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VIEWS ABOUT KNOXVILLE
THE sketches of
VICINITY given on pages 232 ad 233, obtained during a recent visit by our
artist, T. R. DAVIS, will give an idea of the place and some of its
surroundings. Sketching from the fortifications on Keith's Hill, or, as the
place is known to the inhabitants, Big Bluff, the country seems a vast map, upon
which a pretty little city is prominent, environed by rifle-pits, which at each
knoll and hill become fortifications of size and strength. Far in the distance,
to the right, the
Cumberland Gap is just distinguishable. In the
town the Whig office and the "Yankee Bull Pen" seem objects of interest. The
prison known as the " Yankee Bull Pen" was for a long time the abode of the
loyal East Tennesseeans who were unfortunate enough to stray into the hands of
the rebels. Now it is used as a residence, kept entirely for the accommodation
of its old proprietors.
Near the prison is the
Court-house, now a hospital, over which Dr. BARRITT has control.
Near Knoxville is a picturesque
place known as Lenoir's Mills, looking almost New England-like, so neat and
thrifty is it, with quiet cottages and busy mills. The place has its local
interest, having been the scene of frequent skirmishes between the loyal and
rebel inhabitants of the country about.
From another illustration it will
be seen that the military roads are not provided with special accommodations for
ladies. As a consequence, ladies in that country generally stay at home.
In illustration of another of our
views, Mr. DAVIS writes: " Returning from Chattanooga,
Parson BROWNLOW was on the train on his way to
the ' land of plenty.' The soldiers at the different stopping places crowded
about the cars, generally introducing themselves with, 'Parson, I'm an Indiana
boy,' or ' I'm from Illinois.' or whatever other State might be represented ;
'shake hands.' They had all heard of him, and were glad to see the leading Union
man of East Tennessee."
The railroad bridge over the
Tennessee River at Loudon is rapidly rebuilding. This will complete the line of
road between Knoxville and Chattanooga. At the present time passengers and
stores are ferried over, and so the former have a quiet walk of a mile or more.
OUR LITTLE FRIEND.
0ur little friend Is in his
The sod is green with April rain.
We weep for him. What would we
have? To him at least our loss is gain.
We lose the hope of future
years—Our child, our gallant little man;
But he, the future's pain and
tears. We will be happy -if we can.
Or, if not happy, still, content
His peace should solace our
despair. God takes away the gem he lent To set it with the star-beams fair.
AT THE FAIR.
"WELL, Jordan !"
" Well, Charley !"
"Ain't you going ?"
"Going where ?"
" Going to the Fair," laughing at
the chime of words.
Jordan settled himself
comfortably in his seat again.
" No, Charley, my boy, I'm not
going to the Fair. But you are, I perceive. How you are got up though I should
never dare to travel in such brilliant company."
" Oh, bother !" and Charley
glanced, with an honest blush on his honest face. at his dandy clothes.
"I say though, Jordan," he
quickly resumed, "you ought to go."
" Oh. hang fairs, Charley. I hate
'em. A fellow's always bored to death to buy a lot of rubbish. I'd rather by
half contribute at the beginning what I can afford. That's my way. The buying is
yours. You'll be a young swell there, Charley. I can fancy you beset by sixteen
of those girls at once, with sixteen different propositions for you; and you'll
think it fine fun. They'll delude you into buying any thing; dolls, and
pin-cushions, and prayer-books. It'll be all the salve to you; and you'll bestow
them with the grace and discretion of a young prince. I really envy that way of
"A good deal you do,"
I do though, really. I'm in
Charley Duganne looked in
surprise at his companion at this ; but Ellery Jordan's face was serious. There
was no sarcastic play of the lips, no laughing twinkle to the eves, of ww'i;ich
honest Charley Du-
was always somewhat in dread.
