The modern Southern politician is the least far-seeing of all our

short-sighted classes of American statesmen. In the existence of a

nation, a generation should be considered but as a year in the life of

man, and a century but as a generation of citizens. Soon or late, in the

lives of this generation or of their descendants, in the Union or out

of the Union, the servile members of this Confederacy must, under the

results of the prolonged dynasty of Cotton, make their election either

to purchase their security, like Cuba, by dependence on the strong arm

of external force, or they must meet national exigencies, pass through

revolutions, and destroy and reconstruct governments, making every

movement on the surface of a seething, heaving volcano. All movements of

the present, looking only to the forms of government of the master, must

be carried on before the face of the slave, and the question of class

will ever be complicated by that of caste. What the result of the

ever-increasing tendencies of the Cotton dynasty will be it is therefore

impossible to more than dream. But is it fair to presume that the

immense servile population should thus see upturnings and revolutions,

dynasties rising and falling before their eyes, and ever remain quiet

and contented? "Nothing," said Jefferson, "is more surely written in the

Book of Fate than that this people must be free." Fit for freedom at

present they are not, and, under the existing policy of the Cotton

dynasty, never can be. "Whether under any circumstances they could

become so is not here a subject of discussion; but, surely, the day will

come when the white caste will wish the experiment had been tried. The

argument of the Cotton King against the alleviation of the condition of

the African is, that his nature does not admit of his enjoyment of true

freedom consistently with the security of the community, and therefore

he must have none. But certainly his school has been of the worst. Would

not, perhaps, the reflections applied to the case of the French peasants

of a century ago apply also to them?" It is not under oppression that

we learn how to use freedom. The ordinary sophism by which misrule is

defended is, when truly stilted, this: The people must continue in

slavery, because slavery has generated in them all the vices of slaves;

because they are ignorant, they must remain under a power which has made

and which keeps them ignorant; because they have been made ferocious by

misgovernment, they must be misgoverned forever. If the system under

which they live were so mild and liberal that under its operation they

had become humane and enlightened, it would be safe to venture on a

change; but, as this system has destroyed morality, and prevented the

development of the intellect,--as it has turned men, who might, under

different training, have formed a virtuous and happy community, into

savage and stupid wild beasts, therefore it ought to last forever.

Perhaps the counsellors of King Cotton think that in this case it will;

but all history teaches us another lesson. If there be one spark of love

for freedom in the nature of the African,--whether it be a love common

to him with the man or the beast, the Caucasian or the chimpanzee,--the

love of freedom as affording a means of improvement or an opportunity

for sloth,--the policy of King Cotton will cause it to work its way out.

It is impossible to say how long it will be in so doing, or what weight

the broad back of the African will first be made to bear; but, if the

spirit exist, some day it must out. This lesson is taught us by the

whole recorded history of the world. Moses leading the Children of

Israel up out of Egypt,--Spartacus at the gates of Rome,--the Jacquerie

in France,--Jack Cade and Wat Tyler in England,--Nana Sahib and the

Sepoys in India,--Toussaint l'Ouverture and the Haytiens,--and, finally,

the insurrection of Nat Turner in this country, with those in Guiana,

Jamaica, and St. Lucia: such examples, running through all history,

point the same moral. This last result of the Cotton dynasty may come at

any moment after the time shall once have arrived when, throughout any

great tract of country, the suppressing force shall temporarily, with

all the advantages of mastership, including intelligence and weapons, be

unequal to coping with the force suppressed. That time may still be far

off. Whether it be or not depends upon questions of government and

the events of the chapter of accidents. If the Union should now be

dissolved, and civil convulsions should follow, it may soon be upon us.

But the superimposed force is yet too great under any circumstances, and

the convulsion would probably be but temporary. At present, too, the

value of the slave insures him tolerable treatment; but, as numbers

increase, this value must diminish. Southern statesmen now assert that

in thirty years there will be twelve million slaves in the South; and

then, with increased numbers, why should not the philosophy of the

sugar-plantation prevail, and it become part of the economy of the

Cotton creed, that it is cheaper to work slaves to death and purchase

fresh ones than to preserve their usefulness by moderate employment?

Then the value of the slave will no longer protect him, and then the

end will be nigh. Is this thirty or fifty years off? Perhaps not for

a century hence will the policy of King Cotton work its legitimate

results, and the volcano at length come to its head and defy all

compression.

In one of the stories of the "Arabian Nights" we are told of an Afrite

confined by King Solomon in a brazen vessel; and the Sultana tells

us, that, during the first century of his confinement, he said in his

heart,--"I will enrich whosoever will liberate me"; but no one liberated

him. In the second century he said,--"Whosoever will liberate me, I will

open to him the treasures of the earth"; but no one liberated him. And

four centuries more passed, and he said,--"Whosoever shall liberate me,

I will fulfil for him three wishes"; but still no one liberated him.

Then despair at his long bondage took possession of his soul, and, in

the eighth century, he swore,--"Whosoever shall liberate me, him will

I surely slay!" Let the Southern statesmen look to it well that the

breaking of the seal which confines our Afrite be not deferred till long

bondage has turned his heart, like the heart of the Spirit in the fable,

into gall and wormwood; lest, if the breaking of that seal be deferred

to the eighth or even the sixth century, it result to our descendants

like the breaking of the sixth seal of Revelation,--"And, lo! there was

a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and

the moon became as blood, and the heaven departed as a scroll, when it

is rolled together; and the kings of the earth, and the great men, and

the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every free

man hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains, and

said to the mountains and rocks, 'Fall on us and hide us, for the great

day of wrath is come'" On that day, at least, will end the reign of King

Cotton.

* * * * *

GLIMPSES OF GARIBALDI.

FIRST GLIMPSE.

It is a sultry morning in October, and we are steaming in a small

Sardinian boat from Leghorn towards Naples. This city has fallen into

the power of Garibaldi, who is concentrating his forces before Capua,

while the King of Sardinia bears down with a goodly army from the North.

The first object of special interest which comes into view, after we

pass the island of Elba, is Gaeta. Though care is taken not to run near

enough to invite a chase from the Neapolitan frigates, we are yet able

to obtain a distinct view of the last stronghold--the jumping-off place,

as we hope it will prove--of Francis II. The white walls of the fortress

rise grimly out of the sea, touching the land only upon one side, and

looking as though they might task well the resources of modern warfare

to reduce them. We soon make out the smoke of four or five steamers,

which we suppose to be armed vessels, heading towards Gaeta.

About two o'clock we glide into the far-famed Bay of Naples, in company

with the cool sea-breeze which there each afternoon sends to refresh

the heated shore. As we swing round to our moorings, we pass numerous

line-of-battle-ships and frigates bearing the flags of England,

France, and Sardinia, but look in vain and with disappointment for the

star-spangled banner. A single floating representative of American

nationality is obliged to divide the favor of her presence between the

ports of both the Two Sicilies, and at this time she is at the island

portion of the kingdom.

Our craft is at once beset by boats, their owners pushing, vociferating,

and chaffering for fares, as though Mammon, and not Moloch, were the

ruling spirit. Together with a chance companion of the voyage, Signor

Alvigini, _Intendente_ of Genoa, and his party, we are soon in the hands

of the _commissionnaire_ of the Hôtel de Rome. As we land, our passports

are received by the police of Victor Emmanuel, who have replaced those

of the late _régime_.

As we enter our carriage, we expect to see streets filled with crowds of

turbulent people, or dotted with knots of persons conversing ominously

in suppressed tones; and streets deserted, with shops closed; and

streets barricaded. But in this matter we are agreeably disappointed.

The shops are all open, the street venders are quietly tending their

tables, people go about their ordinary affairs, and wear their

commonplace, every-day look. The only difference apparent to the eye

between the existing state of things and that which formerly obtained

is, that there are few street brawls and robberies, though every one

goes armed,--that the uniform of the soldiers of Francis II. is replaced

by the dark gray dress of the National Guard,--and that the Hag of

the Tyrant King no longer waves over the castle-prison of Sant' Elmo.

Garibaldi, on leaving Naples, had formally confided the city to the

National Guard; and they had nobly sustained the trust reposed in them.

A letter of introduction to General Orsini, brought safely with us,

though not without adventure, through the Austrian dominions, gains

a courteous reception from General Turr, chief aide-de-camp to the

"Dictator," and a pass to the camp. General Turr, an Hungarian refugee,

is a person of distinguished appearance, not a little heightened by

his peculiar dress, which consists of the usual Garibaldian uniform

partially covered with a white military cloak, which hangs gracefully

over his elegant figure.

After a brief, but pleasant, interview with this gentleman, we climb to

the Castle of Sant' Elmo, built on a high eminence commanding the town,

and with its guns mounted, not so as to defend it against an invading

enemy, but to hurl destruction on the devoted subjects of the Bourbon.

We are told that the people Lad set their hearts on seeing this

fortress, which they look upon as a standing menace, razed to the

ground, and its site covered with peaceful dwellings. And it is not

without regret that we have since learned that Victor Emmanuel has

thought it inexpedient to comply with this wish. Nor, in our ignorance,

can we divest ourselves entirely of the belief that it would have been a

wise as well as conciliatory policy to do so.

