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Civil War Harper's Weekly, January 16, 1864

Harper's Weekly was an illustrated newspaper published during the Civil War. The paper was distributed across the country, and was read by millions of Americans. These newspapers contained incredible illustrations and reports of the war.

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Robert Fulton Monument

Texas Expedition

Banks' Texas Expedition


General Humphreys

Wreck of the Aquila

Gettysburg Story

Gettysburg Soldier


Archbishop Hughes

Fog Trumpet

Fog Trumpet

Uncle Sam

Uncle Sam Cartoon

Army of the Potomac

Army of the Potomac








[JANUARY 16, 1864.


(Previous Page) Her length at the spar-deck is 258 feet, extreme breadth 55 feet, depth of hold 33 feet, draught of water 23 feet. She has two back-action horizontal engines, built at the Novelty Works, of 800 horsepower together, with cylinders of 84 inches diameter and 45 inches stroke of piston, supplied by six horizontal tubular boilers. Her engineer's trial trip was made on the 12th of November, and though not intended as an ultimate trial trip, her performance was so satisfactory that the vessel was at once accepted by the agents of the Italian Government, which had reserved the right of rejecting her if she failed to answer the stipulations of the contract. On the 30th of December she made an experimental trip down the bay of New York under the charge of her own officers. She ran ashore in a fog, but was got off in a day or two without serious damage. The vessel is in every respect one of the most beautiful specimens of naval architecture afloat. It is supposed that she will attain a speed of 12 knots an hour, being considerably greater than that of any other iron-clad yet constructed. Her armament consists of 32 guns.


THE river at the "Suck" (page 36) is about 300 yards wide and very deep, but the current is so rapid that steamers can not head against it, and are obliged to be pulled up by a windlass. The water runs comparatively smoothly until within a short distance from the "Suck," when it breaks into waves and dashes against a rock on the left, flinging the foam high in the air. Waldron's Ridge, on the left bank, resembles the Palisades on the Hudson; the trees, however, run nearly to the top. On the right is Raccoon Ridge.


THE picture on pages 40 and 41, sketched during the late campaign in Virginia, gives an idea of the appearance of this army when moving into battle. In the extreme distance the enemy's artillery is seen on a crest, his infantry below, disputing the advance. Nearer are our own guns supporting the troops. Brigades, recognized by their flags, are pressing on at double-quick; artillery, enveloped in dust, are galloping to a position. Near by is a group of ambulances. In the fore-ground are French and Birney, with their staffs. In the front is Meade; near him are Generals Sykes, Humphreys, and Pleasanton, with Chief-Engineer Duane. The whole picture, though representing but a single moment of action, gives a fair idea of an army going into battle.


WHAT ruddy stain is this?

Perchance of morning flowers—

Of dew-wet, odorous flowers;

Did ever mother, ever maiden kiss,

On cheek of new-born down,

Or set with bearded brown,

These flowers, and think the inner heaven of heaven

Had no such bliss?

It may be morning blooms are passing fair;

But since to human cheeks their tints were given,

The sweetest blooms are there.


A pale face motionless,

Close by the stain of flowers,

The stain of blood or flowers;

Did ever mother, ever maiden press

White fingers on this stone,

And think to be alone,

And not feel it were very far from heaven

And happiness?

It may be. Since white fingers once have pressed

Such sculpture, the quick pulses through them driven

Are very near to rest.


A grave dug in the sand,

Near to the stain of flowers—

The red stain not of flowers;

Shall ever mother, ever maiden stand

Within a lonely home,

And say, "When will he come

Out from returning ranks? How long he lingers

With his victorious band!"

It shall be. Tender, loving lips have kissed

Their last: and never more shall thrill white fingers

For that one picket missed.


I SAW her in a photograph album, and my doom was sealed.

We were eating creams and jelly in Mrs. Paulding's parlor. I had done the usual amount of dancing, and whirled merrily round in the waltz and redowa; but there was now a cessation in the music, and flirtations went on in a low tone over our tea-spoons. My late partner set down her plate with a sigh of disappointment.

"It is vanilla, and I never eat any thing but chocolate. Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Featherstonhaugh. Nothing more for me but a small lady-finger. Shall we look through Mrs. Paulding's album? I dote on photographs."

