless; for it would be better we

should not exist at all, than that we should guiltily disappoint the

purposes of our existence. Yet men in this material age speak as if

houses and lands, food and raiment, were alone useful; as if the open

eye and loving appreciation of all that He hath made were quite

profitless; as if the meat were more than the life, the raiment than the

body. They look upon the earth as a stable, its fruit as mere fodder,

loving the corn they grind and the grapes they crush better than the

gardens of the angels upon the slopes of Eden, so that the woe of the

Preacher has fallen upon us: 'Though God has made everything beautiful

in his time, also He hath set the world in their heart, so that no man

can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.'

'The age culls simples.

With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the glory of the stars;

We are gods by our own reck'ning, and may well shut up our temples--

And wield on, amid the incense steam, the thunder of our cars.

'For we throw out acclamations of self-thanking, self-admiring,

With, at every mile run faster, 'Oh, the wondrous, wondrous age,'

Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron,

Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage.'

Utility has a nobler sense than a mere ministering to our physical

wants, a mere catering to our sense of luxury. Geology is surely higher

when refleshing the dry bones and revealing to us the mysteries of a

lost creation, than when tracing veins of lead and beds of iron;

astronomy, when opening the houses of heaven for us, than when teaching

us the laws of navigation. That these things are useful to us in a lower

sense, is God's merciful condescension to the wants of our material

life;--that we may discern their eternal beauty, and so glorify their

Maker in the enjoyment of His attributes, is an earnest, even here, of

our blissful immortality.

If art has frequently fallen from its high mission, if it has often

failed to incarnate the divine ideas from which all its glories must

flow, it must be attributed in part to the artists themselves; in part

to the public for whom they labor, and whom they too often seek only to

amuse. They clutch at the ephemeral bouquets of the passing passions of

a day, not caring to wait for the unfading crowns of amaranth. If the

artist will stoop to linger in the Circean hall of the senses, he must

not be astonished if good and earnest men should reproach him with the

triviality of a misspent and egotistic life.

If we should pause and examine into the reasons for the different

estimation in which art is held by different persons, we should find

them in the various definitions of the Beautiful which would be offered

us by the individuals in question. Let us linger for a moment to examine

such definitions.

One class of men would tell us that the Beautiful is that which is

agreeable to the senses of sight and hearing. They would admire, in

painting, the delineation of naked flesh, luxuriant as it glows upon the

canvas of Vandyke and Rubens; in statuary, they would seek voluptuous

and sensual positions; while in music, they would love that which

titillates the ear, which lulls them into an indolent yet delicious

languor. Such men are the dwellers in the halls of Circean senses; they

can appreciate only the sensuous. The poets of this class are very

numerous. They never rise to those general ideas which are found in the

universal consciousness, but are forever occupied with fugitive

thoughts, passing as the hour in which they are born. They delight in

representing the _accidental_, the exceptional, the peculiar, the

fashion, mode, or exaggeration of the flying hour. They never sing of

the high and tender feelings which pervade the human heart; of the joys

and sorrows of the soul in its mystic relations with God, its

sympathetic affections with humanity; but delight in describing furtive

sensations, passing impressions, individual and subjective bliss and

woe. Never daring to grapple with the sublime yet tender simplicity of

nature, they sport with eccentricity, delight in fantastically related

ideas, revel in surprises, in sudden and unforeseen developments. Their

style is full of individualities and mannerisms, ornaments and

intricacies; the _coloring_ is always worth more than the _form_, the

sensation than the idea. Their heroes and heroines are grotesque beings,

sentimental caricatures, souls not to be comprehended, always placed in

unnatural situations, and surrounded with dark, gloomy, and impenetrable

mysteries. If their readers can be made to exclaim at every page:

'Inconceivable! astonishing! original!' they consider their work

perfect. Such poets seldom attempt long poems; if they should

imprudently do so, we find but little sequence, and nothing of that

clear order, of that marvellous _unity_, which mark the works of the

masters. Everything is sought to flatter that pretentious vanity of the

limited understanding which piques itself on its stereotyped knowledge,

always striving to usurp the higher empire of the divining soul. Such

writing certainly requires subtlety of intellect, for talent is required

to discover that which no one can see; to invent relations where none

exist. We may, indeed, often observe great perfection in the details,

high finish in the execution, keen intellect in the analysis; but

nothing in the thoughts which appeals to the universal heart. Brilliant

pictures succeed to brilliant pictures, decoration to decoration, but

there is an utter want of essential unity. Absorbed in the sensuous

gorgeousness of highly colored details, if they can but glue together

startling and overwrought images, they are satisfied, even while

neglecting the principal idea. They seize everything by the outside;

nothing by the heart.

The painters of this class give us glaring colors and violent contrasts;

the musicians, antitheses, concetti, ingenious combinations, _tours de

force_, rather than flowing melodies or profound harmonies. The power

they _wish_, to possess spoils that they _really have_; all _true_

inspiration abandons the hopeless artist in the midst of his ingenious

subtleties; it flies before his fantastic conceits; laughs at the

follies of his prurient fancies; and withdraws its solemn light from the

vain and presumptuous intellect, doting ever over its own fancied

superiority. Inspiration, that holy light only vouchsafed to the loving

soul, speaks to man in the silence of the subjective intellect. If the

heart is tossed by a thousand passing and selfish passions, how can its

solemn but simple and tender voice be heard? Suffering such inflated

spirits to plume themselves upon the transitory admiration they are

always sure of obtaining, it allows them to take the evil for the good;

the grotesque for the beautiful; the meteors of vanity for the heaven

stars of truth.