We are politely shown over the castle by one of the National Guard, who

hold it in charge, and see lounging upon one of its terraces, carefully

guarded, but kindly allowed all practicable liberty, several officers of

the late power, prisoners where they had formerly held despotic sway. We

descend into the now empty dungeons, dark and noisome as they have been

described, where victims of political accusation or suspicion have pined

for years in dreary solitude. It produces a marked sensation in the

minds of our Italian companions in this sad tour of inspection, when

we tell them, through our guide Antonio, that these cells are the

counterpart of the dungeons of the condemned in the prison of the Doges

of Venice, as we had seen them a few days before,--save that the latter

were better, in their day, in so far as in them the cold stone was

originally lined and concealed by wooden casings, while in those before

us the helpless prisoner in his gropings could touch only the hard rock,

significant of the relentless despotism which enchained him. The walls

are covered with the inscriptions of former tenants. In One place we

discover a long line of marks in groups of fives,--like the tallies of

our boyish sports,--but here used for how different a purpose! Were

these the records of days, or weeks, or months? The only furniture of

the cells is a raised platform of wood, the sole bed of the miserable

inmate. The Italian visitors, before leaving, childishly vent their

useless rage at the sight of these places of confinement, by breaking to

pieces the windows and shutters, and scattering their fragments on the

floor.

We have returned from Sant' Elmo, and, evening having arrived, are

sitting in the smoking-room of the Hotel de Grande Bretagne, conversing

with one of the English Volunteers, when our friend General J--n of the

British Army, one of the lookers-on in Naples, comes in, having just

returned from "the front." He brings the news of a smart skirmish which

has taken place during the day; of the English "Excursionists" being

ordered out in advance; of their rushing with alacrity into the thickest

of the fight, and bravely sustaining the conflict,--being, indeed,

with difficulty withheld by their officers from needlessly exposing

themselves. But this inspiring news is tinged with sadness. One of their

number, well known and much beloved, had fallen, killed instantly by a

bullet through the head. Military ardor, aroused by the report of

brave deeds, is for a few moments held in abeyance by grief, and

then rekindled by the desire of vengeance. Hot blood is up, and the

prevailing feeling is a longing for a renewal of the fight. We are told,

if we wish to see an action, to go to "the front" to-morrow. Accordingly

we decide to be there.

The following day, our faithful _commissionnaire_, Antonio, places us

in a carriage drawn by a powerful pair of horses, and headed for the

Garibaldian camp. A hamper of provisions is not forgotten, and before

starting we cause Antonio to double the supplies: we have a presentiment

that we may find with whom to share them.

There are twelve miles before us to the nearest point in the camp, which

is Caserta. Our chief object being to see the hero of Italy, if we do

not find him at Caserta, we shall push on four miles farther, to Santa

Maria; and, missing him there, ride still another four miles to Sant'

Angelo, where rests the extreme right of the army over against Capua.

As we ride over the broad and level road from Naples to Caserta,

bordered with lines of trees through its entire length, we are surprised

to see not only husbandmen quietly tilling the fields, but laborers

engaged in public works upon the highway, as if in the employ of a long

established authority, and making it difficult to believe that we are

in the midst of civil war, and under a provisional government of a few

weeks' standing. But this and kindred wonders are fruits of the spell

wrought by Garibaldi, who wove the most discordant elements into

harmony, and made hostile factions work together for the common good,

for the sake of the love they bore to him.

About mid-day we arrive at a redoubt which covers a part of the road,

leaving barely enough space for one vehicle to pass. We are of course

stopped, but are courteously received by the officer of the guard.

We show our pass from General Turr, giving us permission "freely to

traverse all parts of the camp," and being told to drive on, find

ourselves within the lines. As we proceed, we see laborers busily

engaged throwing up breastworks, soldiers reposing beneath the trees,

and on every side the paraphernalia of war.

Garibaldi is not here, nor do we find him at Santa Maria. So we prolong

our ride to the twentieth mile by driving our reeking, but still

vigorous horses to Sant' Angelo.

We are now in sight of Capua, where Francis II. is shut up with a strong

garrison. The place is a compact walled town, crowned by the dome of a

large and handsome church, and situated in a plain by the side of the

Volturno. Though, contrary to expectation, there is no firing to-day, we

see all about us the havoc of previous cannonadings. The houses we pass

are riddled with round shot thrown by the besieged, and the ground is

strewn with the limbs of trees severed by iron missiles. But where is

Garibaldi? No one knows. Yonder, however, is a lofty hill, and upon its

summit we descry three or four persons. It is there, we are told, that

the Commander-in-Chief goes to observe the enemy, and among the forms we

see is very probably the one we seek.

We have just got into our carriage again, and are debating as to whither

we shall go next, when we are addressed from the road-side in English.

There, dressed in the red shirt, are three young men, all not far from

twenty years of age, members of the British regiment of "Excursionists."

They are out foraging for their mess, and ask a ride with us to Santa

Maria. We are only too glad of their company; and off we start, a

carriage-full. Then commences a running fire of question and response.

We find the society of our companions a valuable acquisition. They are

from London,--young men of education, and full of enthusiasm for

the cause of Italian liberty. One of them is a connection of our

distinguished countrywoman, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Before going to

Santa Maria, they insist on doing the honors, and showing the objects

of interest the vicinity. So they take us to their barrack, a large

farm-house, and thence to "the front." To the latter spot our coachman

declines driving, as his horses are not bullet-proof, and the enemy is

not warranted to abstain from firing during our visit. So, proceeding on

foot, we reach a low breastwork of sand-bags, with an orchard in advance

of it. Here, our companions tell us, was the scene of yesterday's

skirmish, in which they took an active part. The enemy had thrown out a

detachment of sharp-shooters, who had entered the wood, and approached

the breastwork. A battalion of the English Volunteers was ordered up. As

they marched eagerly forwards, a body of Piedmontese, stationed a little

from the road, shouted, "_Vivano gl' Inglesi! Vivano gl' Inglesi!_"

At the breastworks where we are standing, the word was given to break

ranks, and skirmish. Instantly they sprang over the wall, and took

position behind the trees, to shoot "wherever they saw a head." Each

soldier had his "covering man,"--a comrade stationed about ten feet

behind him, whose duty it was to keep his own piece charged ready to

kill any of the enemy who might attempt to pick off the leading man

while the latter was loading. One of my young friends had the hammer of

his rifle shot off in his hand. He kept his position till another weapon

was passed out to him. The action lasted till evening, when the enemy

drew off, there being various and uncertain reports as to their loss.

Our British cousins had some ten wounded, besides the one killed.

Fighting royalists, we will mention here, was no fancy-work about that

time, as the Neapolitans had an ugly trick of extinguishing the eyes of

their prisoners, and then putting their victims to death.

We return to our carriage, drive into a sheltered spot, and give the

word of command to Antonio to open the hamper and deploy his supplies,

when hungry soldiers vie with the ravenous traveller in a knife-and-fork

skirmish. No fault was found with the _cuisine_ of the Hôtel de Grande

Bretagne.

The rations disposed of, we set off again for Santa Maria. Arrived at

the village, at the request of our companions, we visit with them a

hospital, to see one of their comrades, wounded in the action of the

preceding day, and, as we are known to profess the healing art, to give

our opinion as to his condition. We enter a large court-yard surrounded

with farm-buildings, one wing of which is devoted to hospital purposes.

We find the wards clean and well ventilated, and wearing the look of

being well attended. This favorable condition is owing in great measure

to the interposition and supervision of several ladies, among whom are

specially mentioned the two daughters of an English clergyman, without

omitting the name of the Countess della Torres. The wounded comrade of

our friends had been struck by a ball, which had not been readied by the

probe, and was supposed to have entered the lung. The poor young fellow

draws his rapid breath with much pain, but is full of pluck, and meets

the encouraging assurances of his friends with a smile and words of

fortitude. Some time afterwards we learn that he is convalescent, though

in a disabled state.

It now becomes necessary to say our mutual farewells, which we do as

cordially as though we had been old friends. We go our respective ways,

to meet once more in Italy, and to renew our acquaintance again in

London, where we subsequently spend a pleasant evening together by a

cheerful English fireside.

Scarcely have we parted with these new-found friends of kindred blood

and common language, when we are provided with another companion.

An Italian officer asks a seat with us to Caserta. Our letter of

introduction to General Orsini being shown to him, he volunteers to

assist us in attaining our object, that of seeing the hero of Italy.

At five, we are before the palace of Caserta, now a barrack, and the

head-quarters of the Commander-in-Chief. The building is one of great

size and beauty of architecture. A lofty arch, sustained by elegant and

massive marble pillars, bisects the structure, and on either side one

may pass from the archway into open areas of spacious dimensions, from

which lead passages to the various offices. We approach a very splendid

marble staircase leading to the state apartments. A sentinel forbids us

to pass. This is, then, perhaps, the part of the building occupied by

the Commander-in-Chief. Not so. The state apartments are unoccupied, and

are kept sacred from intrusion, as the property of the nation to which

they are to belong. Garibaldi's apartments are among the humblest in the

palace. We go on to the end of the archway, and see, stretching as far

as the eye can reach, the Royal Drive, leading through a fine avenue of

trees, and reminding us of the "Long Walk" at Windsor Castle. Retracing

our steps, and crossing one of the court-yards, we ascend a modest

staircase, and are in the antechamber of the apartments of the

Commander-in-Chief. There are sentinels at the outer door, others at

the first landing, and a guard of honor, armed with halberds, in the

antechamber. Our courteous companion, by virtue of his official rank,

has passed us without difficulty by the sentries, and quits us to

discharge the duty which brought him to Caserta.

We are now eagerly expectant of the arrival of him whose face we have so

long sought The hour is at hand when he joins his military family at an

unostentatious and very frugal dinner. In about half an hour there is

a sudden cessation in the hum of conversation, the guard is ordered to

stand to arms, and in a moment more, amid profound silence, Garibaldi

has passed through the antechamber, leaving the place, as it were,

pervaded by his presence. We had beheld an erect form, of rather low

stature, but broad and compact, a lofty brow, a composed and thoughtful

face, with decision and reserved force depicted on every line of it.

