CAMP CURTIN, HARRISBURG. PA.
WE publish herewith, from a drawing made on the spot, an illustration of Camp
Curtin, a rendezvous of the
Pennsylvania Volunteers. At this place Governor
Curtin is understood to have collected some eight or ten thousand volunteers,
and more are flocking in daily—horse, foot, and artillery.
A large number of experienced drill-sergeants are busy from daylight till
dark drilling the men, who go through the unaccustomed labor with cheerfulness,
and only ask to be led forward. A gentleman who has just returned from
Harrisburg writes as follows respecting the other camps of the Pennsylvania
" This State has in the neighborhood
of seventeen thousand
already in the
field, and thousands more
full six thousand
stationed at Camp Scott, near York, under the
command of Generals Wynkoop
and Negley. There are twenty-six
Camp Slifer, near
Chambersburg, under the
of the officers
of the Pennsylvania
volunteers in the
Mexican War, who has
Colonel J. J. Patterson for his
Elkton, Perryville and Philadelphia are
more, and there are one or two regiments from Ohio
near Lancaster, with some twelve hundred United States
to Act of Congress, in the Year
District Court for the
Splendidly Illustrated by
from the Manuscript and early Proof–sheets purchased from the
WAS three-and-twenty years of age. Not another word had I heard to
enlighten me on the subject of my expectations, and my twenty-third birthday was
a week gone. We had left Barnard's Inn more than a year, and lived in the
Temple. Our chambers were in Garden Court, down by the river.
Mr. Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our original relations,
though we continued on the best terms. Notwithstanding my inability to settle to
any thing—which I hope arose out of the restless and incomplete tenure on which
I held my means—I had a taste for reading, and read regularly so many hours a
day. That matter of Herbert's was still progressing, and every thing with me was
as I have brought it down to the close of the last chapter.
Business had taken Herbert on a journey to Marseilles. I was alone, and had a
dull sense of being alone. Dispirited and anxious, long hoping that tomorrow or
next week would clear my way, and long disappointed, I sadly missed the cheerful
face and ready response of my friend.
It was wretched weather; stormy and wet, stormy and wet ; and mud, mud, mud,
deep in all the streets. Day after day a vast heavy veil had been driving over
London from the East, and it drove still, as if in the East there were an
Eternity of cloud and wind. So furious had been the gusts that high buildings in
town had had the lead stripped off their roofs ; and in the country, trees had
been torn up, and sails of wind-mills carried away ; and gloomy accounts had
come in from the coast of shipwreck and death. Violent blasts of rain had
accompanied these rages of wind, and the day just closed as I sat down to read
had been the worst of all.
Alterations have been made in that part of the Temple since that time, and it
has not now so lonely a character as it had then, nor is it so exposed to the
river. We lived at the top of the last house, and the wind rushing up the river
shook the house that night like discharges of cannon or breaking of a sea. When
the rain came with it and dashed against the windows, I thought, raising my eyes
to them as they rocked, that I might have fancied myself in a storm-beat. en
light-house. Occasionally the smoke came rolling down the chimney as though it
could not bear to go out into such a night ; and when I set the doors open and
looked down the stair-case, the staircase lamps were blown out ; and when I
shaded my face with my hands and looked through the black windows (opening them
ever so little was out of the question in the teeth of such wind and rain), I
saw that the lamps in the court were blown out, and that the lamps on the
bridges and the shore were shuddering, and that the coal fires in barges on the
river were being carried away before the wind like red-hot splashes in the rain.
I read with my watch upon the table, purposing to close my book at eleven
o'clock. As I shut it, Saint Paul's, and all the many church-clocks in the
City—some leading, some accompanying, some following—struck that hour. The sound
was curiously flawed by the wind; and I was listening, and thinking how the wind
assailed it and tore it, when I heard a footstep on the stair.
What nervous folly made me start, and awfully connect it with the footstep of my
dead sister, matters not. It was past in a moment, and I listened again, and
heard the footstep stumble in coming on. Remembering then that the
staircase-lights were blown out, I took up my reading-lamp and went out to the
stair-head. Whoever was below had stopped on seeing my lamp, for all was quiet.
"'There is some one down there, is there not ?" I called out, looking down.
"Yes," said a voice from the
"What floor do you