"Yes, I really do envy you,
Charley. You come to the pleasant turns Cs easily; as I do the disagreeable
ones. You extract the sweet from life, while I am chewing the bitter cud. Every
hotly likes you, every body smiles upon you ; and all from that 'way' of yours
and it's the way of your heart, Charley, so I can't learn it. And all the time
you look at me and think I'm such a smart fellow—that I know the world and a
heap of things that you don't don't. And von think It I look dow-n from my ivies
height sometimes and laugh at you when you come in with your Fair-pleasures, and
in a stunning new suit. In instead of that, Charley, I look at you with genuine
admiration. I rejoice in your freshness, in your capacity for enjoyment of all
sweet and simple pleasure. Don't think I regard you as any the less of a man for
it. It's the generous boy's heart, Charley, that's in it all, and that makes me
like the man who own, it. As for me, Charley, I am 'a great hulking fellow,'
whom nobody cares very much about. I never carry sunshine with me, 'I
never win hearts or smiles. I'm a
gloomy, sullen, surly wretch, who perpetually gets the wrong side of things, and
blunders at every step. There, Charley, go your ways, go your ways, and don't
mistake me any more."
He turned with his old laugh to
his book, a little disconcerted at the earnestness into which he had been
betrayed ; but Charley, touched and bewildered out of his senses, stammered
thanks and praises and deprecation in a breath. But Ellery Jordan bad had enough
of the topic.
"Go your ways, Charley, go your
ways," was all he said to him now; and at last Charley was wise enough to go.
Jordan heard him whistling I l segreto per esser, felice, as he ran down the
" That is his natural comment
upon my.?' way ;" and Jordan smiled, then looked thoughtful and a little sad,
then lost him ,elf in his book. What do you think roused him from it, this
cynic, this " gloomy, sullen, surly fellow?" A child's voice, crying. I-le had
been conscious of it a good while before he felt called upon to look into the
cause. He knew very well who it was. His landlady's little boy, Bobby Greene.
But the grieved sobs continued so long he flung down his book and opened the
Bobby, surprised, held his peace
for a moment. " What's the matter, Bobby ?"
The little figure, sitting on the
first stair disconsolate, burst out afresh at this sign of interest. Between
broken words and sobs his questioner discovered teat somebody, some nefarious
uncle Dick or other, had failed to carry out a promise to take Bobby to the
Fair. It was a heart-breaking thing to Bobby. In vain Jordan, moved to pity,
took; the urchin into his room, and laid before him treasures that would at
another time have made him hilarious. The boy hushed his crying, indeed he
seemed to appreciate the efforts made for his amusement, but, as Jordan thought,
"It was no go." Bob-by had set his mind upon the Fair. The Fair, of which
wonderful stories had fired his youthful imagination. Jordan looked at the small
face, ex-pressing the depth of childish melancholy.
'' So not even this child can be
happy, because of some hungering after what is denied," he mused. " But it is
early to learn the universal lesson, and a pity." He mused a moment longer,
scowling over a new thought. Presently he gave a sigh that was partly a laugh.
"Bobby, go and ask your mother to
wash off those tears, and tell her I'll take you to the Fair." The
transformation of the melancholy face into a bevy of smiles was a very swift
one. Bobby ran off shouting with delight, while Jordan rose to effect some
changes in his toilet. His face was not quite so full of delightful anticipation
as Bobby's. He elevated his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders as he thought of
what he was about to inflict upon himself, for he hated Fairs, you know.
And this was a Soldiers' Fair. ''
How selfish of hint !" you exclaim. Wait. He acknowledged that he preferred
contributing what he could afford. And he did. But he has contributed more than
those United States bills to the country. Long ago he gave himself. This is
Captain Jordan, of the Hundred and something New York Volunteers. He is home on
a furlough, not of simple ease and relaxation, but of necessity. Waiting for
that right arm to get strength enough to wield a weapon. And leaving him here
dressing for the Fair, let the story of the Fair run backward for a little in
"SOPHY, you must help us in the
post-office. We have counted upon you. Tell her it's her duty, Mrs. Hamlyn, to
do the work that lies nearest. And this is her duty, for nobody is so swift of
hand, and writes so beautifully as Sophy. Oh, Sophy, how can you refuse? Yes,
yes, I know you've written heaps of letters—lovely letters I know they must
be—but now at the very last to refuse to write the addresses ! You never
expected to take that place. Why, Sophy, where were your ears in all our
If Sophy Hamlyn was firm, Ida
Jocelyn was hopeful and persistent. Again and again he presented the case in its
most piteous aspects to Sophy, and at last departed with the words
" I shall come in to-morrow night
again, and shall expect you to have yielded, Sophy ; you know I ask it as a
personal favor. I should never have accepted my post but for the belief that you
would be with me."