In the mien and carriage we had seen realized all that we had read and

heard of the air of one born to command.

Our hero wore the characteristic red shirt and gray trousers, and,

thrown over them, a short gray cloak faced with red. When without the

cloak, there might be seen, hanging upon the back, and fastened around

the throat, the party-colored kerchief usually appertaining to priestly

vestments.

Returning to Naples, and sitting that night at our window, with the most

beautiful of bays before us, we treasure up for perpetual recollection

the picture of Garibaldi at head-quarters.

GARIBALDI AT POMPEII.

It is Sunday, the 21st of October. We have to-day observed the people,

in the worst quarters of the city as well as in the best, casting their

ballots in an orderly and quiet manner, under the supervision of the

National Guard, for Victor Emmanuel as their ruler. To-morrow we have

set apart for exploring Pompeii, little dreaming what awaits us there.

Our friend, General J--n, of the British Army, learning that there is no

likelihood of active operations at "the front," proposes to join us in

our excursion.

We are seated in the restaurant at the foot of the acclivity which

leads to the exhumed city, when suddenly Antonio appears and exclaims,

"Garibaldi!" We look in the direction he indicates, and, in an avenue

leading from the railway, we behold the Patriot-Soldier of Italy

advancing toward us, accompanied by the Countess Pallavicini, the wife

of the Prodictator of Naples, and attended by General Turr, with several

others of his staff. We go out to meet them. General J--n, a warm

admirer of Garibaldi, gives him a cordial greeting, and presents us as

an American. We say a few words expressive of the sympathy entertained

by the American people for the cause of Italy and its apostle. He whom

we thus address, in his reply, professes his happiness in enjoying the

good wishes of Americans, and, gracefully turning to our friend, adds,

"I am grateful also for the sympathy of the English." The party then

pass on, and we are left with the glowing thought that we have grasped

the hand of Garibaldi.

Half an hour later, we are absorbed in examining one of the structures

of what was once Pompeii, when suddenly we hear martial music. We follow

the direction of the sound, and presently find ourselves in the ancient

forum. In the centre of the inclosure is a military band playing the

"Hymn of Garibaldi"; while at its northern extremity, standing, facing

us, between the columns of the temple of Jupiter, with full effect given

to the majesty of his bearing, is Garibaldi. Moved by the strikingly

contrasting associations of the time and the place, we turn to General

J--n, saying, "Behold around us the symbols of the death of Italy, and

there the harbinger of its resurrection." Our companion, fired with a

like enthusiasm, immediately advances to the base of the temple, and,

removing his hat, repeats the words in the presence of those there

assembled.

GARIBALDI AT "THE FRONT."

Once again we look in the eye of this wonderful man, and take him by the

hand. This time it is at "the front." On Saturday, the 27th of October,

we are preparing to leave Naples for Rome by the afternoon boat, when we

receive a message from General J--n that the bombardment of Capua is to

begin on the following day at ten o'clock, and inviting us to join his

party to the camp. Accordingly, postponing our departure for the North,

we get together a few surgical instruments, and take a military train

upon the railway in the afternoon for the field of action.

Our party consists of General J--n, General W., of Virginia, Captain

G., a Scotch officer serving in Italy, and ourself. Arrived at Caserta,

Captain G., showing military despatches, is provided with a carriage, in

which we all drive to the advanced post at Sant' Angelo. We reach this

place at about eight o'clock, when we ride and walk through the camp,

which presents a most picturesque aspect, illuminated as it is by a

brilliant moon. We see clusters of white tents, with now and then the

general silence broken by the sound of singing wafted to us from among

them,--here and there tired soldiers lying asleep on the ground, covered

with their cloaks,--horses picketed in the fields,--camp-fires burning

brightly in various directions; while all seems to indicate the profound

repose of men preparing for serious work on the morrow. We pass and

repass a bridge, a short time before thrown across the Volturno. A

portion of the structure has broken down; but our English friends

congratulate themselves that the part built by their compatriots has

stood firm. We exchange greetings with Colonel Bourdonné, who is on duty

here for the night, superintending the repairs of the bridge, and who

kindly consigns us to his quarters.

Arrived at the farm-house where Colonel Bourdonné has established

himself, and using his name, we are received with the utmost attention

by the servants. The only room at their disposal, fortunately a large

one, they soon arrange for our accommodation. To General J---n, the

senior of the party, is assigned the only bed; an Italian officer

occupies a sofa; while General W., Captain G., and ourself are ranged,

"all in a row," on bags of straw placed upon the floor. Of the

merriment, prolonged far into the night, and making the house resound

with peals of laughter,--not at all to the benefit, we fear, of several

wounded officers in a neighboring room,--we may not write.

Sunday is a warm, clear, summer-like day, and our party climb the

principal eminence of Sant' Angelo to witness the expected bombardment.

We reach the summit at ten minutes before ten, the hour announced for

opening fire. We find several officers assembled there,--among them

General H., of Virginia. Low tone of conversation and a restrained

demeanor are impressed on all; for, a few paces off, conferring with

two or three confidential aids, is the man whose very presence is

dignity,--Garibaldi.

Casting our eye over the field, we cannot realize that there are such

hosts of men under arms about us, till a military guide by our side

points out their distribution to us.

"Look there!" says General H., pointing to an orchard beneath. "Under

those trees they are swarming thick as bees. There are ten thousand men,

at least, in that spot alone."

With an opera-glass we can distinctly scan the walls of Capua, and

observe that they are not yet manned. But the besieged are throwing out

troops by thousands into the field before our lines. We remark one large

body drawn up in the shelter of the shadow cast by a large building.

Every now and then, from out this shadow, a piercing ray of light is

shot, reflected from the helm or sword-case of the commanding officer,

who is gallantly riding up and down before his men, and probably

haranguing them in preparation for the expected conflict. All these

things strike the attention with a force and meaning far different from

the impression produced by the holiday pageantry of mimic war.

The Commander-in-Chief is now disengaged, and our party approach him

to pay their respects. By the advice of General J---n, we proffer our

medical services for the day; and we receive a pressure of the hand, a

genial look, and a bind acknowledgment of the offer. But we are told

there will be no general action to-day. Our report of these words, as

we rejoin our companions, is the first intimation given that the

bombardment is deferred. But, though, there is some disappointment,

their surprise is not extreme. For Garibaldi never informs even his

nearest aide-de-camp what he is about to do. In fact, he quaintly says,

"If his shirt knew his plans, he would take it off and burn it." Some

half-hour later, having descended from the eminence, we take our last

look of Garibaldi. He has retired with a single servant to a sequestered

place upon the mount, whither he daily resorts, and where his mid-day

repast is brought to him. Here he spends an hour or two secure from

interruption. What thoughts he ponders in his solitude the reader may

perhaps conjecture as well as his most intimate friend. But for us, with

the holy associations of a very high mountain before our mind, we can

but trust that a prayer, "uttered or unexpressed," invokes the divine

blessing upon the work to which Garibaldi devotes himself,--the

political salvation of his country.

* * * * *

TWO OR THREE TROUBLES.

[Concluded.]

Every day, and twice a day, came Mr. Sampson,--though I have not said

much about it; and now it was only a week before our marriage. This

evening he came in very weary with his day's work,--getting a wretched

man off from hanging, who probably deserved it richly. (It is said,

women are always for hanging: and that is very likely. I remember, when

there had been a terrible murder in our parlors, as it were, and it was

doubtful for some time whether the murderer would be convicted, Mrs.

Harris said, plaintively, "Oh, do hang somebody!") Mr. Sampson did

not think so, apparently, but sat on the sofa by the window, dull and

abstracted.

If I had been his wife, I should have done as I always do now in such a

case: walked up to him, settled the sofa-cushion, and said,--"Here, now!

lie down, and don't speak a word for two hours. Meantime I will tell you

who has been here, and everything." Thus I should rest and divert him by

idle chatter, bathing his tired brain with good Cologne; and if, in the

middle of my best story and funniest joke, he fairly dropped off to

sleep, I should just fan him softly, keep the flies away, say in my

heart, "Bless him! there he goes! hands couldn't mend him!"--and then

look at him with as much more pride and satisfaction than, at any other

common wide-awake face as it is possible to conceive.

However, not being married, and having a whole week more to be silly

in, I was both silly and suspicious. This was partly his fault. He was

reserved, naturally and habitually; and as he didn't tell me he was

tired and soul-weary, I never thought of that. Instead, as he sat on the

sofa, I took a long string of knitting-work and seated myself across the

room,--partly so that he might come to me, where there was a good seat.

Then, as he did not cross the room, but still sat quietly on the sofa,

I began to wonder and suspect. Did he work too hard? Did he dread

undertaking matrimony? Did he wish he could get off? Why did he not come

and speak to me? What had I done? Nothing! Nothing!

Here Laura came in to say she was going to Mrs. Harris's to get the

newest news about sleeves. Mrs. Harris for sleeves; Mrs. Gore for

bonnets; and for housekeeping, recipes, and all that, who but Mrs.

Parker, who knew that, and a hundred other things? Many-sided are we

all: talking sentiment with this one, housekeeping with that, and to a

third saying what wild horses would not tear from us to the two first!

Laura went. And presently he said, wearily, but _I_ thought drearily,--

"Delphine, are you all ready to be married?"