She opened it, I don't know whether with malice prepense or not, but she opened it in the middle. A vignette, with dove-like eyes, angelic smile, curls a la Eugenie, and a white waist, looked me in the face. I bent rapturously forward for the second glance. Over went my ice and Charlotte on Miss Wigham's pink silk double-ruffled skirt. She screamed, I blushed and stammered, a crowd of sympathizing damsels gathered round. Miss Wigham was conducted, half-fainting, to the dressing-room, and I retreated in a crest-fallen condition to the nearest corner. But the spell was already upon me. No matter whether I upset a pyramid or brought destruction on the entire supper-table, I must get back to the album. The "Lancers" struck up as if to cover my advance. Miss Wigham, pale but composed, with an ominous dampness in her

dress, and a curl of her lip in my direction, swept forward to the head couple, while I, possessed with the one idea, edged toward the table.

The book lay open still. No cream had soiled, no Charlotte profaned it. On the opposite page sat a stout lady with an ugly cap and still uglier baby; but there on the right hand gleamed out the eyes of my enchantress. What grace! What loveliness! The arch of that snowy neck! that bewitching mouth! even the fluttering curve of the ribbon that circled the beautiful throat! Life without her was; I felt, a blank. I must find her; must woo and win and wear her as a precious jewel in my heart. My hostess, like a benevolent fairy, approached me. She was in the "grand chain," but I arrested her. "Might I inquire, Mrs. Paulding, the name of this—this"—"angel," was on my lips—but in deference to the conventionalities of society I substituted "lady?"

"That?" said Mrs. Paulding, dancing past, "oh, that is my cousin, Mrs. Peek. A sweet child, is it not?"

The last sentence fell upon unheeding ears. I was stupefied, confounded, dashed into an abyss of woe. This Peri—this priceless Pearl, Mrs. Peek? The bride of another? Lost to me forever?

The book still rested in my nerveless hand. Still my eyes were fixed upon the fated page. Mrs. Paulding chasseed by again.

"Ah!" she exclaimed with another glance, "I see you are not looking at Mrs. Peek. That young lady opposite, with the tucked spencer, is a Miss Smith, I think, from New York, or Boston."

I was in the seventh heaven again. Blissful "Miss!" Never should she change the title till my euphonious surname had been offered to her acceptance. Somebody joined me. I shut the album instinctively. The gaze of another would be profanation.

"Ah, Feathers!" said my friend Stokes—"Feathers" was the usual unpleasant abbreviation by which I was disrespectfully addressed—"it's past midnight, I believe. Don't you mean to apologize to Miss Wigham? You'd better see her home. How could you be so awkward?"

"Miss Wigham be hanged!" I returned, almost unconsciously.

Stokes stared.

"I mean I—I'm very sorryl" I resumed, with a stammer, beginning to come to myself. "I'll send her a bouquet to-morrow." And thereupon shone before me a vision of the bouquets—all forget-me-nots and blush roses—which I should send some day to Miss Smith. "Excuse me, Stokes; I must bid good-night to Mrs. Paulding."

"A delightful evening, my dear Madame!" I observed, with my politest bow. "In your rooms we find always the 'feast of reason and the flow of soul.' But the photograph which I was admiring. It is, it is"—what should I say next?—"uncommonly like a dear lost aunt of mine. Could you tell me where I should be likely to find Miss Smith?"

"Why, I scarcely know, Mr. Featherstonhaugh," returned the lady, dubiously. "I have never seen her myself; she is an acquaintance of my sister's. Miss Smith, of New York—yes, I'm positive of New York; but that is all I can tell you."

"Perhaps your sister—?" I suggested, pertinaciously.

"Oh, my sister is in Europe! Will be absent till next summer. You are sure you don't mean Mrs. Peek?"

I left in desperation.