Sophy did not reply. She kept on
a cool steady face until Ida had departed, then she went up to her room and "had
a good cry."
II I tell you what she cried
about, I am afraid you will think my Sophy a very empty-headed young lady ; but
have patience with her, and with her story, and do not condemn her at tint.
Sop' y Hamlyn cried those vexed
and bitter tears because--because she had " nothing to wear." You look about the
pretty room, the curtains, the car-pet, the vases. You note all the indications
of a luxurious home, and you see Sophy in her graceful morning attic' , and your
lip curls disdainfully, and you comment severely upon the weak and wicked
exaggeration of' our girls. But you can not see the meaning of every thing at a
first glance. Ida Jocelyn would tell you that the Hamlyns were not rich, That
Mr. Hamlyn failed a few years ago. and has never been fortunate since. '' Not
actually poor, you know," the gay girl would go on; "only the
Hamlyn's can't give parties and
keep carriage, and Sophy, don't have no much money to spend as she used."
This was all Ida Jocelyn knew
about it. And this was all any body knew abort it, but the Hamlyns themselves.
When Ida Jocelyn went there, and had such a nice time with Sophy in that ''
home-like house," as she called it, she did not perceive that Mrs. Hamlyn looked
tired and worn. She did not know how very, very simply they lived simply they
lived; how much they pinched and straitened. She saw only the pretty rooms just
as she had always seen them, looking fresh and bright - for the years of change
were too few to turn things shabby yet. And since that time, when Mr. Hamlyn
went down, there had been no outward difference in their surroundings.
Why should there have been? The
house itself was Mrs. Hamlyn's; and there were no rare pictures, no statues of
great value to sell. So they lived on amidst the same curtains, and chairs, and
carpets, but with only a single servant in the whole house. Mrs. Hamlyn had
turned, and pieced, and re-made, with her own hands and Sophy's help, dress
after dress, until now poor Sophy's wardrobe furnished nothing further; and
Sophy, sitting there alone in her room after Ida Jocelyn's departure, cried
vexed and bitter tears over all the vexation and bitterness of this constant
planning and pinching; over the want that kept her from accepting a post which
could not but look alluring to her.
So you see that although Sophy
cried because she had "nothing to wear," it was not so much for the one dress
lacking for the one occasion, but for the constant wear and tear of that poverty
which hides its thousand cares, its humiliating annoyances, its anxieties, its
petty details behind a smiling mask. It was for the necessity that laid the
limits so narrowly that a new dress even was impossible at this time. It was for
all this that the bitter, sewed tears came, though the one dress was the one
final chop in the cup that set it overflowing.
Poor little Sophy! she was but
human. Brave little Sophy, too, as you would say, if you knew how she kept
repinings out of' sight, and almost out of suspicion; who taught herself much
handiwork unknown before, and showed a bright face always to father, and mother,
and those three boys. But it was hard about the fair. Oh, it' she could discover
some way to make her only silk dress presentable ! It was of no-use, no use.
"Ah me!" and she sighed wearily.
"I am too proud, I suppose, but I can not go shabby. I shouldn't enjoy it. I
should have a sense of unsuitableness."
She lies there with her tears,
thinking, thinking on the dismal prospect, while Ida Jocelyn, never dreaming of
such thinking, makes her brilliant plans. Ah, Ida Jocelyn, there are many such
homes, where an outward serenity is kept, and where you never suspect the many,
many cares that hide beneath those who have known better days, and who, not from
vanity, but from the educated taste, keep up the fair semblance ! Is there a
much sadder suggestion in life ? But Sophy sees a rainbow through her tears.
