General Sherman's Biography


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Civil War Harper's Weekly, January 24, 1863

Welcome to our online archive of Harper's Weekly newspapers. This collection is available for your study and research. These old newspapers allow you to gain new insights into this important period in American History.

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General Sherman

General W. T. Sherman

Monitor Wreck

Wreck of the Monitor

Battle of Galveston

Battle of Galveston


Civil War Telegraph

Signal Station

Signal Station


Negro Emancipation

Wreck of the Monitor

Wreck of the Monitor

Slave Pen

Slave Pen

Winter Quarters

Winslow Homer's "Winter Quarters"

Emancipated Slaves

Emancipated Slaves

Shreman Biography

Sherman Biography

Brute Butler

Brute Butler






[JANUARY 24, 1863.


(Previous Page) One day last week the steamer New York took 450 women and children from Washington to the realms of Secessia. They all had, or claimed to have, friends or relatives in Jeff Davis's kingdom, and were sent South at Government expense. Among the number were several young women whose departure from the Federal capital will lighten the duties of the provost-marshal. The Washington Star says:

Had their baggage passed without inspection they would have added much also to the necessities of the Southerners in dry goods, shoes, medicines, and many other articles and goods much required at the present time in Jeff Davis's domains. Eight officers were engaged all last night in examining the baggage that had been sent down. In many of the trunks were found dress goods of various kinds and textures, pins, needles, thread, etc., which articles were, of course, excluded.

In one very large trunk a sufficient quantity of dry goods was found to fully stock a country store. Some of the trunks had ten, fifteen, and as high as twenty-five. pairs of shoes. No passenger, however, was allowed to take more than two pairs. One lady, when asked why she desired to take so many, replied that she generally wore out two pair per month! All this morning the wharf and the neighborhood of Sixth Street was crowded with ladies and gentlemen, who resorted there to witness the departure and for the purpose of saying farewell to friends.

Judging from the expressions we heard in the crowd secesh sympathizers predominated. A gentleman asked an old lady who was going off whether she was pleased at her departure. She replied, "Yes, thank God! it is a great pleasure to get to a Government conducted by gentlemen, and not by Yankee boors." A crowd immediately gathered around, and then commenced expressions of contempt from fair lips for the United States Government generally, and the President and Cabinet in particular. One young lady remarked to a friend as she bade her good-by, "Be sure and write quickly; you know how to get the letter through." Another lady remarked that she hoped to return ere long, but with the victorious Confederate army.


WE publish on page 49 a portrait of GENERAL SHERMAN, commanding the United States forces at Vicksburg, from a photograph by Anthony.

William Tecumseh Sherman was born in the State of Ohio, about the year 1818. He entered West Point in 1836, and graduated in June, 1840, standing sixth in his class. He entered the Third Artillery, and, on 30th November, 1841, was promoted to a First Lieutenancy. During the war in Mexico he served in California, and was brevetted Captain for meritorious conduct. In 1853 he resigned the service, and, we believe, engaged in mercantile business in New Orleans. At the outbreak of the rebellion he tendered his services to the Government, and on 11th May was appointed Colonel of the new Thirteenth Infantry. This regiment he commanded at the battle of Bull Run. He was subsequently appointed Brigadier-General of Volunteers, and shortly afterward succeeded General Anderson in command of the Department of the Ohio. He was in command at Louisville when Secretary Cameron and Adjutant-General Thomas made their famous journey to the West, and he took occasion to tell those worthies that 200,000 men would be required to fight the battle in Kentucky. This statement—which subsequent experience has abundantly verified —seemed so outrageous to Mr. Cameron that General Sherman was shortly afterward removed, and doubts were cast upon his sanity. He was placed in command at Sedalia, Missouri, but resigned the position soon afterward, and was by General Halleck placed in command of a column in the field. At the battle of Shiloh he took so leading a part that General Halleck reported to Washington that the success of the day was mainly due to him. He was rewarded by promotion to a Major-Generalship. Subsequently placed in command of the fifth division of General Grant's army, he had charge of the city of Memphis, and administered authority there with vigor and discretion. On 24th December last he departed at the head of an expedition against Vicksburg, and at latest dates had been repulsed, after some very hard fighting.


