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Civil War Harper's Weekly, February 20, 1864

This site features an online collection of Harper's Weekly, the most popular illustrated newspaper of the Civil War years. These papers were read by millions of Americans during the war. Today they serve as an incredible resource for students and researchers.

(Scroll Down to See Entire Page, or Newspaper Thumbnails below will take you to the page of interest)


Grant Crossing Cumberland Mountains

Grant Crossing Cumberland Mountains

Democratic Opposition

Democratic Opposition to the War

Slavery Debate

Slavery Debate

Military Ball

Military Ball

Negro Soldier

Negro Soldier

Flag Poem

Flag Poem

Libey Prison

Libey Prison


Columbia, South Carolina

Colt Armory

Colt Armory

Valentines Day

Valentines Day

Colt Fire

Colt Armory Fire

Quack Treatment

Quack Cancer Cure






[FEBRUARY 20, 1864.




Ho for the Flag of the Union!

Let it float out free and fair,

For we love it like the sunshine,

And the stars and azure air.

Ho for the Flag of the Union,

The stripes and the stars of light!

A million arms shall guard it,

And may God defend the right!


From tower, and mast, and belfry,

From the church's sacred spire,

Fling out its starry radiance,

Fling out its waving fire!

Ho for the Flag of the Union,

The stripes and the stars of light!

A million arms shall guard it,

And may God defend the right!


Ay, brothers, let us love it,

And let every heart be true,

And let every arm be ready,

For we've glorious work to do.

Ho for the Flag of the Union,

The stripes and the stars of light!

A million arms shall guard it,

And may God defend the right!


Dear Flag, thy radiant glory

A loyal nation greets,

Ten million hearts are beating

As the heart of one man beats.

Ho for the Flag of the Union,

The stripes and the stars of light!

A million arms shall guard it,

And may God defend the right!



WE give on page 113 an interesting sketch of GRANT'S JOURNEY ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS FROM KNOXVILLE TO LOUISVILLE, a tour involving great hardships, but in a measure necessary, in order to obtain information of the country. The journey was made in the severest days of the winter, and the roads in many places were so covered with ice as to necessitate the dismounting of the entire party. The route lay through Cumberland Gap to Barboursville, where the General arrived on the 7th of January, and thence through London and Lexington, thus leading across two mountain ridges. The sketch represents Grant and his immediate party, with a number of orderlies in the rear, passing through the Cumberland Gap, the mountains towering above them on all sides, and presenting a scene of unrivaled picturesqueness.

[From CHARLES DICKENS'S "All the Year Round."]




ON the day after Miss Polly-my-Lamb Humpage's little indisposition, that young lady, discovering that her lace required no further examination, repaired to the drawing-room about, nay, peradventure a little before, the noontide hour. Such an odd little face looked out at her from the great mirror! It was like that of a spoiled school-pet, who, having played truant, steals into her place, half penitent, yet exultingly convinced of foregone forgiveness. Polly-my-Lamb smiled, and, smiling, looked so pretty, that she pardoned herself on the spot.

Twelve. Miss Humpage had resolved not even to glance by accident at the window till the clock had fairly struck; but she would do something to show her interest; and, accordingly, at the second stroke, turned and glided to the window. What did she behold? A broad black velvet back and shoulders, a head, with golden curls, slightly inclining toward the right shoulder, as though studying an effect, the edge of a pallet, and the top of an easel. Mr. Haggerdorn was at work—at work upon a battle-piece! Yes, it was evident, from the fury with which he every now and then returned to the assault, that it was a martial subject, the glow and passion of it mounting, like a blush, visible across the street, to the very brow of the canvas. For two full minutes Polly remained rooted to the spot, her pretty lips half opened, and her soft brown eyebrows raised. Then, recollecting herself, she moved quickly away, still, however, observing—how could she help it? as she idled busily about the room—that the work went eagerly forward, and never ceased, until the clock struck one.

And now, remarked something within Polly's breast, the gentleman will perhaps turn round; but it's rather of the latest, we imagine!