The blood flushed from my heart to my forehead and back again. So, then,

he thought I was ready and waiting to drop like a ripe plum into his

mouth, without his asking me! Am I ready, indeed? And suppose I am

not? Perhaps I, too, may have my misgivings. A woman's place is not a

sinecure. Troubles, annoyances, as the sparks fly upward! Buttons to

begin with, and everything to end with! What did Mrs. Hemans say, poor

woman?

"Her lot is on you! silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,

And sumless riches from affection's deep

To pour on"--something--"a wasted shower!"

Yes, wasted, indeed! I hadn't answered a word to his question.

"It seems warm in this room," said he again, languidly; "shall we walk

on the piazza?"

"I think not," I answered, curtly; "I am not warm."

Even that, did not bring him to me. He still leaned his head on his hand

for a minute or two, and then rose from the sofa and sat by the window,

looking at the western sky, where the sun had long gone down. I could

see his profile against the outer light, however, and it did not look

placid. His brow was knit and mouth compressed. So, then, it was all

very likely!

Having set out on my race of suspecting, my steeds did not lag. They

were winged already, and I goaded them continually with memories. There

was nothing I did not think of or accuse him of,--especially, the last

and worst sin of breaking off our engagement at the eleventh hour!--and

I, who had suffered silently, secretly, untold torments about that name

of his,--nobody, no man, could ever guess how keenly, because no man can

ever feel as a woman does about such things! Men,--they would as soon

marry Tabitha as Juliana. They could call her "Wife." It made no matter

to them. What did any man care, provided she chronicled small beer,

whether she had taste, feeling, sentiment, anything? Here I was wrong,

as most passionate people are at some time in their lives. Some men do

care.

At the moment I had reached the top-most pinnacle of my wrath, and was

darting lightnings on all mankind, Polly showed in Lieutenant Herbert,

with his book of promised engravings.

With a natural revulsion of temper, I descended rapidly from my

pinnacle, and, stepping half-way across the room, met the Lieutenant

with unusual cordiality. Mr. Sampson bowed slightly and sat still. I

drew two chairs towards the centre-table, lighted the argand, and seated

myself with the young officer to examine and admire the beautiful

forms in which the gifted artist has clothed the words rather than the

thoughts of the writer,--out of the coarse real, lifting the scenes into

the sweet ideal,--and out of the commonest, rudest New-England life,

bringing the purest and most charming idyllic song. We did not say this.

I looked across at the window, where still sat the figure, motionless.

Not a word from him. I looked at Lieutenant Herbert. He was really very

handsome, with an imperial brow, and roseate lips like a girl's. Somehow

he made me think of Claverhouse,--so feminine in feature, so martial in

action! Then he talked,--talked really quite well,--reflected my own

ideas in an animated and eloquent manner.

Why it was,--whether Herbert suspected we had had a lovers' quarrel,--or

whether his vanity was flattered at my attention to him, which was

entirely unusual,--or whether my own excited, nervous condition led me

to express the most joyous life and good-humor, and shut down all my

angry sorrow and indignant suspicions, while I smiled and danced over

their sepulchre,--however it was, I know not,--but a new sparkle

came into the blue eyes of the young militaire. He was positively

entertaining. Conscious that he was talking well, he talked better. He

recited poetry; he was even witty, or seemed so. With the magnetism of

cordial sympathy, I called out from his memory treasures new and old. He

became not only animated, but devoted.

All this time the figure at the window sat calm and composed. It was

intensely, madly provoking. He was so very sure of me, it appeared, he

would not take the trouble to enter the lists to shiver a lance with

this elegant young man with the beautiful name, the beautiful lips, and

with, for the last half-hour at least, the beautiful tongue. He would

not trouble himself to entertain his future wife. He would not trouble

himself even to speak. Very well! Very well indeed! Did the Lieutenant

like music? If "he" did not care a jot for me, perhaps others did. My

heart beat very fast now; my cheeks burned, and my lips were parched. A

glass of water restored me to calmness, and I sat at the piano. Herbert

turned over the music, while I rattled off whatever came to my fingers'

ends,--I did not mind or know what. It was very fine, I dare say. He

whispered that it was "so beautiful!"--and I answered nothing, but kept

on playing, playing, playing, as the little girl in the Danish story

keeps on dancing, dancing, dancing, with the fairy red shoes on. Should

I play on forever? In the church,--out of it,--up the street,--down the

street,--out in the fields,--under the trees,--by the wood,--by the

water,--in cathedrals,--I heard something murmuring,--something softly,

softly in my ear. Still I played on and on, and still something murmured

softly, softly in my ear. I looked at the window. The head was leaned

down, and resting on both arms. Fast asleep, probably. Then I played

louder, and faster, and wilder.

Then, for the first time, as deaf persons are said to hear well in

the noise of a crowded street, or in a rail-car, so did I hear in the

musical tumult, for the first time, the words of Herbert. They had been

whispered, and I had heard, but not perceived them, till this moment.

I turned towards him, looked him full in the face, and dropped both

hands into my lap. Well might I be astonished! He started and blushed

violently, but said nothing. As for me, I was never more calm in my

life. In the face of a real mistake, all imaginary ones fell to the

ground, motionless as so many men of straw. With an instinct that went

before thought, and was born of my complete love and perfect reliance on

my future husband, I pushed back the music-stool, and walked straight

across the room to the window.

His head was indeed leaned on his arms; but he was white and insensible.

"Come here!" I said, sternly and commandingly, to Herbert, who stood

where I had left him. "Now, if you can, hold him, while I wheel this

sofa;--and now, ring the bell, if you please."

We placed him on the couch, and Polly came running in.

"Now, good-night, Sir; we can take care of him. With very many thanks

for your politeness," I added, coldly; "and I will send home the book

to-morrow."

He muttered something about keeping it as long as I wished, and I turned

my back on him.

"Oh! oh!--what had _he_ thought all this time?--what had he suffered?

How his heart must have been agonized!--how terribly he must have felt

the mortification,--the distress! Oh!"

We recovered him at length from the dead faint into which he had fallen.

Polly, who thought but of the body, insisted on bringing him "a good

heavy-glass of Port-wine sangaree, with toasted crackers in it"; and

wouldn't let him speak till he had drunken and eaten. Then she went out

of the room, and left me alone with my justly incensed lover.

I took a _brioche_, and sat down humbly at the head of the sofa. He held

out his hand, which I took and pressed in mine,--silently, to be

sure; but then no words could tell how I had felt, and now felt,--how

humiliated! how grieved! How wrongly I must have seemed to feel and to

act! how wrongly I must have acted,--though my conscience excused me

from feeling wrongly,--so to have deluded Herbert!

At last I murmured something regretful and tearful about Lieutenant

Herbert--Herbert! how I had admired that name!--and now, this Ithuriel

touch, how it had changed it and him forever to me! What was in a

name?--sure enough! As I gazed on the pale face on the couch, I should

not have cared, if it had been named Alligator,--so elevated was I

beyond all I had thought or called trouble of that sort! so real was the

trouble that could affect the feelings, the sensitiveness, of the noble

being before me!

At length he spoke, very calmly and quietly, setting down the empty

tumbler. I trembled, for I knew it must come.

"I was so glad that fool came in, Del! For, to tell the truth, I felt

really too weak to talk. I haven't slept for two nights, and have been

on my feet and talking for four hours,--then I have had no dinner"--

"Oh!"

"And a damned intelligent jury, (I beg your pardon, but it's a great

comfort to swear, sometimes,) that I can't humbug. But I must! I must,

to-morrow!" he exclaimed, springing up from the sofa and walking

hurriedly across the room.

"Oh, do sit down, if you are so tired!"

"I cannot sit down, unless you will let me stop thinking. I have but one

idea constantly."

"But if the man is guilty, why do you want to clear him?" said I.

Not a word had he been thinking of me or of Herbert all this time! But

then he had been thinking of a matter of life and death. How all, all my

foolish feelings took to flight! It was some comfort that my lover had

not either seen or suspected them. He thought he must have been nearly

senseless for some time. The last he remembered was, we were looking at

some pictures.

Laura came in from Mrs. Harris's, and, hearing how the case was,

insisted on having a chicken broiled, and that he should eat some

green-apple tarts, of her own cooking,--not sentimental, nor even

wholesome, but they suited the occasion; and we sat, after that, all

three talking, till past twelve o'clock. No danger now, Laura said, of

bad dreams, if he did go to bed.

"But why do you care so very much, if you don't get him off?--you

suppose him guilty, you say?"

"Because, Delphine, his punishment is abominably disproportioned to his

offence. This letter of the law killeth. And then I would get him off,

if possible, for the sake of his son and the family. And besides all

that, Del, it is not for me to judge, you know, but to defend him."

"Yes,--but if you do your best?" I inquired.

"A lawyer never does his best," he replied, hastily, "unless he

succeeds. He must get his client's case, or get him off, I must get some

sleep to-night," he added, "and take another pull. There's a man on the

jury,--he is the only one who holds out. I know I don't get him. And I

know why. I see it in the cold steel of his eyes. His sister was left,

within a week of their marriage-day, by a scoundrel,--left, too, to

disgrace, as well as desertion,--and his heart is bitter towards all

offences of the sort. I must get that man somehow!"

He was standing on the steps, as he spoke, and bidding me good-night;

but I saw his head and heart were both full of his case, _and nothing

else._

The words rang in my ear after he went away: "Within a week of their

marriage-day!" In a week we were to have been married. Thank Heaven, we

were still to be married in a week. And he had spoken of the man as "a

scoundrel," who left her. America, indeed! what matters it? Still, there

would be the same head, the same heart, the same manliness, strength,

nobleness,--all that a woman can truly honor and love. Not military, and

not a scoundrel; but plain, massive, gentle, direct. He would do. And a

sense of full happiness pressed up to my very lips, and bubbled over in

laughter.