WE publish on page 49 a portrait of GENERAL HOVEY, whose operations in the Southwest have attracted some attention. The portrait is from a photograph by Anderson.

Alvin P. Hovey was born in Mount Vernon, Indiana, on the 5th of May, 1821. After receiving a tolerably liberal education, he was licensed, in 1843, to practice law, and entered on the duties of his profession at Mount Vernon, Indiana, under very favorable auspices. Being a young man of energy and close application, he soon rose to rank with the most talented and profound lawyers of the State, and won some of the most honorable positions within the gift of the people. His friends were not surprised to find him among the first to offer his services to the Government when the dreadful alternative of war was forced upon us. General Hovey was first called to the command of the 24th Regiment of Indiana Volunteers, which was one of the best of the many fine Regiments Indiana had sent to the war. The history of his campaign, at the head of his Regiment, through Missouri and Western Kentucky, is too well known to be repeated here. He led his gallant Twenty-fourth on the bloody fields of Shiloh, and shortly afterward, for "gallant and meritorious" conduct, was promoted to the command he now holds. The history of his administration while in command at Memphis, Helena, and other points on the Mississippi, and of his recent daring exploit in penetrating the heart of the enemy's country, is fresh in every mind.


"WHAT a marvelous power over pillows you possess. Thank you; how kind you are! I wonder if you are as honest."

"As much so as women generally."

"Ma foi! have I offended? I beg pardon. Camp

life has made me rude. I wonder what brought you to such a place as this."

"Another wonder which I can better satisfy. Selfishness brought me here. I came to relieve my own suffering."

"In doing good to others worse off. That is a peculiar selfishness; but have you suffered really?"

"So much so that I must not speak of it. Why were you speculating upon my honesty?"

"Because I wish to ask a plain question and receive a straightforward answer."

"En avant."

"I feel pretty sure of you—more so than of those men who potter over me with, "Well, my boy, we must turn you out before long." Turn me out; yes indeed they will. What I wish to ask is, how much longer you think I'll last."

He was not much more than a boy, and looking into his fine clear eyes I hated for once to tell the truth. But day by day I had watched him with the motherly tenderness fate had denied my spending over children of my own; and each day I had seen the silver cord slipping, slipping—slowly, barely perceptibly, yet very surely loosening. After he spoke and lay there closely watching for my answer, scanning eagerly my face, which was too well tutored to express even pity when I chose it should not, I was silent for a while.

"Won't you tell me?" he pleaded.

"I want to see you strive more hopefully for health."

A faint smile curled his lip.

"Like all the rest!" he whispered to himself.

"I think not," was my reply, while for a moment a prayer from my heart went up for the youth and manhood ebbing, but as one drop from the nation's heart, one drop of the great red artery, carrying. away in its stealthy flow the pride and glory of our homes.

"How much longer, then," he repeated, "do you think I'll last?"

"God only knows, my dear young friend: not many days, unless there is reaction."

He closed his eyes and grew a little paler, but I did not fear any harm. I knew I had done rightly. He was one to bear truth.

"Thank you," he said at last, and grasped my hand.

"But you must care more to live; you must not be so passive," I told him.

"No; if you knew all you would not think so."

"You told me you had no parents: have you not sisters, some one whose presence would cheer you?"

"No," he replied, but the gathering frown of pain or annoyance warned me to change the topic. I rearranged the trifles near him, and was about leaving him, hoping that sleep would refresh him, but he begged me to stay. So I took up a book and began softly reading, but that also had not the desired effect.