Mr. Haggerdorn doubtless thought so too; for though that gentleman did revolve, and, pretending to draw down the blind, was at especial pains to untie a knot in the cord, he never so much as glanced across the road, but adjusted the blind to his fancy, and withdrew to dinner.

The next day, and the next, presented the like phenomenon of professional abstraction, and total indifference to neighbors, on the part of the black velvet body; and during this period Polly-my-Lamb passed through such a variety of mental conditions as filled her with astonishment. Surprise, anger, regret, impatience, disappointment, love, assailed the poor little heart in turn—sometimes all together—so that none could tell what might have been the result, had not this conflict of parties ended, as is generally the case in wider revolutions, by the sudden triumph of one. Of course the new fetters galled a little, and Miss Humpage, from the liveliest and sweetest of companions, became silent, cold, inclined to solitude, nay, touching so nearly upon the morose, that poor Miss Serocold, extremely puzzled, decided upon leaving the matter to cure

itself, and passed the greater portion of her time in her own chamber.

Whether the tidings were conveyed to Mrs. Goodall, nurse, in the course of some return "popover" on the part of Mrs. Ascroft, or to what other little bird is due the carriage of this matter, was never clearly ascertained. Certain it is, that it quickly became known at number twenty-seven, with singular circumstantiality, that Mr. Haggerdorn had received a commission from a wealthy Portuguese merchant to execute an important family historical picture.

This, by far the most ambitious of the young artist's attempts, was to be called the Battle at the Bridge, and was illustrative of a passage in the life of a beautiful ancestress of Senor Torre-Diaz, who had been abducted (voluntarily) from her father's castle by her lover and a band of chosen cavaliers.

A couple of hundred of the friends of the house assembled with an alacrity only permissible on canvas, pursued the fugitives, and overtook them at a bridge (without a parapet, as in all bridge battles, for greater convenience in flinging over), upon whose slippery surface five noble cavaliers took post to abide the onset. The moment grasped by the painter is that in which the young lady hesitates for an instant whether to continue her flight, or avert the bloody struggle by returning to her officious kin. No wonder our young enthusiast was enthralled by such a subject! The picture was, moreover, to be completed in nine days, and, as yet, he had not touched the heroine's face, which, to do any thing like justice to, most be of surpassing loveliness. There was, no doubt, a difficulty in obtaining a model of sufficient beauty.

Miss Humpage listened with a calm disdain, as Mrs. Goodall, affecting to dust some pet china, detailed by installments the above particulars, but the idea of allotting nine days for the completion of such a work, by such a hand, almost upset her gravity.

Nine days? Nurse must have been mistaken in that. It was no matter.

Mrs. Goodall vindicated her memory. Remembered distinctly, 'cause of the poor young man.

How, because of — It did not signify. Miss Humpage required her smallest scissors.

Him that was all but a-dying a few days ago, to think of tossing on the salt seas.

Salt or fresh, the very mention brought a bright color to Miss Polly's cheek.

Was—was he going abroad, then? She thought —that—it really was of no consequence. And a bit of bobbin.

But the glances at the window were more frequent that day.

A Turkish lady, whose rich husband had dowered and deserted her, told a friend of the writer's that her heart was changed to "black velvet." Too frequent association with a similar material was certainly beginning to tell on Polly's.

The picture proceeded, nay, rather went dashing, plunging on toward completion. With the exception of the hour allotted to dinner, the artist passed his whole time, till dusk, at the easel, turning with the regularity of the clock itself, at the stroke of one, casting up his fine eyes at that always-obstinate blind, but never suffered them to stray abroad. Once, Polly thought of placing herself experimentally at the window, irrespective of any hour, but this idea was smothered as soon as born. It was too like asking an alms, and though her heart was full of tears and bursting for charity, better die than demand it.

