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Civil War Harper's Weekly, July 23, 1864

Welcome to our online collection of original Harper's Weekly newspapers. We have put this collection together over the last 20 years, and now make them available for your study and research online. We hope you find this resource useful, and hope you will check back often as we add new material each day.

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

 

Alabama Sinking

Destruction of the "Alabama"

Kenesaw

Capture of Kenesaw Mountain

Port Walthall

Port Walthall

Meade

General Meade and Staff

Crash

Train Crash

Humor

Humor

Semmes Cartoon

Semmes Cartoon

Pennsylvania Map

Pennsylvania Map

Scenes Around Petersburg

Marietta

Battle Marietta Georgia

 

 

 

 

HARPER'S WEEKLY.

[JULY 23, 1864.

478

(Previous Page) horrible sight. A shapeless blue mass of heads and hands and feet protruded among the splinters and frame-work, and gradually resolved itself into a closely-packed mass of human beings all ragged and bloody, and dented from crown to foot with blue bruises and wheels and cuts inflicted by the ponderous iron-work, the splinters, and the enormous weight of the train." It was impossible to identify the dead or to discover their names. The engine-driver, WILLIAM BARNEY, is held responsible for the disaster.

MAY 6, 1864.

How beautiful was earth that day ! The far blue sky had not a cloud ; The river rippled on its way,

Singing sweet songs aloud.

And I? My heart was calmly blest.

I knew afar the war-cloud rolled Lurid and dark, in fierce unrest,

Laden with woes untold.

But on that day my fears were stilled ;

The very air I breathed was joy ;
The rest and peace my soul that filled

Had nothing of alloy.

I took the flower he loved the best

The arbutus—fairest child of May—And with its perfume half oppressed,

Twined many a lovely spray

About his picture on the wall;

His eyes were on me all the while, And when I had arranged them all,

I thought he seemed to smile.

0 Christ, be pitiful ! That hour

Saw him fall bleeding on the sod;

And while I toyed with wreath and flower His soul went up to God !

For him one pang—and then a crown;

For him the laurels heroes wear; For him a name whose long renown

Ages shall onward bear.

For me the cross without the crown,
For me the drear and lonely life ;
0 God ! my sun, not his, went down
On that red field of strife.

HUMORS OF THE DAY.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPY.—There is no place like Home. Fallacious. If your home be in a row of houses it is probable that the homes of your neighbors will be very like yours.

" Where a woman," says Mrs. Partington, "has been married with a congealing heart, and one that beats desponding to her own, she will never want to enter the maritime state again."

" You look as if you were beside yourself," said a wag to a fellow who stood by a donkey.

"I am a broken man," said a poet. "So I should think," was the answer, " for I have seen your pieces."

One evening the late Bishop of London was to have dined with a party where Sydney Smith was a guest. Just before dinner a note arrived, saying that he was unable to keep his engagement, a dog having rushed out from the crowd and bitten him in the leg. When this note was read aloud to the company, Sydney Smith's comment was, "I should like to hear the dog's account of the story."

" My dear doctor," said an Irishman, "it's no use your giving me an emetic; I tried it twice, and it would not stay on my stomach five minutes."

"How do you define 'black as your hat?'" said a schoolmaster to one of his pupils. "Darkness that may be felt,' " replied the youthful wit.

A thief, who lately broke open a grocer's warehouse, excused himself on the plea that he only went to take tea.

In a French translation of Shakspeare, the passage—"Frailty. thy name is woman;" is translated, "Mademoiselle Frailty is the name of the lady!"

One person asked another if he believed in the appearance of spirits? "No!" was the reply; "but I believe In their disappearance. I have mined a bottle of brandy since last night."

What is that which destroys a town and makes a martyr ?—Canonization.

Some time since a man in Maine wanted to exhibit an Egyptian mummy, and went to the court-house for a license. " What is it ?" asked the judge. " An Egyptian mummy, may it please the Court, more than three thou-sand years old," said the showman. "Three thousand years old!" exclaimed the judge, jumping to his feet, " and is the critter alive?"