" There's Aunt Martha's things !"
And with this suggestion she slips from the couch, and dashes out of her room up
into a far, dark corner of the attic, where lies that long-forgotten chest of
relics, nearly a century old. The camphor-wood has kept them intact, and Sophy
drags out a lilac brocade, with glistening eyes. It is no great flourishing
pattern, but a trim design of star-work; not at all outlandish, Sophy thinks,
and the color suited to her fair hair. Only three days before the evening of the
Fair ; but Sophy will undertake it. Fly, little fingers, over your pretty work.
Ply, smoothly-shining needle, to aid this busy remodeling.
Ida Jocelyn, who came the next
night, was radiant at the success of her persistence.
Two nights after she went into
raptures over Sophy's toilet.
"Where did you get such a lovely
dress—so strange, so piquant, and so becoming? And that lace at your throat is
an heir-loom ; and your hair all crimped and rolled into such pretty puffs, and
the dear little red rose to crown it—oh, Sophy, you look like a little
Sophy bloomed like the red rose,
and laughed blithely at her success, but she told no one of the heartache that
preceded it. Sophy never told any one of her heartaches. First, because she was
too proud to make confidantes of her girl friends; secondly, because she was too
generous to burden her already burdened mother. She sewed her heart-aches into
her work, perhaps. Poor little Sophy! brave little Sophy ! were there any of
those gloomy threads stitched into the brilliant gown you wear to-night, or did
the rainbow turn them all to shining promises?
CAPTAIN JORDAN stood patiently by
while Bobby refreshed himself on cakes and ices. Standing there twirling his
mustaches, and looking forth from under heavy brows at the scene, he spies
" I declare the fellow is eating
a tart like a school-boy !" he said, aloud.
Charley glanced up.
"What, Jordan!" And then: How
And Jordan pointed with a shrug
" I came to keep the peace; this
urchin was breaking it into flinders because somebody had disappointed him."
Charley's admiration saw through
this version, but its expression was cut short by a growling '' Pshaw- !"
Walking with him through the
rooms, Adjutant Duganne's finesse brought- him at last before a window tit aped
with flags, and glimpsing fair faces within It was a charmed spot, as many a
bearded loiterer testified.
Gay Ida Jocelyn nodded and
smiled. " Do you expect another letter, Mr. Duganne? The California mail is just
Duganne nodded, and smiled back
again. Gay Ida turned with a pretty, mock-business air. "Sopby, see if there is
a letter for Mr. Duganne in this mail."
"Allow me to present to you
Captain Jordan, Miss Jocelyn."
Then, as the Captain expressed
it, he found him-self " in for it ;" and with an indefferent air he went through
with the expected question, which Post-mistrees Jordan preferred to her
assistant, Sophy Hamlyn. "A letter for Captain Jordan?" The white missive
dropped into his pocket, and dropped out of his mind at the same time. But with
an eye for the beautiful, he could not help admiring the lovely faces that held
their little court within. "Isn't she a stunner for beauty?" exclaimed Charley,
enthusiastically, as they withdrew a few paces for new-comers.
" Which she do you mean ?"
" The post-mistress—Miss
"She'll do very well; but who was
that girl with the yellow hair and the red rose in it?"
"lIliss Hamlyn. She'd suit you,
Jordan; let me introduce you."
"You mistake, Charley, boy. I am
admiring her as a fixed star in another planet. It's altogether too resplendent
to shine in my orbit. She looks like a duchess—to come down to earth; and 1 ant
by no means a possible duke."
But there was certainly a Fate in
that night. When Jordan sat by his fire an horn' later, and thrust his hands
into his pockets in meditative mood, he came upon that letter again. Vaguely as
his hand touched it he drew it forth. "Cap.ain Jordan." It was a firm hand for a
" So that girl with the yellow
hair wrote it. The pretty duchess! I should not care to look at her long ; her
brightness would put my eye, out."
Ile opened the letter and read it
through. Strangely enough, the same handwriting within as without.