The situation was becoming intolerable. There was something worrying in this speechless misunderstanding, to which the ordinary opportunities of reconciliation were denied. What a very irritable young man Mr. Arthur Haggerdorn must be! All this anger and—and—obstinacy, for a little caprice! And even if it were a caprice, was it not fit and maidenly, and—and—so far from vexing herself any more about this person, or even thinking about him.........What could he mean, now, by retaining that face—his heroine's—blank? Artists loved to introduce familiar faces into their more important compositions. Mr. Haggerdorn might have a relative, a cousin, some friend, you know, or even a strange countenance might have caught his errant fancy. Now whose? It (the face) most be beautiful, or it would spoil all. Polly chanced to look up, and caught sight in the glass of a cheek so dyed in blushes that she stamped her little foot with passion.

"I think I am bewitched," said Polly-my-Lamb, "But I'll be stronger than the spell. Snap. There it goes! Henceforth, till I am mistress of my own thoughts, I'll—sit in the next room. Intrude there if you can!"

As she flung the defiance toward the object apostrophized, Polly involuntarily accompanied it with a parting look. As she did so, the little hands tightened on the velvet arms of the chair, she half lifted herself with unconscious contraction of the muscles, while the rich color flickered like a furling banner, and passed utterly away.

Another figure was visible in the artist's room. A beautiful—ah, how beautiful!—face looked gayly up to the head that crowned the black velvet body. Clear olive skin, dazzling teeth, almond eyes, braided hair—the Portuguese beauty herself! If such had been the real fugitive, far less surprising is it that five rational individuals, with no particular interest in the matter, and each, probably, with an Inez of his own, should have taken post upon that slippery bridge, with the certainty that if the enemy did not pitch them over the artist would.

The two were not alone. A very tall gentleman, with long, drooping mustaches, was apparently engaged in criticising the unfinished picture, but not enjoying the undivided attention of his two companions.

Polly-my-Lamb, from her position, invisible to the party, remained in a manner fascinated by the scene. Presently a change took place in the grouping. A chair was raised and carefully adjusted upon a small platform. The young lady, with a laugh, shook her lustrous hair into disorder, threw a wild look into her splendid eyes, and placed herself

in the chair in the attitude of a "sitter." The father—or is it brother?—or is it guardian?—likewise assumes a position, and yet, to appear perfectly at ease, takes out a cigarette.

And Inez sits, looking like Cleopatra at her very best—perhaps when she gave that first state-dinner to hook-nosed Julius, and all the worries about Antony were as yet unwritten on her soft brown cheek; and Inez smiles, and pouts, and tosses her proud little head, and—what is that scintillation? The sparkle of her eye? No. On my sincerity, she is smoking too!

Inez was evidently a very willful, petted person, one accustomed to give a considerable amount of trouble. She appeared to talk incessantly, holding the cigarette all the while between her pearly teeth. She skipped off the chair at intervals of three-quarters of a minute to peep over the artist's shoulder, and see what progress had been made. She roused the tall cavalier, who had subsided into a doze, and ordered him to tie her sandal, holding out her small foot from the dais. As for young Haggerdorn, he painted faithfully on, as for very life; and well he might, for, in a brief space, Senora Inez, starting suddenly to her feet, threw down the chair and announced the sitting at an end. It had lasted about twenty-five minutes. To Polly-my-Lamb it had seemed as many hours.

That evening's declining sun caught Mistress Ascroft popping over—albeit uninvited—to tea. It had proved impossible for her gossip-soul to carry, of itself, the burden of "that day's great business" —the first appearance and sitting—or fidgeting—of Inez.

It turned out that her name was not Inez at all. That was our conjecture only. She was called the Senora Theresa Felicia Torre-Diaz.

Of all the lovely creatures that had come across Mistress Ascroft—and they was a many—the Senora Torre-Diaz was the beautifulest, by a handful. Though haughty as a queen, she was lively as a kitten. Nobody knew whether to adore or to hate her. Some does both. As for Master Arthur, he was just mad. What had occasioned the sudden change, she, Mistress Ascroft, could not divine; but leastwise since Friday week, the Senora Torre-Diaz was every thing, and more, to that young man. He talked and thought of nothing else. He worked at the great picture hour after hour, sometimes far into the night; and when, once, Mistress Ascroft, out of all patience, walked steadily into the room and blew out his candles, so frightened her, by painting frantically on in the dark, that the good lady ran down stairs, and never interfered again.