"You are a happy girl, Del. Mrs. Harris says the court and everybody is

talking of Mr. Sampson's great plea in that Shore case. Whether he gets

it or not, his fortune is made. They say there hasn't been such an

argument since Webster's time,--so irresistible. It took every body off

their feet."

I did not answer a word,--only clothed my soul with sackcloth and ashes,

and called it good enough for me.

We went to bed. But in the middle of the night I waked Laura.

"What's the matter?" said she, springing out of bed.

"Don't, Laura!--nothing," said I.

"Oh, I thought you were ill! I've been sleeping with one eye open, and

just dropped away. What is it?"

"Do lie down, then. I only wanted to ask you a question."

"Oh, _do_ go to sleep! It's after three o'clock now. We never shall get

up. Haven't you been asleep yet?"

"No,--I've been thinking all the time. But you are impatient. It's no

matter. Wait till to-morrow morning."

"No. I am awake now. Tell me, and be done with it, Del."

"But I shall want your opinion, you know."

"Oh, _will_ you tell me, Del?"

"Well, it is this. How do you think a handsome, a _very_ handsome

chess-table would do?"

"Do!--for what?"

"Why,--for my aunt's wedding-gift, you know."

"Oh, that! And you have waked me up, at this time of night, from the

nicest dream! You cruel thing!"

"I am so sorry, Laura! But now that you are awake, just tell me how you

like the idea;--I won't ask you another word."

"Very well,--very good,--excellent," murmured Laura.

In the course of the next ten minutes, however, I remembered that Laura

never played chess, and that I had heard Mr. Sampson say once that he

never played now,--that it was too easy for work, and too hard for

amusement. So I put the chess-table entirely aside, and began again.

A position for sleep is, unluckily, the one that is sure to keep one

awake. Lying down, all the blood in my body kept rushing to my brain,

keeping up perpetual images of noun substantives. If I could have spent

my fifty dollars in verbs, in taking a journey, in giving a _fête

champêtre_! (Garden lighted with Chinese lanterns, of course,--house

covered inside and out with roses.) Things enough, indeed, there were to

be bought. But the right thing!

A house, a park, a pair of horses, a curricle, a pony-phaëton. But how

many feet of ground would fifty dollars buy?--and scarcely the hoof of

a horse.

There was a diamond ring. Not for me; because "he" had been too poor

to offer me one. But I could give it to him. No,--that wouldn't do. He

wouldn't wear it,--nor a pin of ditto. He had said, simplicity in dress

was good economy and always good taste. No. Then something else,--that

wouldn't wear, wouldn't tear, wouldn't lose, rust, break.

As to clothes, to which I swung back in despair,--this very Aunt Allen

had always sent us all our clothes. So it would only be getting

more, and wouldn't seem to be anything. She was an odd kind of

woman,--generous in spots, as most people are, I believe. Laura and

I both said, (to each other,) that, if she would allow us a hundred

dollars a year each, we could dress well and suitably on it. But,

instead of that, she sent us every year, with her best love, a

trunk full of her own clothes, made for herself, and only a little

worn,--always to be altered, and retrimmed, and refurbished: so that,

although worth at first perhaps even more than two hundred dollars,

they came, by their unfitness and non-fitness, to be worth to us only

three-quarters of that sum; and Laura and I reckoned that we lost

exactly fifty dollars a year by Aunt Allen's queerness. So much for our

gratitude! Laura and I concluded it would be a good lesson to us about

giving; and she had whispered to me something of the same sort, when

I insisted on dressing Betsy Ann Hemmenway, a little mulatto, in an

Oriental caftan and trousers, and had promised her a red sash for her

waist. To be sure, Mrs. Hemmenway despised the whole thing, and said she

"wouldn't let Betsy Ann be dressed up like a circus-rider, for nobody";

and that she should "wear a bonnet and mantilly, like the rest of

mankind." Which, indeed, she did,--and her bonnet rivalled the

_coiffures_ of Paris in brilliancy and procrastination; for it never

came in sight till long after its little mistress. However, of that

by-and-by. I was only too glad that Aunt Allen had not sent me another

silk gown "with her best love, and, as she was only seventy, perhaps it

might be useful." No,--here was the fifty-dollar note, thank Plutus!

But then, what to do with it? Sleeping, that was the question. Waking,

that was the same.

At twelve o'clock Mr. Sampson came to dine with us, and to say he was

the happiest of men.

"That is, of course, I shall be, next week," said he, smiling and

correcting himself. "But I am rather happy now; for I've got my case,

and Shore has sailed for Australia. Good riddance, and may he never

touch _these_ shores any more!"

He had been shaking hands with everybody, he said,--and was so glad to

be out of it!

"Now that it is all over, I wish you would tell me why you are so glad,

when you honestly believe the man guilty," said I.

"Oh, my child, you are supposing the law to be perfect. Suppose the old

English law to be in force now, making stealing a capital offence. You

wouldn't hang a starving woman or child who stole the baker's loaf from

your window-sill this morning before Polly had time to take it in, would

you? Yet this was the law until quite lately."

"After all, I don't quite see either how you can bear to defend him, if

you think him guilty, or be glad to have him escape, if he is,--I mean,

supposing the punishment to be a fair one."

"Because I am a frail and erring man, Delphine, and like to get my case.

If my client is guilty,--as we will suppose, for the sake of argument,

he is,--he will not be likely to stop his evil career merely because he

has got off now, and will be caught and hanged next time, possibly.

If he does stop sinning, why, so much the better to have time for

repentance, you know."

"Don't laugh,--now be serious."

"I am. Once, I made up my mind as to my client's guilt from what he told

and did not tell me, and went into court with a heavy heart. However, in

the course of the trial, evidence, totally unexpected to all of us, was

brought forward, and my client's innocence fully established. It was a

good lesson to me. I learned by experience that the business of counsel

is to defend or to prosecute, and not to judge. The judge and jury are

stereoscopic and see the whole figure."

How wise and nice it sounded! Any way, I wasn't a stereoscope, for I saw

but one side,--the one "he" was on.

Monday morning. And we were to be married in the evening,--by ourselves,

--nobody else. That was all the stipulation my lover made.

"I will be married morning, noon, or night, as you say, and dress and

behave as you say; but not in a crowd of even three persons."

"Not even Laura?"

"Oh, yes! Laura."

"Not even Polly?"

"Oh, yes! the household."

And then he said, softly, that, if I wanted to please him,--and he knew

his darling Del did,--I would dress in a white gown of some sort, and

put a tea-rose in my beautiful dark hair, and have nobody by but just

the family and old Mr. Price, the Boynton minister.

"I know that isn't what you thought of, exactly. You thought of being

married in church"----

"Oh, dear, dear! old Mr. Price!"--but I did not speak.

"But if you would be willing?"----

"I supposed it would be more convenient," I muttered.

Visions of myself walking up the aisle, with a white silk on, tulle

veil, orange-flowers, of course, (so becoming!) house crowded with

friends, collation, walking under the trees,--all faded off with a

mournful cry.

It was of no use talking. Whatever he thought best, I should do, if it

were to be married by the headsman, supposing there were such a person.

This was all settled, then, and had been for a week.

Nobody need say that lovers, or even married lovers, have but one mind.

They have two minds always. And that is sometimes the best of it; since

the perpetual sacrifices made to each other are made no sacrifices, but

sweet triumphs, by their love. Still, just as much as green is composed

of yellow and blue, and purple of red and blue, the rays can any time

be separated, and they always have a conscious life of their own. Of

course, I had a sort of pleasure even in giving up my marriage in

church; but I kept my blue rays, for all that,--and told Laura I dreaded

the long, long prayer in that evening's service, and that I hoped in

mercy old Mr. Price would have his wits about him, and not preach a

funeral discourse.

"Old Mr. Price is eighty-nine years old, Laura says," said I.

"Yes. He was the minister who married my father and mother, and has

always been our minister," answered my lover.

And so it was settled.

Laura was rolling up tape, Monday morning, as quietly as if there were

to be no wedding. For my part, I wandered up and down, and could not set

myself about anything.

"Old Mr. Price! and a great long prayer! And that is to be the end

of it! My wedding-dress all made, and not to be worn! Flowers ditto!

Nowhere to go, and so I shall stay at home. He has no house; so Taffy is

to come to mine!"

And here I burst out laughing; for it was as well to laugh as cry; and

besides, I said a great many things on purpose to have Laura say what

she always did,--and which, after all, it was sweet to me to hear. Those

were silly days!

"No, Del,--that is not the end of it,--only the beginning of it,--of a

happy, useful, good life,--your path growing brighter and broader every

year,--and--and--we won't talk of the garlands, dear; but your heart

will have bridal-blossoms, whether your head has or not."

Laura kissed me, with tears in her sisterly eyes. She never talks fine,

and went directly out of the room after this.

I thought that women shouldn't swear at all, or, if they did, should

break their oaths as gracefully as I did mine, when I whispered it was

"_so_ good of him, to be willing I should stay in the cottage where I

had always lived, and where every rose-tree and lilac knew me!" And that

was true, too. But not all the truth. What need to be telling truths all

the time? And what had women tongues for, but to hold them sometimes?

Perhaps "he," too, would have preferred a journey to Europe, and a house

on the Mill-Dam.

Things gradually settled themselves. My troubles seemed coming to a

close by mechanical pressure. As to the name, it was better than Fire,

Famine, and Slaughter,--and I was to take it into consideration, any

way, and get used to it, if I could. The other trouble I put aside

for the moment. After it was concluded on that the wedding should be

strictly private, it was not necessary to buy my aunt's present under

a few days, and I could have the decided advantage, in that way, of

avoiding a duplicate.