Mrs. Partington says she can't perceive why people nowadays are continually getting up so many new spangled notions. Digby, who was present, wished to know to what she particularly alluded. The old lady laid down the newspaper she was reading, and gravely replied: "Why, la! I see they have got to making 'trout pre-serves,' jest as though people didn't have enough things to make preserves without making 'em of fish."

FAITH AND HONEY.—Why is faith like honey?--Because it consists of bee-leavings.

"I say, Sambo, can you answer dis conunderfum! Suppose I gib you a bottle of whisky corked--shut wid a cork—how would you get de whisky out without pullin' de cork or breaking de bottle?" " I gibs dat up." "Why push de cork in--yah! yah I"

A QUESTION FOR MR. GOUGH.—Maya "reformed drunk ard" be designated "a man convinced against his swill?'

A clear *stream reflects all, objects that are upon its, shore, but is unsullied by them. So it should be with our hearts—they should show the effect of all objects, and ye remain unharmed by any.

A writer, dwelling upon the importance of small things says that he always takes "note even of a straw —especially if there's a sherry cobbler at the end of it.

The lady whose "peace of mind" was broken intends to have it repaired.

An enterprising but ignorant South American has sent to an Albany locomotive-shop for one hundred "cow-catchers." He expects to use them in taking wild cattle on the plains of Paraguay, in place of the lasso.

A young lady who is a zealous canvasser in support of the Free Presbyterian Church, called upon a poor man in the links of Kirkaldy to solicit his mite, and, after in vain trying her ingenuity to find some means by which he might save a penny a week, to be given for the support of the minister, who was about to be driven from his kirk by the vile Erastians, she asked, "Do you shave your-self?" "Nae, mem" "How much does your shaving cost you?" " Tippence a week." " Could you not learn to shave yourself, and then you would save the two-pence, which you might give to the sustentation fund?" " 'Deed, mem, I'm ewer auld to learn, but I'll tell ye what I'll do: if your minister will come and shave me, I'll gie him the tippence."

A convict was lately tracked into the service of a young married couple in England, where he was officiating as a very pretty lady's maid, and had been doing all the du-ties of his idle for three months. The horror of the young married lady, and still more of the husband, may be imagined, when the police said: "That young woman is the man we want.

A physician, passing by a stone-mason's shop, bawled out, " Good-morning, Mr. D— Hard at work, I see. You finish your grave-stones as far as ' In the memory of,' and then wait, I suppose, to see who wants a monument next ?" "Why, yes," replied the old man, "unless somebody's sick, and you are doctoring hint; then I keep right on."

Tom bought a gallon of gin to take home ; and, by way of a label, wrote his name upon a card, which happened to be the seven of clubs, and tied it to the handle. A friend coming along, and observing the jug, quietly re-marked: "That's an awful careless way to leave that liquor!" "Why?" said Tom. " Because somebody might come along with the eight of clubs and take it!"

A man said the only reason why his dwelling was not blown away in a late storm was, because there was a heavy mortgage on it.

A celebrated quack, while holding forth on a stage of Chelmsford, in order to promote the sale of his medicine, told the people that he came there for their good, and not for want. And then addressing his Merry Andrew, " An-drew," said he, " do we come here for want?" " No faith, Sir," replied Andrew, " we have enough of that at home."

"We don't sell spirits," said a law-evading beer-seller; " we will give you a glass ; and then, if you want a biscuit, we'll sell it to you for three ha'pence." The "good creature" was handed down, a stiff glass swallowed, and the landlord handed his customer a biscuit. "Well, no, I think not," said the customer; " you sell 'em too dear. I

can get five or six of 'em for a penny any where else."

LULA'S LETTER.

A. CHILD'S STORY.

"MAMMA," said my little daughter, " may I write a letter to a soldier ? All the girls have."