Returning home I stirred up my fire, lit a cigar, and sat down, in the orthodox midnight fashion, with my feet upon the fender. Rosy dreams flitted through my brain. What were the "Reveries of a Bachelor" compared with mine? Pshaw! had I written the book my lines would have glowed with the breath of Cupid. Miss Smith would have looked out from every page. Twelve editions in six months would have enriched the publishers, and given me a fortune to lay at her feet. As it was, my reveries, though not pecuniarily profitable, opened to me an Elysium. Miss Smith beamed out at me through the embers; Miss Smith closed my eyelids when, at three in the morning, I retreated to bed; Miss Smith awoke with me, and—metaphorically speaking—held my shaving cup; Miss Smith accompanied me to the banking-house, hovered beside my stool, and almost signed the bills. I lived and breathed in an atmosphere of Miss Smith. Broadway was peopled with her image.

For two days this luxurious delirium bore me up on the high tide of bliss; then came a sense of vacancy in the world around me. I must find her—must fly to her—must pour out the fullness of my heart! But whither should I fly? New York was wide, and Smiths abounded. Was my inamorata a daughter of John Smith, Esq.? What sacred spot, from Harlem to the Brooklyn Ferry, should be the Mecca of my pilgrimage? It was, as you see, a cruel question; and I decided upon another application to Mrs. Paulding, and wondered if the Atlantic Telegraph Company would not hasten its preparations, that I might draw through the briny waves intelligence of Miss Smith. What would have been the message of Queen Victoria to the President compared with that? But the Company was dilatory. Cyrus W. Field had probably never known Miss Smith; and I hastened up to Mrs. Paulding's, feeling I must hear or die. I was ushered into the parlor. The Album, that shrine of my idol, lay upon the table. I seized it, of course, and feasted my eyes upon her image. I don't know how long the waiter staid up stairs—Time was swallowed up to me in Miss Smith!—but he came down again with Mrs. Paulding's compliments. She was to leave the city that afternoon, and was very much engaged; would the gentleman excuse her? The servant withdrew. I shut the book in despair; opened it again; cast one wild glance around; saw I was alone; and then— I blush to confess it, but even love's crimes are sacred—I stole the photograph, and didn't leave my card!

The lagging hours of the ensuing week were beguiled by my ill-gotten treasure, and at the expiration of that time fortune appeared to smile. I received an offer of a clerkship from a Wall Street

broker, and, with very much the feelings of the individuals who independently advertise "Salary no object," hastened to New York in person to signify my acceptance. It is true I seemed not much nearer the goal of my existence than before; but I breathed the same air as Miss Smith, perambulated the same pavements, and no doubt rode in the same omnibus. Omnibuses indeed afforded me one of my greatest hopes. From the Battery to Eighty-sixth Street I rolled daily on my weary way. Evangeline chasing her lover was nothing to my exploits; yet I cherished a fellow-feeling for Evangeline, and bought the engraving to hang over my shaving-glass. The precious photograph was kept in my left vest-pocket next my heart. Alas, alas! what fluctuations of bliss and misery awaited me! I entered, for example, the Sixth Avenue cars; at the extreme end sat a lady with primrose gloves, black lace veil, and a cashmere. There were the dove-like eyes and drooping curls—ah, Eureka! could it be Miss Smith? On and on we glided. Yorkville was in sight. At last she alighted; I followed. She dropped her handkerchief; I picked it up. "Miss Smith?" I timidly murmured. "Sir!" she responded in a basso voice sadly in contrast with the curls, "Do you wish to insult me? My name is Van Dunderbergh!"

A love like mine must leave of course its impress. I began to grow haggard—even pale and thin. It may be well to mention that I had formerly approximated a weight of two hundred. My eyes became hawk-like and prying. Out of office-hours I walked and rode incessantly. I have said that I sympathized with Evangeline; I began also to sympathize with the Wandering Jew. My melancholy condition attracted notice. A young man in the same office found his feelings moved toward me. I had not confided to him my secret, but he pityingly fancied me on the verge of lunacy. "I say, Feathers," he remarked one twilight, when gold was down and business dull, "what you need is cheerful society. Come with me to-night to a little party. My cousin, Miss Smith—"

"Bless you! bless you! my dear fellow!" I exclaimed, falling upon his neck. "Let us go at once. Lead me, oh lead me to my adored Miss Smith!"

"Now, now, Feathers!" he repeated, soothingly. "Be calm! be calm! I don't know that it will be safe to trust you. If we had a dose of valerian!"