The Monday of my marriage sped away swiftly. Polly had come up early to

say to "Laury" (for Polly was a free and independent American girl of

forty-five) that "there'd be so much goin' to the door, and such, Betsy

Ann had best be handy by, to answer the bell. Fin'ly, she's down there

with her bunnet off, and goin' to stay."

As usual, Polly's plans were excellent, and adopted. There would be all

the wedding-presents to arrive, congratulatory notes, etc. Everything to

arrange, and a thousand and one things that neither one nor three pairs

of hands could do. How I wished Betsy Ann would consent to dress like an

Oriental child, and look pretty and picturesque,--like a Barbary slave

bearing vessels of gold and silver chalices, instead of her silly

pointed waist and "mantilly," which she persisted in wearing, and which,

of course, gave the look only of a stranger and sojourner in the land!

I hoped she was a careful child,--there were so many things which might

be spoiled, even if they came in boxes. Betsy Ann was instructed, on

pain of--almost death, to be very, very careful, and to put everything

on the table in the library. She was by no means to unpack an article,

not even a bouquet. Laura and myself preferred to arrange everything

ourselves. We proposed to place each of the presents, for that evening

only, in the library, and spread them out as usual; but the very next

day, we determined, they should all be put away, wherever they were to

go,--of course, we could not tell where, till we saw them. That was

Laura's taste, and had come, on reflection, to be mine.

Laura said she should make me presents only of innumerable stitches:

which she had done. Polly, whom it is both impossible and irrelevant to

describe, took the opportunity to scrub the house from top to bottom.

Her own wedding-present to me, homely though it was, I wrapped in silver

paper, and showed it to her lying in state on the library-table, to her

infinite amusement.

Like the North American Indian, the race of Pollies is fast going out

of American life. You read an advertisement of "an American servant who

wants a place in a genteel family," and visions of something common in

American households, when you were children, come up to your mind's eye.

Without considering the absurdity of an American girl calling herself by

such a name, your eyes fill with tears at the thought of the faithful

and loving service of years ago, when neither sickness, nor sorrow, nor

death itself separated the members of the household, but the nurse-maid

was the beloved friend, living and dying under the same roof that

witnessed her untiring and faithful devotion.

So, when you look after this "American servant," you find alien blood,

lip-service, a surface-warmth that flatters, but does not delude,--a

fidelity that fails you in sickness, or increased toil, or the prospect

of higher wages; and you say to the "American servant,"--

"How long have you been in Boston?"

"Born in Boston, Ma'm,--in Eliot Street, Ma'm."

So was not Polly. Polly had lived with us always. She had a farm of her

own, and needn't have "lived out" five minutes, unless she had chosen.

But she did choose it, and chose to keep her place. And that was a true

friend,--in a humble position, possibly, yet one of her own choosing.

She rejoiced and wept with us, knew all about us,--corresponded

regularly with us when away, and wrote poetry. She had a fair

mind, great shrewdness, and kept a journal of facts. We loved her

dearly,--next to each other, and a hundred times better than we did Aunt

Allen or any of them.

Of course, as the day wore on, and afternoon came, and then almost night

came, and still the bell had not once rung,--not once!--Polly was

not the person to express or to permit the least surprise. Not Caleb

Balderstone himself had a sharper eye to the "honor of the family."

_Why_ it was left to the doctrine of chances to decide. _That_ it was

grew clearer and clearer every hour, as every hour came slowly by,

unladen with box or package, even a bouquet.

Betsy Ann had grinned a great many times, and asked Polly over and over,

"Where the presents all was?" and, "When I was to Miss Russell's, and

Miss Sally was merried, the things come in with a rush,--silver, and

gold, and money, ever so much!"

However, here Polly snubbed her, and told her to "shet up her head

quick. Most of the presents was come long ago."

"Such a piece of work as I hed to ghet up that critter's mouth!" said

Polly, laughing, as she assisted Laura in putting the last graces to my

simple toilet before tea.

"There, now, Miss Sampson to be! I declare to man, you never looked

better.

"'Roses red, violets blue,

Pinks is pootty, and so be you.'"

"How did you shut it, Polly?" said Laura, who was very much surprised,

like myself, at the non-arrivals, and who constantly imagined she

heard the bell. Ten arrivals we had both counted on,--ten,

certainly,--fifteen, probably.

"Well, I told her the presents was all locked up; and if she was a

clever, good child, and went to school regular, and got her learnin'

good, I'd certain show 'em to her some time. I told her," added Polly,

whisperingly, and holding her hand over her mouth to keep from loud

laughter,--"I told her I'd seen a couple on 'em done up in beautiful

silver paper!"

The bell rang at last, and we all sprang as with an electric shock. It

was old Mr. Price, led in reverently by Mr. Sampson. Tea was ready; so

we all sat down to it.

I don't know what other people think of, when they are going to be

married,--I mean at the moment. Books are eloquent on the subject. For

my part. I must confess, I thought of nothing. And let that encourage

the next bride, who will imagine herself a dunce, because she isn't

thinking of something fine and solemn. Perhaps I had so many ideas

pressing in, in all directions, that the mind itself couldn't act. Be

it as it may, I stood as if stupefied,--while old Mr. Price talked and

prayed, it seemed, an age. I was roused, however, and glad enough I

wasn't in church, when he called out,--

"_Ameriky!_ do you take this woman for your wedded wife?" and still more

rejoiced when he added, sternly,--

"_Delphiny!_" (using the long _i_,) "do you take _Ameriky?_"

We both said "Yes." And then he commended us affectionately and

reverently to the protection and love of Him who had himself come to a

wedding. He then came to a close, to Polly's delight, who said she "had

expected nothin' but what the old gentleman would hold on an hour,

--missionaries to China, and all."

Old Mr. Price took a piece of cake and a full glass of wine, and wished

us joy. He was fast passing away, and with him the old-class ministers,

now only traditional, who drank their half-mug of flip at funerals, went

to balls to look benignantly on the scene of pleasure, came home at ten

o'clock to write "the improvement" to their Sunday's sermon, took the

other half-mug, and went to bed peaceably and in charity with the whole

parish. They have gone, with the stagecoaches and country-newspapers;

and the places that knew them will know them no more.

Betsy Ann, who was mercifully admitted to the wedding, pronounced

it without hesitation the "flattest thing she ever see,"--and was

straightway dismissed by Polly, with an extra frosted cake, and a charge

to "get along home with herself." Then Mr. Sampson walked slowly home

with Mr. Price, and Laura and myself were left looking at each other.

"Delphiny!" said Laura.

"Ameriky!" said I.

"Well,--it's over now. If you had happened to be Mrs. Conant's daughter,

you know, your name would have been Keren-happuch!"

"On the whole, I am glad it wasn't in church," said I.

Mr. Sampson returned before we had finished talking of that. And then

Laura, said, suddenly,--

"But you _must_ decide on Aunt Allen's gift, Del. What shall it be? What

will be pretty?"

"You shall decide," said I, amiably, turning to my husband.

"Oh, I have no notion of what is pretty,--at least of but one

thing,--and that is not in Aunt Allen's gift."

He laughed, and I blushed, of course, as he pointed the compliment

straight at me.

"But you _must_ think. I cannot decide, I have thought of five hundred

things already."

"Well, Laura,--what do you say?" said he.

"I think a silver salver would be pretty, and useful, too."

"Pretty and useful. Then let it be a silver salver, and be done with

it," said he.

This notion of being "done with it" is so mannish! Here was my Gordian

knot cut at once! However, there was no help for it,--though now, more

than ever, since there was no danger of a duplicate, did I long for the

fifty thousand different beautiful things the fifty dollars would buy.

Circumstances aided us, too, in coming to a conclusion. I was rather

tired of rocking on these billows of uncertainty, even with the chance

of plucking gems from the depths. And Mrs. Harris was coming the next

day to tea, and to go away early to see Piccolomini sing and sparkle.

When we sat down that next day at the table, I poured the tea into a

cup, and placed it on the prettiest little silver tray, and Polly handed

it to Mrs. Harris as if she had done that particular thing all her life.

"Beautiful!" said Mrs. Harris, as it sparkled along back; "one of your

wedding-gifts?"

"Yes," I answered, carelessly,--"Aunt Allen's."

So much was well got over. My hope was that Mrs. Harris, who talked

well, and was never weary of that sort of well-doing, would keep on her

own subjects of interest, to the exclusion of mine. Therefore, when she

said pleasantly, _en passant_,--

"By the way, Delphine, I see you have taken my advice about

wedding-presents. You know I always abominated that parading of gifts."

Laura hastened to the rescue, saying,--

"Yes, we quite agree with you, and remember your decided opinions on

that subject. Did you say you had been to the Aquarial Gardens?"

How I wished I had been self-possessed enough to tell the whole story,

with its ridiculous side out, and make a good laugh over it, as it

deserved!--for Mrs. Harris wouldn't stay in the Aquarial Gardens, which

she pronounced a disgusting exhibition of "Creep and Crawl," and that

it was all a set of little horrors; but swung back to wedding-gifts and

wedding-times.

"'When I was young,--ah! woful _when!_--

That I should say _when_ I was young!'

"it wasn't fashionable, or, I should say, necessary, to buy something for

a bride," said Mrs. Harris, meditatively, and looking back--as we could

see by her eyes--a long way.

For my part, I thought she had much better choose some other subject,

considering everything. Certainly she had been one of the ten I had

counted on. But she suddenly collected herself!