"On of her contributions, eh?" He
settled himself for an airy epistle, made up of en occasional bon met and French
phrases. Ile found a curious kind of letter for such a gay-looking duchess. A
straightforward letter, full of simple strength, purporting to come from a
soldier's wife. Where had the gay duchess learned so much of the strait-
d lives of such as these ?
He discovered his eyes moistening
at the reality of the patient enduance; the sad, waiting hope that was presented
; and, most of ell, at the brave sentence: "But though I am very, very lonely;
though my heart dies me at every report of a fresh battle, yet I would rather
have you there than here, because I know that there is your duty, there your
honor." There were some tender, prayerful words, and then the letter ended. He
folded it up and put it away. But he could not put away the contents from his
mind. It seemed so real; as if it came from the depths of some strong, deep,
womanly heart. And that girl with the yellow hair wrote it ! He found himself
thinking of it the next day. He found himself thinking of it the next week.
By-and-by this though` carried him to see her. He went again and again. and in
that home atmosphere, spite of the gay duchess air, he
discovered how it was that this
with the yellow hair could see so deeply into life. He saw that she wrote from
her own heart—a heart. deep e and strong, and womanly and heroic. He went again
and again ; and if her brightness put his eyes out, he gained a clearer vision
wherewith to see. Ile saw no longer a gay duchess, but Sophy Hamlyn, a brave
little philosopher—Sophy Hamlyn, the only woman in the world to him.
A fellow-officer, who came home
the other day and offered cordial congratulations to Captain Jordan on his
success in winning Miss Ile HaGlyn, said, wonderingly,
"And where did you find her? I
did not think. such a woman lived except in a book—so simple and earnest and
And Captain Jordan answered,
"I found her at the Fair, where,
-I ant inclined to think henceforth, are to be found all the good things of
AUNT DEBBY'S BROWN
THROUGH the vines curtaining with
green the low windows the morning sun fell with shattered rays into a cozy
chamber, plainly but tastily furnished, with rude pictures on the walls, an
old-fashioned clock on the mantle, a Bible and hymn-book on the stand, and
bouquets of newly-gathered flowers filling every corner-perch. From an airy
niche, just within the eastern window, a canary piped a welcome to the morning;
and without., in the stately trees, whose leaves blushed radiantly under the
kiss of the sunrise, robins caroled cheery strains, rehearsing joyously their
loves and hopes to the listening air.
Lucy Larcom, looking out amidst
the vines, catching in one view the glory of the scene, stood enraptured, each
revelation of minuter beauties increasing her delight. Eighteen summers had
drifted over her head; but none of them, though they had been all galleries of
splendors, had ever unfolded a picture of such rare loveliness as that now
spread out before her. Until yesterday her foot bad never pressed the green
country sward; until this soft June morning she had never seen the sunrise
broadening over field and meadow, totalling ti e bills with glory, and flooding
the valley depths with waves of' light. City-born, her memories were
of city pleasures and city
scenes. She was as much a stranger, walking with doubtful feet, in the realm to
which she had now come, as she could have been had a veil all her days obscured
her sight and hid-den the world in impenetrable shadow.
Why had she slipped away from her
city home and found a refuge in the brown cottage of Aunt Debby, on the edge of
Riverton ? She could hardly have told—at least she would not have cared to
tell--had you asked her. It was not because ) her city hone did not abound in
all pleasant things ; it was not because society had closed its doors against
her, or her authority its the circles of fashion had been discarded. Lucy Larcon
was welcome everywhere ; her word was law whenever site pleased to have it so.
Nor was it because she had wearied of life's pleasures; she relished them, when
innocent and timely, as keenly as she had ever done. It was simply because she
was dissatisfied with the temper of the world about her; with its materialistic
dogmas and practices in a time of vast needs: its coldness and apathy in the
presence of sublime duties ; its pursuit constantly of other than innocent
amusments and pleasures. She could not forget the nation was at war ; that
hundreds and thousands of homes were darkened by suffering: that multitudes of
maimed, smitten ones were walking up and down with shadows on their lives ; that
it great principle, involving not merely