"There is one person I wish to see before I die," he renewed. "I am not sure she would come," he muttered; "yet I wish, I long, I must see her. Will you write, or will you go—that would be better—go for her? Tell her, Florence Withers, that I, Dick Temple, am dying, and she must come, bid me good-by, or my ghost—" He buried his face in the pillows, and I, with a heart aching for his loneliness, promised to do his bidding.

That is why I am waiting the return of the liveried man who has ushered me in this sumptuous room, and carried my card and note to the lady I have never heard of or seen before.

The house does not differ from the many of wealth and, fashion I have been in; the same elegance, and luxury, and repose reign in all. There is no more to be guessed from it than from the glistening garb a woman wears at her bridal; no more, no less. The taste of the upholsterer and the modiste is about all we get at from either. Lace and damask, ormolu and bronze—tulle, orange blossoms, and a veil.

I was rather startled by the footman's return and message in the midst of this reverie, but was too conscious of the necessary calmness and imperturbability in the presence of such functionaries to betray myself.

"Will you please go up stairs?"

"Certainly," and I followed his lead.

Noiselessly we went through the vast hall, up the broad, carved, oaken staircase, to the door where I was ushered in alone.

A young maid-servant met me and whispered quickly:

"My mistress has been very ill: for weeks we have thought something was wrong here," tapping her forehead with her finger; "but as soon as she read your note she brightened, and said she must see you. The nurse is out, and I don't know whether it's right. You will please tell the nurse it is not my fault if you see her."

The room was darkened, the heavy curtains down so that the sunshine filtering through them had the purple tinge of twilight.

On a low cushioned lounge, half lost in the pillows, I espied white drapery, and a soft, sweet voice gave me welcome. I approached and told my errand cautiously, for I reckoned rightly that I was not the bearer of glad tidings.

At the first glance the face seemed to reiterate what the maid had whispered. It was an exquisite face, the kind that men rave about; of flower-like beauty and mould, tint and texture. The long sweeping lashes raised slowly and the eyes gazed abstractedly, like a child's waking out of a dream. She looked at me as if striving to recall my personality, which I gently explained was one she had no cognizance of. Then she looked at my note, and the light of full reason swept away the mistiness of doubt which veiled her face of expression.

"You are come from Richard, Richard Temple. Sit down here by me and tell me all about him. Is he so ill; was he very badly wounded?"

"Very badly, very cruelly wounded," I replied, not surprised to see the sudden swaying of her slender form, as ash-trees bend with a sudden gust, and a great driving fall of tears.

"You know, do you not, that he is no relation of mine; that, as Mrs. Withers, I ought not even call him friend?"

"No; he did not tell me so."

"But he is dying: you can not deny it. It is not wrong for me to think of him now, is it? I am glad he is dying, for I can love him now; there is no harm in it. My darling, darling! oh, how I have been punished! I wonder if God forgives such as I—women so false to their better natures?"

"He forgives all who repent."

"But I have been forced into repentance after cloaking myself in deceit. I knew Richard loved me long ago, though he had not said it in plain words; every look and action were full of tenderness; but I was spoiled with flattery and adulation, and piqued that he gave me none; so, in wicked coquetry, I allowed others to suppose my heart was free.

"Three summers ago we were at Lake G—. Papa never fancied Richard, because his family was not distingue, and he was very ambitious that I should make a grand match; so, before I hardly knew what I was doing, I was betrothed to Mr. Withers. At first the novelty and sensation of the thing amused me, and for a week or two I was quite happy; but one evening Richard came back from a trip in the mountains, and I was so glad to see him that I quite forgot my fiance. We strolled around the piazzas alone, for Mr. Withers had gone sailing, which I could never be induced to do, and at last sauntered in where the people were dancing. The music drowned our voices, and we were sheltered by the bay-window; but in a pause of the band Richard told me the old, old story, which it was too late now for me to hear. It stunned me so completely that I forgot where I was—that his arm was around me, and his lips near mine; but so differently was I moved, so much more my heart responded to his glowing words than to the stately offer I had before received, that I dared not tell him the truth. For a little while my silence sufficed him; my heart was beating so tumultuously I could not speak; and he was happy—for a short time only; for directly Mr. Withers came for use to dance, calling me familiarly 'Florence;' and I, quickly drawing off my glove, showed him my manacle; the diamonds flashed truth in his eyes, and I whirled away in a redowa with Mr. Withers.