"I never look at a great needle-book, ('housewife,' we used to call

it,) full of all possible and impossible contrivances and conveniences,

without recalling my Aunt Hovey's patient smile when she gave it to me.

She was rheumatic, and confined for twenty years to her chair; and these

'housewives' she made exquisitely, and each of her young friends on her

wedding-day might count on one. Then Sebiah Collins,--she brought me a

bag of holders,--poor old soul! And Aunt Patty Hobbs gave me a bundle of

rags! She said, 'Young housekeepers was allers a-wantin' rags, and, in

course, there wa'n't nothin' but what was bran'-new out of the store.'

Can I ever forget the Hill children, with their mysterious movements,

their hidings, and their unaccountable absences? and then the

work-basket on my toilet-table, on my wedding-morning! the little

pin-cushions and emery-sacks, the fantastic thimble-cases, and the

fish-shaped needle-books! all as nice as their handy little fingers

could make, and every stitch telling of their earnest love and bright

faces!--Every one of those children is dead. But I keep the work-basket

sacred. I don't know whether it is more pleasure or pain."

She looked up again, as if before her passed a long procession. I had

often seen that expression in the eyes of old, and even of middle-aged

persons, who had had much mental vicissitude, but I had not interpreted

it till now. It was only for a moment; and she added, cheerfully,--

"The future is always pleasant; so we will look that way."

Just then a gentleman wished to see Mr. Sampson on business, and they

two went into the library.

Mrs. Harris talked on, and I led the way to the parlor. She said she

should be called for presently; and then Laura lighted the argand, and

dropped the muslin curtains.

"Oh, isn't this sweet?" exclaimed Mrs. Harris, rapturously, approaching

the table. "How the best work of Art pales before Nature!"

It was only a tall small vase of ground glass, holding a pond-lily,

fully opened. But it was perfect in its way, and I knew by the smile on

Laura's lips that it was her gift.

"Mine is in that corner, Delphine," said Mrs. Harris. "I wouldn't have

it brought here till to-night, when I could see Laura, for fear you

should have a duplicate. So here is my Mercury, that I have looked at

till I love it. I wouldn't give you one that had only the odor of the

shop about it; but you will never look at this, Del, without thoughts of

our little cozy room and your old friend."

"Beautiful! No, indeed! Always!" murmured I.

She drew a little box from her pocket, and took out of it a taper-stand

of chased silver.

"Mrs. Gore asked me to bring it to you, with her love. She wouldn't send

it yesterday, she said, because it would look so like nothing by the

side of costly gifts. Pretty, graceful little thing! isn't it? It is an

evening-primrose, I think,--'love's own light,'--hey, Delphine?"

We had scarcely half admired the taper-stand and the Mercury when the

carriage came for Mrs. Harris, who insisted on taking away Laura with

her to the opera.

"No matter whether you thought of going or not; and, happily, there's

no danger of Delphine being lonely. 'Two are company,' you know Emerson

says, 'but three are a congregation.' So they will be glad to spare you.

There, now! that is all you want,--and this shawl."

After they went, I sat listening for nearly half an hour to the low

murmurs in the next room, and wishing the stranger would only go, so

that I might exhibit my new treasures. At last the strange gentleman

opened the door softly, talking all the way, across the room, through

the entry, and finally whispering himself fairly out-of-doors. When my

husband came in, I was eager to show him the Mercury, and the lily, and

the taper-stand.

"And do you know, after all, I hadn't the real nobleness and

truthfulness and right-mindedness to tell Mrs. Harris that these and

Aunt Allen's gift were all I had received! I am ashamed of myself, to

have such a mean mortification about what is really of no importance.

Certainly, if my friends don't care enough for me to send me something,

I ought to be above caring for it."

"I don't know that, Del. Your mortification is very natural. How can we

help caring? Do you like your Aunt Allen very much?" added he, abruptly.

"Because she gave me fifty dollars? Yes, I begin to think I do," said I,

laughing.

He looked at me quickly.

"Your Aunt Allen is very rich, is she not?"

"I believe so. Why? You look very serious. I neither respect nor love

her for her riches; and I haven't seen her these ten years."

He looked sober and abstracted; but when I spoke, he smiled a little.

"Do you remember Ella's chapter on Old China?" said he, sitting down on

the sofa, and--I don't mind saying--putting one arm round my waist.

"Yes,--why?"

"Do you remember Bridget's plaintive regret that they had no longer

the good old times when they were poor? and about the delights of the

shilling gallery?"

"Yes,--what made you think of it?"

"What a beautiful chapter that is!--their gentle sorrow that they could

no longer make nice bargains for books! and his wearing new, neat, black

clothes, alas! instead of the overworn suit that was made to hang on

a few weeks longer, that he might buy the old folio of Beaumont and

Fletcher! Do you remember it, Delphine?"

"Yes, I do. And I think there is a deal of pleasure in considering and

contriving,--though it's prettier in a book"--

"For my part," interrupted my husband, as though he had not heard me

speak,--"for my part, I am sorry one cannot have such an exquisite

appreciation of pleasure but through pain; for--I am tired of

labor--and privation--and, in short, poverty. To work so hard, and so

constantly!--with such a long, weary vista before one!--and these petty

gains! Don't you think poverty is the one thing hateful, Delphine?"

He sprang up suddenly, and began walking up and down the room,--up and

down,--up and down; and without speaking any more, or seeming to wish me

to answer.

"Why, what is it? What do you mean?" said I, faintly; for my heart felt

like lead in my bosom.

He did not answer at first, but walked towards me; then, turning

suddenly away, sprang out of the window at the side of the room, saying,

with a constrained laugh,--

"I shall be in again, presently. In the mean time I leave you to

meditations on the shilling gallery!"

What a strange taunting sound his voice had! There was no insane blood

among the Sampsons, or I might have thought he had suddenly gone crazy.

Or if I had believed in demoniacal presences, I might have thought the

murmuring, whispering old man was some tempter. Some evil influence

certainly had been exerted over him. Scarcely less than deranged could I

consider him now, to be willing thus to address me. It was true, he was

poor,--that he had struggled with poverty. But had it not been my pride,

as I thought it was his, that his battle was bravely borne, and would be

bravely won? I could not, even to myself, express the cruel cowardice of

such words as he had used to his helpless wife. That he felt deeply and

gallingly his poverty was plain. Even in that there was a weakness which

induced more of contempt than pity for him; but was it not base to tell

me of it now? Now, when his load was doubled, he complained of the

burden! Why, I would have lain down and died far sooner than he should

have guessed it of me. And he had thought it--and--said it!

There are emotions that seem to crowd and supersede each other, so

that the order of time is inverted. I came to the point of disdainful

composure, even before the struggle and distress began. I sat quietly

where my husband left me,--such a long, long time! It seemed hours.

I remembered how thoughtful I had determined to be of all our

expenses,--the little account-book in which I had already entered some

items; how I had thought of various ways in which I could assist him;

yes, even little I was to be the most efficient and helpful of wives.

Had I not taken writing-lessons secretly, and formed a thorough

business-hand, and would I not earn many half-eagles with my eagle's

quill? I remembered how I had thought, though I had not said it, (and

how glad now I was I had not!) that we would help each other in sickness

and health,--that we would toil up that weary hill where wealth stands

so lusciously and goldenly shining. But then, hand in hand we were

to have toiled,--hopefully, smilingly, lovingly,--not with this cold

recrimination, nor, hardest of all, with--reproach!

Suddenly, a strange suspicion fell over me. It fell down on me like a

pall. I shuddered with the cold of it.

I knew it wasn't so. I knew he loved me,--that Le meant nothing,--that

it was a passing discontent, a hateful feeling engendered by the sight

of the costly trifles before us. Yes,--I knew that. But, good heavens!

to tell his wife of it!

I sat, with my head throbbing, and holding my hands, utterly tearless;

for tears were no expression of the distressful pain, and blank

disappointment of a life, that I felt. I said I felt this damp, dark

suspicion. It was there like a presence, but it was as indefinite as

dark; and I had a sort of control, in the midst of the tumult in my

brain and heart, as to what thoughts I would let come to me. Not that!

Faults there might be,--great ones,--but not that, the greatest! At

least, if I could not respect, I could forgive,--for he loved me.

Surely, surely, that must be true!

It would come, that flash, like lightning, or the unwilling memories of

the drowning. I remembered the rich Miss Kate Stuart, who, they said,

liked him, and that her father would have been glad to have him for a

son-in-law. And I had asked him once about it, in the careless

gayety of happy love. He had said, he supposed it might have

happened--perhaps--who knows?--if he had not seen me. But he had seen

me! Could it be that he was thinking of?

My calmness was giving way. As soon as I spoke, though it was only in a

word of ejaculation, my pity for myself broke all the flood-gates down,

and I fell on my face in a paroxysm of sobs.

A very calm, loving voice, and a strong arm raising me, brought me back

at once from the wild ocean of passion on which I was tossing. I had not

heard him come in. I was too proud and grieved to speak or to weep. So I

dried my tears and sat stiffly silent.

"You are tired, dear!" said my husband, tenderly.

"No,--it's no matter."

"Everything is matter to me that concerns you. You know that,--you

believe that, Delphine?"

"Why, what a strange sound! just as it used to sound!" I said to myself,

whisperingly.

I know not what possessed me; but I was determined to have the truth,

and the whole truth. I turned towards him and looked straight into his

eyes.

"Tell me, truly, as you hope God will save you at your utmost need, _do_

you love me? Did you marry me from any motive but that of pure, true

love?"