Finally, it was understood that the picture was to be finished eight days from thence, and delivered over to the Senor Antonio Torre-Diaz, the senora's uncle, in consideration of as many Portugal crowns as would defray the cost of a journey to Newfoundland, in Holland, a journey upon which Master Haggerdorn would set forth on the day succeeding the bargain and sale; while the senor and senora would follow, some months hence, in a ship entirely the senor's own, likewise bound for Newfoundland, in Holland.

Such, at all events, was the form in which the tidings reached Miss Polly, as she prepared her weary little head for the pillow. Whether it lay quietly there, I am not bound to say. Surely it is sufficiently irritating, without entering into details, to be obliged to confess one's heroine a woman, a creature of hope and fear, passion and pride, love and jealousy.

Every clay the work went bravely on. Did Polly see it? Of course she did. There was no resisting the fascination. No doubt, she ought to have done any thing else in the wide world—fled into Shropshire, bricked up her windows, fallen sick, made vows, and tried to keep them. Any thing (almost) would have better become a well-educated young lady, with feelings properly blunted, and the teeth of sentiment duly drawn, than wandering restlessly to and fro, hiding, as though from very self, in the darkness of some inner room, creeping half-guiltily back into an outer; glancing fearfully forth; bursting into bitter tears; stamping her small foot. Oh Polly, Polly, who do you think will care for any young lady who yields herself up to an anguish so excessively ill-bred as—as—I am almost ashamed to speak it, jealousy? At first, indeed, I was disposed to regard your fault with some indulgence, but this is willful obstin—Don't talk to me of feelings, miss! I am speaking of polite breeding and the exigencies of good society, with which "feeling" has no manner of concern. Very fortunate it is, Miss Humpage, that we are alone, and that you can rely upon my secrecy.

The Senora Torre-Diaz had been more docile of late—believing, in fact, like the best of sitters—the play of her superb features, plainly visible in the strong light, as she sat nearly facing the window, alone proving the restraint she put upon herself.

As touching the Senor Torre-Diaz, that noble cavalier apparently regarded Mr. Haggerdorn's studio in the light of a dormitory. Sometimes he smoked; at others he didn't; but whether he smoked or didn't smoke three minutes seldom elapsed before the senor's spirit departed from Jermyn Street into the land of dreams.

It was within one day of the allotted time, when poor Polly, lying wearily on the sofa, with a book in her hand, but eyes ever straying from the page, saw the black velvet body suddenly fling pallet one way, brush the other, and clasp its hands as in a violent ebullition of feeling! Apparently, the beautiful sitter caught the infection. Leaping lightly from her seat, she motioned both the artist and the awakened senor impatiently aside, and, standing before the picture, expressed by every graceful childlike gesture the utmost delight.

It was clear the work was finished, and triumphantly. Well might the Senora Theresa exult. But where was the need of displaying that glorious face at the window, as if in contemptuous pity of the little rival she could not see? Pressing her pale face down upon the sofa cushions, Polly groaned.

News, in effect, did reach number twenty-seven that evening, importing that the picture was completed,

the money paid, and the work of packing begun. For on the next day but one would sail the ship Good Adventure for Helvoetsluys, and, not to lose passage, the young artist must leave for Harwich early on the morrow.

Aunt Serocold was Polly's companion the whole of that evening, and the latter, spite of a sort of dull fire that seemed burning at her heart, could not but feel grateful for the kind solicitude with which her friend essayed to win her from herself. But to converse freely was an impossibility, and Polly was not sorry when kissing time arrived, and set each lady free to retire to her apartment, and indulge in her respective train of meditation.

Before withdrawing, Miss Humpage looked out to see if the stars were shining. There was husbandry in heaven. At all events, none of its silver candles were distinguishable through the tawny, towny atmosphere; but there were, in revenge, certain coruscations on the opposite side of the way which seemed to indicate that preparations for the departure of the young traveler were still in progress. One by one, even these died out. All became dark, and might have been silent also, but for the interposition of an infirm old gentleman, clad in several coats, who hobbled along the footway, mentioning for the advantage of any body who might peradventure have forgotten to go to bed, that it was past twelve o'clock.