"I have not seen him since. I knew he enlisted as a private; I heard that he was wounded, and that shock, and the death of my little child, have almost crazed me; but I have told you all this, so you can advise me. Shall I go to him, or will it be wrong?"

Had she been my own child I could not have more pitied her, or been less puzzled how to reply. There was her beautiful face looking up at me with the same pleading that another face lying on a lonely cot had worn.

"Where is your husband? Ask his permission," I evaded.

"He is away from home."

"Can you not write?"

She shuddered a little. "It may be too late then."

It may be I was sinning for a moment in thinking there could be no wrong in her yielding to the dictate of her heart this once—for once letting custom and appearances, ay, even duty, stand aside; but any woman with natural feeling in her bosom would have been tempted, as I was, to tell her to go; for there she stood watching me with painful intensity and apprehension, as if the boon she craved were in my gift.

"Just once before he dies," she whispered.

"But the cost of that once—your husband's anger—"

She sprang to her feet. "Do you think I care for the cost, or in what way I may suffer for it, while he lies there dying all alone?"

"You have vowed before God to obey your husband. Do you candidly believe he would be willing?"

She sank down again, huskily uttering "No." My heart was full of pity, but I had the strength to say,

"Then, my dear Mrs. Withers, it is very plain to me that even this wish is one you must not harbor, though to stifle it makes your cross ten times heavier."

I clasped her hand and drew her head down on my bosom, where it lay motionless for some time; nor would I have had her know the defiant thoughts which I was hurling at the world and all its mockeries.

When I rose to go she thanked me with earnest gravity, and bade me tell Richard, with great tenderness, that though she had always loved him she was striving to be a true wife. Her face had lost all its color, and her eyes had almost a dull opaqueness. With assurances that I would do all in my power to comfort him I left her—left her in the gorgeous purple twilight of her darkened room, crowned with youth and beauty and sorrow, for

"—this is truth the poet sings,

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier


It was very hard for me to go back to that little hospital cot with so empty a return for the impatient longings spent in vain.

But he bore it manfully, without a tremor in voice or lip, weak as he was; and I lavished upon him all the gentleness and care I could command.

The end was not far off. The shadows were growing longer and gathering denser. Life receding: eternity drawing nigh. Every day I strove to make the narrow path lighter with the Truth, and rob death of its gloom. He had a fearless, bright spirit, seldom giving way to doubts. Never again had he spoken of Florence Withers.

One snowy afternoon I, finishing a Psalm, the Twenty-third, thought him asleep, and knowing his extreme weakness, rather fearfully bent down to listen to his breathing: it was soft as an infant's. I saw his lips move and heard one word; it was only "Floy"—perhaps, thought I, he is praying, and I moved silently away.

It must have been so, and his prayer was answered,

for when I came back I found a kneeling figure at his side and his head pillowed in Florence's embrace.

Standing alone and gazing out the window was a gentleman whom I knew must be Mr. Withers; and so individually grateful was I for this his unselfish deed, that I regarded him as holding that rarest of all titles, "Nature's nobleman."

They were just in time. Death came with the twilight.

I never have known what prompted Mr. Withers to this kindness; but well assured am I that in doing it he took the surest method toward gaining the affection which, through no fault of his, had been lavished on another.


THERE is much yet unexplained and mysterious about the phenomena of sleep, and to those who wish to speculate on the subject, the following facts relating to dreaming and somnambulism may be interesting.