"I will swallow it by the bottleful," I returned, excitedly. "Only take me to Miss Smith."

"But you can't go, you know, unless you're quiet," he expostulated in gentle tones. "Go home and rest yourself. Take nothing but weak black tea and a cracker, and I will call for you at eight. You are sure you will be quiet?"

"Any thing for Miss Smith!" I answered, with an effort at composure. "But you will not fail me?"

"No; punctually at eight. It is a small party, you know."

"And it is given by Miss Smith?"

"Precisely. I will get you an invitation. But do you know her?"

"You shall see, my dear fellow," I returned, collectedly. "But not a word to Miss Smith."

Briggs departed mystified.

True to his promise, however, he entered my room at eight, and found me irreproachably attired in a dress coat and lemon kids. I was pacing up and down with frequent pauses before the mirror, and a heart too full for words. We left. I presume, indeed I know, that we drove over the Russ pavement; but to me we seemed wafted through translucent skies on the wheels of Apollo's chariot. We paused at a brown-stone front. I grasped Briggs's arm convulsively. Another moment and we were ushered into the apartment where three Misses Smith, one in white, one in pink, and another in blue, received their friends. The blue lady stepped forward to meet me with undisguised curiosity; the white one smiled; the pink blushed. Ah me! my heart sank down to zero. I might be among the Graces, perhaps I was; but none of them was my Miss Smith. I felt myself growing pale, but with one heroic effort controlled myself, and went through the usual wretched formula of a night's enjoyment. At the end, however, a glow of virtuous satisfaction rewarded me. I had done my duty to Briggs, had danced successively with his three cousins, and not betrayed my despair. But the mockery of pickled oysters and Champagne I could not away with. Indeed I began to experience an insane desire to sup upon prussic acid; but taking refuge instead in a forlorn stoicism, I excused myself early, returned home, smoked six cigars, and went to bed. The next morning I began a novel in three volumes, entitled, "Miss Smith;" and while apparently engaged in exchanges and discount was in reality pondering the weighty question which publisher was most worthy to receive proposals for the forthcoming work. It might be as well, I thought, to step in in the afternoon at Harper's, and offer them the favor of advance sheets. But the route was circuitous, and as I passed by Stewart's a lady glided before me and entered the store. A magnetic thrill trembled through my frame. I caught one glimpse of the eyes that shone beneath the flowery roofing of her bonnet; the dark curls rippled from her forehead down those peach-blossom cheeks. Ah, Miss Smith! Miss Smith! The discovery of the philosopher's stone, of the northwest passage, of the Garden of the Hesperides, was as nothing compared with mine! I followed her, of course; and naught but the proximity of policemen restrained me from throwing myself at her feet. She bought one yard of muslin —how well I remember it!—at 87 cents, and then tripped like a fairy into the street again—up, up, interminable distances, I close behind, till she ascended the steps of a Madison Avenue mansion, stooped to caress a King Charles spaniel—how I envied him—who whined for joy at her approach, rang the bell and went in, while I stood without, disconsolate as the Peri at the gate of Paradise, though blessed indeed with the transporting sight of "Josiah Smith" upon the door-plate. A little

