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Page) One day last week the steamer New York took 450 women and
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.
MAJOR-GENERAL WILLIAM T.
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
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
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.
BRIGADIER-GENERAL ALVIN P. HOVEY.
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.
IN THE HOSPITAL.
"WHAT a marvelous power over
pillows you possess. Thank you; how kind you are! I wonder if you are as
"As much so as women generally."
"Ma foi! have I offended? I beg
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
"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."
"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
"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
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
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
"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
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
"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.
"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
"But the cost of that once—your
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
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
"—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.
CURIOSITIES OF SLEEP.
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
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
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