"From no other," answered he, with a face of unutterable surprise; and

then added, solemnly, "And may God take me, Delphine, when you cease to

love me!"

It was enough. There was truth in every breath, in every glance of his

deep eyes. A delicious languor took the place of the horrible tension

that had been every faculty,--a repose so sweet and perfect, that, if

reason had placed the clearest possible proofs of my husband's perfidy

before me, I should simply have smiled and fallen asleep on his true

heart, as I did.

When I opened my eyes, I met his anxious look.

"Why, what has come over you, Del? I did not know you were nervous."

And then remembering, that, although I might be weakest among the weak,

yet that it was his wisdom that was to sustain and comfort me, I said,--

"By-and-by I will tell you all about it,--certainly I will. I must tell

you some time, but not to-night."

"And--I had thought to keep a secret from you, to-night, Del; but, on

the whole, I shall feel better to tell you."

"Yes,--perhaps,--perhaps."

"Oh, yes! Secrets are safest, told. First, then, Del, I will tell you

this secret. I am very foolish. Don't tell of it, will you? See here!"

He held up his closed hand before my face, laughingly.

That man's name, Del, is Drake"----

"And not the Devil!" said I to myself.

"Solitude Drake."

"Really? Is that it, truly? What's in your hand?"

"Truly,--really. He lives in Albany. He is the son of a queer man, and

is something of a humorist himself. I have seen one of his sons. He has

two. One's name is Paraclete, and the other Preserved. His daughter is

pretty, very, and her name is Deliverance. They call her Del, for short.

They do, on my word! Worse than Delphine, is it not?"

"Why, don't you like my name?" stammered I, with astonishment.

"Yes, very well. I don't care much about names. But I can tell you,

Uncle Zabdiel and Aunt Jerusha, 'from whom I have expectations,' Del,

think it is 'just about the poorest kind of a name that ever a girl

had.' And our Cousin Abijah thought you were named Delilah, and that

it was a good match for Sampson! I rectified him there; but he still

insists on your being called 'Finy,' in the family, to distinguish you

from the Midianitish woman."

"And so Uncle _Zabdiel_ thinks I have a poor name?" said I, laughing

heartily. "The shield looks neither gold nor silver, from which side

soever we gaze. But I think _he_ might put up with _my_ name!"

My husband never knew exactly what I was laughing at. And why should he?

I was fast overcoming my weakness about names, and thinking they were

nothing, compared to things, after all.

When our laugh (for his was sympathetic) had subsided into a quiet

cheerfulness, he said, again holding up his hand,--

"Not at all curious, Del? You don't ask what Mr. Solitude Drake wanted?"

"I don't think I care what he wanted: company, I suppose."

And I went on making bad puns about solitude sweetened, and ducks and

drakes, as happy people do, whose hearts are quite at ease.

"And you don't want to know at all, Del?" said he, laughing a little

nervously, and dropping from his hand an open paper into mine. "It shall

be my wedding-present to you. It is Mr. Drake's retainer. Pretty stout

one, is it not? This is what made me jump out of the window,--this and

one other thing."

"Why, this is a draft for five hundred dollars!" said I, reading and

staring stupidly at the paper.

"Yes, and I am retained in that great Albany land-case. It involves

millions of property. That is all, Del. But I was so glad, so happy,

that I was likely to do well at last, and that I could gratify all the

wishes, reasonable and unreasonable, of my darling!"

"Is it a good deal?" said I, simply; for, after all, five hundred

dollars did not seem such an Arabian fortune.

"Yes, Del, a good deal. Whichever way it is decided, it will make my

fortune. And now--the other thing. You are sure you are very calm, and

all this won't make you sleepless?"

"Oh, no! I am calm as a clock."

"Well, then,--your Aunt Allen is dead."

"Dead! Is she? Did she leave us all her money?"

"Why, no, you little cormorant. She has left it all about: Legacies, and

Antioch College, and Destitute Societies. But I believe you have some

clothes left to you and Laura. Any way, the will is in there, in the

library: Mr. Drake had a copy of it. And the best of all is, I am to be

the executor, which is enough better than residuary legatee."

"It is very strange!" said I, thinking of the multitude of old gowns I

should have to alter over.

"Yes, it is, indeed, very strange. One of the strangest things about

the matter is, that my good friend Solitude was so taken with 'my queer

name,' as he calls it, that he 'took a fancy to me out of hand.' To be

sure, he listened through my argument in the Shore case, and that may

have helped his opinion of me as a lawyer.--Here comes Laura. Who would

have thought it was one o'clock?"

And who would have thought that my little ugly chrysalis of troubles

would have turned out such beautiful butterflies of blessings?

* * * * *

MARION DALE.

Marion Dale, I remember you once,

In the days when you blushed like a rose half-blown,

Long ere that wealthy respectable dunce

Sponged up your beautiful name in his own.

I remember you, Marion Dale,

Artless and cordial and modest and sweet:

You never walked in that glittering mail

That covers you now from your head to your feet.

Well I remember your welcoming smile,

When Alice and Annie and Edward and I

Came over to see you;--you lived but a mile

From my uncle's old house, and the grove that stood nigh.

I was no lover of yours, (pray, excuse me!)--

Our minds were different in texture and hue:

I never gave you a chance to refuse me;

Already I loved one less changeful than you.

Still it was ever a pride and a pleasure

Just to be near you,--the Rose of our vale.

Often I thought, "Who will own such a treasure?

Who win the rich love of our Marion Dale?"

I wonder now if you ever remember,

Ever sigh over fifteen years ago,--

Whether your June is all turned to December,--

Whether your life now is happy or no.

Gone are those winters of chats and of dances!

Gone are those summers of picnics and rides!

Gone the aroma of life's young romances!

Gone the swift flow of our passionate tides!

Marion Dale,--no longer our Marion,--

You have gone your way, and I have gone mine:

Lowly I've labored, while fashion's gay clarion

Trumpets your name through the waltz and the wine.

And when I meet you, your smile it is colder;

Statelier, prouder your features have grown;

Rounder each white and magnificent shoulder;

(Rather too low-necked your waist, I must own.)

Jewelled and muslined, your rich hair gold-netted,

Queenly 'mid flattering voices you move,--

Half to your own native graces indebted,

Half to the station and fortune you love.

"Marion" we called you; my wife you called "Alice";

I was plain "Phil";--we were intimate all:

Strange, as we leave now our cards at your palace,

On Mrs. Prime Goldbanks of Bubblemere Hall!

Six golden lackeys illumine the doorway:

Sure, one would think, by the glances they throw,

That we were fresh from the mountains of Norway,

And had forgotten to shake off the snow!

They will permit us to enter, however;

Usher us into her splendid saloon:

There we sit waiting and waiting forever,

As one would watch for the rise of the moon.

Or it may be to-day's not her "reception":

Still she's at home, and a little unbends,--

Framing, while dressing, some harmless deception,

How she shall meet her "American" friends.

Smiling you meet us,--but not quite sincerely;

Low-voiced you greet us,--but this is the _ton_:

This, we must feel it, is courtesy merely,--

Not the glad welcome of days that are gone.

You are in England,--the land where they freeze one,

When they've a mind to, with fashion and form:

Yet, if you choose, you can thoroughly please one:

Currents run through you still youthful and warm.

So one would think, at least, seeing you moving,

Radiant and gay, at the Countess's _fête_.

Say, was that babble so sweeter than loving?

Where was the charm, that you lingered so late?

Ah, well enough, as you dance on in joyance!

Still well enough, at your dinners and calls!

Fashion and riches will mask much annoyance.

Float on, fair lady, whatever befalls!

Yet, Lady Marion, for hours and for hours

You are alone with your husband and lord.

There is a skeleton hid in yon flowers;

There is a spectre at bed and at board.

Needs no confession to tell there is acting

Somewhere about you a tragedy grim.

All your bright rays have a sullen refracting;

Everywhere looms up the image of _him_:

Him,--whom you love not, there is no concealing.

How _could_ you love him, apart from his gold?

Nothing now left but your fire-fly wheeling,--

Flashing one moment, then pallid and cold!

Yet you've accepted the life that he offers,--

Sunk to his level,--not raised him to yours.

All your fair flowers have their roots in his coffers:

Empty the gold-dust, and then what endures?

So, then, we leave you! Your world is not ours.

Alice and I will not trouble you more.

Almost too heavy the scent of these flowers

Down the broad stairway. Quick, open the door!

Here, in the free air, we'll pray for you, lady!

You who are changed to us,--gone from us,--lost!

Soon the Atlantic shall part us, already

Parted by gulfs that can never be crossed!

CHARLESTON UNDER ARMS.

On Saturday morning, January 19, 1861, the steamer Columbia, from New

York, lay off the harbor of Charleston in full sight of Fort Sumter. It

is a circumstance which perhaps would never have reached the knowledge

of the magazine-reading world, nor have been of any importance to it,

but for the attendant fact that I, the writer of this article, was on

board the steamer. It takes two events to make a consequence, as well as

two parties to make a bargain.

The sea was smooth; the air was warmish and slightly misty; the low

coast showed bare sand and forests of pines. The dangerous bar of the

port, now partially deprived of its buoys, and with its main channel

rendered perilous by the hulks of sunken schooners, revealed itself

plainly, half a mile ahead of us, in a great crescent of yellow water,

plainly distinguishable from the steel-gray of the outer ocean. Two

or three square-rigged vessels were anchored to the southward of us,

waiting for the tide or the tugs, while four or five pilot-boats tacked

up and down in the lazy breeze, watching for the cotton-freighters which

ought at this season to crowd the palmetto wharves.