bundle lay upon the sidewalk. She had dropped it. I picked it up and pressed it to my lips; then, struck with a happy thought, took from my pocket my own carte de visite (I carried a package of them always about me), wrapped it in the bundle, collared a small boy and sent him up the stoop with particular directions to leave it for Miss Smith. It was a bold stroke, perhaps, but the spirit of a Caesar began to animate me. I could now say, "I came, I saw," I must also add, "I conquered." At least if I didn't it shouldn't be my fault. One hour I remained, rooted to the spot, till the passers-by began to regard me suspiciously, and the cravings of nature drew me imperiously off to dinner. With the gaslight I returned again. How breathe to Miss Smith the devotion which filled my soul? how penetrate to her presence? The door opened. My heart throbbed with expectation. Was she coining, like Tennyson's Maude? No, it was only the servant to bring in the evening paper; but the little dog had run out from behind him, and stood wagging his tail at me on the pavement. A wild impulse fired my brain. I had taken the first step in crime in Mrs. Paulding's parlor—the second I fear was easier. I made a sudden rush, seized the deg, pocketed him, and walked frantically home. There was a method in my madness, and the result was as I expected. An advertisement, in pathetic terms, headed by a $50 reward appeared in the next Herald, for a pet spaniel, answering to the name of Fidele, lost or stolen from his inconsolable mistress. My heart bled at this record of her suffering, but it was necessary to retain him till the morrow. I fed him, however, upon loaf sugar and Italian beef-steaks; and the next morning, taking Fidele in my arms, I tied a second carte de visits to his collar, wrote upon it, "The preserver of Fidele," and left it at her door. It was agony to remain in ignorance of the effect produced by these little manifestations of my feelings; but the manifestations themselves should, I resolved, continue. Every day for a week a bouquet, the richest and rarest that the conservatories could furnish, inscribed, always, "From the preserver of Fidele," went as an offering to my idol's shrine. I tried a poem; but "Smith" would rhyme with nothing but "myth;" and my own name, even had I been disposed to disclose it, could have been compressed into nothing shorter than an Alexandrine.

At last, at last—oh blissful terminus to all earthly woes!—there came a day when gold went down, and stocks declined, and bulls and bears waged fiercest war, and Shoddy trembled to its foundations over an impending crash; and I, who had long since lost all relish for such sublunary affairs, save only as they might appertain to the dower of Miss Smith, was nevertheless hurried, for filthy lucre's sake, from office to office in all conceivable directions. I crossed Broadway, or rather I rashly essayed it. Omnibuses, carts, and carriages mixed together in one inextricable jumble. There was a moment's pause; a lady was alighting; an omnibus door swung open and shut; the horses started; the lady fell; a patient nag, who had stood meekly by in the tumult, set his foot upon her bonnet. I sprang forward, raised her in my arms, heard her sweet lips whisper, "My preserver! the preserver of Fidele!" and Miss Smith, my own Miss Smith, fainted in my embrace. Gladly would I have pressed her to my heart, but stern conventionalities forbade it. I called a carriage; I retained her in my arms; I pillowed her head upon my shoulder; we drove to Madison Avenue. An elderly individual, evidently Mr. Josiah Smith, stood upon the steps. To him I unwillingly resigned my burden, while Miss Smith, with most opportune recovery, again murmured, in my behalf, "My preserver! the preserver of Fidele!" I presented my card to the astonished father. Might I be permitted to call that evening to inquire after the health of Miss Smith? Mr. Smith hesitated, looked at me, then at the imposing cognomen presented him, and invited me to dinner!

Need I add that Miss Smith now rejoices with me in the appellation of Mrs. Ferdinand F. Featherstonhaugh, nee Smith?


ON Sunday, June 14, 1863, the New Jersey Brigade to which I was attached, then at Franklin's Run on the Rappahannock, received orders to march in pursuit of Lee's army, then moving toward Pennsylvania. Our corps (General Sedgwick's) was the last to leave the Rappahannock, and the route we pursued was any thing but direct; but neither heat nor fatigue could abate the ardor of the men; all were eager to meet the enemy who had dared again to set his foot on Northern soil. At a distance of fifteen miles from Gettysburg, where the armies were massing, we first caught the murmurs of the opening battle, and from that time until we reached the scene all was enthusiasm among the weary, footsore braves, who counted as nothing all the pains of a march of one hundred and ninety-eight miles, now that they were within striking distance of the foe. Most of the way the ambulance trains had been crowded with both officers and men, weary, worn, and haggard; but the cannon's rattle, as it became more and more distinct, changed them in a twinkling into new creatures. At once all began to make ready to alight; it was no time for riding then; march was the word. Two hours later, at about three o'clock on the afternoon of the 3d of July, the head of our column arrived upon the battle-ground, halting upon a hill which gave us a full view of the field, excepting only a part of the left of the line, which was posted in a ravine out of sight.

Here occurred an incident which I shall never forget: As we came to a halt a poor fellow who looked the very image of death hobbled out of the ambulance in which he had been lying, and, shouldering his musket, was just starting forward, when the surgeon in charge stopped him with,

"Where are you going, Sir?" (Next Page)




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