It is not written in my notes at what precise hour Miss Humpage rose on the following day; but I do know that when, at nine o'clock, a hackney-coach, once, as it seemed, the property of a marquis of florid taste, tumbled up to Mrs. Ascroft's door and fell into a jingling halt, Polly-my-Lamb, fully dressed, and pacing her drawing-room, not only heard, but saw it.

There appeared to be no especial haste, for it was twenty minutes or more before any notice was taken of the vehicle, during which interval the coachman dozed, with a bit of straw in his mouth and his chin on his breast, as if he were sucking up some "cobbler" or "julep" (neither then invented, I believe), that lay concealed among the capes of his rusty coat. At the expiration of that time sundry articles of baggage, well secured, as though for a voyage, began to be brought out, and disposed in and about the coach. Two or three persons, neighbors, went in, doubtless to bid the traveler good speed, and finally Mistress Ascroft, in person, was revealed at the door, looking eagerly up and down, as if to ascertain, first, whether it had dared to rain; secondly, whether any, and if so, what change befitting the melancholy occasion Jermyn Street had undergone.

But Polly's eyes, as she stood far back in the room, were riveted upon one window, for across its field, a black-velvet figure had glided once and again. For twelve days the face had been averted. Would he now come to the window? Would he? would he? Polly shuddered at the earnestness with which she caught herself muttering the words.....Oh, what matter now? She would forgive all, bear all, if that comfort might only be. Why does he linger in the room, passing, rpassing? He starts. They are calling him from below. The coachman looks at Saint James's clock, and lashes his horses over the eyes, as a hint to wake and be ready. And now. Oh, not without one look, to make friends, one look, one.

A maid bounced in and drew down the blind! Polly had unconsciously approached nearer to the window. A figure issued from the door. No, it is not he. It is none other than little Mr. Hartshorne. He too has been to say farewell. He waves a parting hand; and, looking sad enough, turns away—glares across toward number twenty-seven, stops suddenly, makes three skips to the door, and rings sharply at the bell!

Before he can be admitted maid Kezia presents Miss Serocold's love. Miss Humpage is not to be uneasy, the lady has an alarming dizziness in her front tooth. Happening to observe Mr. Hartshorne passing, and to catch his eye, Miss Serocold had waved etiquette and her handkerchief—and—yes—there was his step going up stairs.

Polly murmured some condolence; then dismissing the maid, resumed her invisible watch, longing, yet hardly hoping, to catch one glimpse of the estranged face as it passed to the carriage. Both driver and horns had relapsed into slumber, and not even the deep voice of St. James's, chiming the hour, aroused them to the consciousness of time's progress. It was now ten o'clock, and the Harwich post-coach quitted the suburban yard at eleven.

Suddenly Mistress Ascroft reappeared with a small provision-basket. This she placed in the coach; but then, instead of re-entering the house, to Polly's great surprise, walked hurriedly across the road, and bestowed on the door of number twenty-seven a knock which, soft and modest though it was, thrilled the lady of that mansion front head to foot. Her heart gave a jump, then subsided into a low tremble. Mrs. Goodall appeared, with a singular message.

"The respectful duty of young Mr. Haggerdorn. If Miss Humpage condescended to retain any favorable recollection of Mr. H.'s former pictures, would she be pleased to inspect his latest effort? If so, it should be immediately transported to the house."

Polly-felt herself color to the very brows. This was the parting shot! She was to learn what love could do, in transferring to the inanimate canvas the perfections of its idol. Refuse she dared not, for that might imply resentment, or wounded pride, of neither of which she wished him to believe that she considered his fickle fancy deserving. Then, too, she was sensible of a burning curiosity to see how far, with such slender artistic gifts, he had succeeded in arresting any one of the beautiful but ever-changing expressions that characterized the face of his new favorite. She signified a cool assent.

Nothing, perhaps, could have better tended to restore Polly's mind to its usual balance than the heartless revenge—or was it vanity?—of her recreant lover; and, by the time she received intimation that the picture awaited her in the parlor, and that




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