Whispering in the ears of a person asleep will sometimes produce curious effects. An officer in the expedition to Louisburgh, in 1758, was often practiced upon by his companions. After the army had landed, he was one day found asleep in his tent. The cannonading plainly disturbed him, and he was made to believe that he was engaged. He expressed great fear, and was evidently disposed to run away. He was then remonstrated with; but at the same time the groans of the wounded and dying were simulated, and on his frequent inquiries after those who were down, the names of particular friends were mentioned. At length he was told that the man next to himself had fallen, when he instantly darted from his bed and out of the tent, and was awakened by falling over the tent-ropes.

A gentleman dreamed that he had enlisted as a soldier, joined his regiment, and deserted. He was captured, taken back, tried, sentenced to be shot, and led out for execution. Preparations were made, and a gun was fired. He then awoke, and found that a noise in an adjacent room had both caused his dream and aroused him from it.

Dr. James Gregory dreamed of ascending the crater of Mount Etna, and of feeling the warmth of the ground under him, when he had gone to sleep with a vessel of hot water at his feet. He had ascended Mount Vesuvius, where he felt this sensation of warmth while mounting up the side of the crater. He also dreamed of wintering at Hudson's Bay, and of suffering acutely from the cold. On awaking he found that a portion of his bed-clothes were off. A few days before he had been perusing an account of the condition during winter of the country of which he had dreamed.

A gentleman and his wife during a period of great excitement both dreamed at the same time of the expected French invasion. In the morning it was found that a pair of tongs had fallen in the room above, and the noise made by this accident was believed to have caused these concurrent dreams. Dr. Reid states, that when the dressing of a blister on his head had become ruffled so as to cause considerable discomfort, he dreamed that he fell into the hands of savages, who scalped him. A patient in the Edinburgh Infirmary talked a great deal when asleep, making frequent and very distinct references to patients who had been in the ward two years ago, at which period she herself had been there. Her allusions had no reference to those cases which were then in the ward. A gentleman who had been chased by a bull forty-five years before the period to which our statement refers, had almost invariably dreamed of his perilous adventure ever since it occurred, whenever he had eaten much supper, or any thing indigestible.

A gentleman connected with a bank in Glasgow was paying money at the teller's table, when a payment of six pounds was demanded. The person who made this demand was impatient, and somewhat noisy, and, although his turn had not arrived, a gentleman requested that he might be paid and got rid of. Eight or nine months after, a deficiency of six pounds was discovered in the accounts of the bank. Several days and nights were vainly consumed in efforts to discover this error, and the gentleman who had made the payment just mentioned went home greatly fatigued. He then dreamed of the whole transaction with the impatient client, whose conduct had annoyed him at the moment, and awoke with the belief that this dream would bring about an extrication from the difficulty in the bank accounts. On examination, he found that this sum of six pounds had not been entered in the book of interests, and thus the deficiency was accounted for. Dr. Abercrombie, to whom we are indebted for this and many other of our facts, considers this case "exceedingly remarkable."

A gentleman of landed property in the vale of Gala was prosecuted for considerable arrears of teind, or tithe, which he was said to owe to a noble family. He believed that these tithes had been purchased; but, after examining his father's papers, the public records, and those persons who had transacted law business with his father, he was unable to obtain evidence of such a purchase. He therefore resolved to ride to Edinburgh, and compromise the affair as well as be could. Going to bed with the intention of putting this plan in execution on the morrow, he dreamed that his father, who bad been dead many years, appeared to him. He inquired the cause of his son's trouble; and when the gentleman had replied, and had added that the payment was the more unpleasant, because he had a strong consciousness that it was not owing, although he could not prove that to be the case, "You are right, my son," answered the father; "I did acquire right to these teinds for which you are now prosecuted. The papers relating to the transaction are in the hands of Mr. —, a writer (or attorney), who is now retired from professional business, and resides at Inveresk, near Edinburgh. He was a person whom I employed on that occasion




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