" Write a letter to a soldier, my child ?"

"Yes, mamma, Maggie and Mary have writ-ten theirs and put them in the comfort bags, and we think the soldiers will be so pleased to find a letter. We sewed all yesterday afternoon, and Maggie's mother is going to send them away as soon as I write. May I ?"

Leave granted, Lula brought the wherewithal, and sat down gravely to the production of an epistle. After an hour's hard work she brought it to me, nicely copied for the final reading. The composition was unassisted, and ran as follows :

"DEAR SOLDIER,—We have all been making things for the soldiers, and I send this comfort bag to you. I hope it will be very useful. How queer it must look to see a man sewing; but I suppose it must be done when there are no women. I think it is very good of you to fight for the country, and I love you very much for it. It must be dreadful to get wounded an far away from home. I hope God will take care of you, and bring you safe home to your friends. I must stop now. Please answer this letter, for I want to know who gets the bag. My papa is Mr. George Nelson, Brooklyn, New York. You must direct to his care.   Your affectionate little friend,

"LULA."

After the bags had gone Lula became impatient to hear from her soldier, as she called him. But many a long week went by, and the child had ceased to talk of it, when her father came in to dinner with the long expected document. I, with the faithlessness of middle-age, was surprised that it should come at all; but Lula was in ecstasies. The impatient fingers tore open the envelope, and coming to me we read it together:

"MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND"--thus the letter began—" I have just finished your sweet note, and as you ask for a reply you shall have it at length. Accept my thanks for your gift. Bless the little fingers that made the bag, bless the warm heart that felt for the soldier and wished to write him a letter. It was the first one I had received for sixteen months. My dear little sister Letitia used to send me a packet every week. She was my only correspondent, and when she died I thought I had lost every thing. But I had my father. He was captain of the company in which I was, and am, a private. We were together a year ; and then, little one, in the battle of Cedar Mountain, I saw him fall. I could not go to him. The thought of him lying behind me made me fight like a fiend. After the battle ended, and the noise of the guns, the trampling of horses, the rattle of artillery had died away, the night became as still as it is in the country after the cows are milked and the crickets begin their sad cry. Then I could look for my father. I found him at last. Near the place where he fell grew an old pine-tree, torn by shells, but a few plumy branches yet left. At its foot I dug a grave with my bayonet. There I left him sleeping his long sleep, with the sod of Virginia over him. Forgive me for writing you so dismal a story. I could not help it; for since that awful night I have not spoken of what occurred, and I have been longing to tell some-body. So you see what your note has done to comfort me. I am now going to mend my stockings with the help of the ' comfort bag.' The holes I have to sew up would make you open your eyes. I hope your father will allow you to write to me again. I inclose an envelope addressed, that you can use when you wish to do another kind action. I have the honor to be

"Very respectfully yours,

"DANIEL P. FLEMING"

Lula wrote a longer letter next time, telling of her papa, and mamma, and brother Johnnie; how she went to school where there was a funny master, who pretended to be cross, and was not; how she, aiding her playmates, bought for him a fine ruler as a present, and placed it, with a note, on his table on April-Fool's Day. Even about her Java sparrow the little pen discoursed, her dear J. S., who wore a white standing-collar like old Mr. Waters, and who slept in a basket. She spent some time over the epistle, spilled ink over the table-cover, and double-dyed her fingers. But she sent off a cheery letter, and not a word of mine discouraged her. In due time Mr. Fleming answered, and the correspondence went on all winter. I liked his

letters very much; as well as Lula did, which is saying a great deal for them. He remembered be was writing to a child, and while he interested her our feelings were excited by his simple relations. When Christmas approached Lula wished to send him a box.

" I think I ought, mamma ; he is my soldier, and has nobody else to think of him."

I gave her permission, but offered no assistance, wishing to see how she would manage. She begged a soap-box of the cook, and Johnnie helped her line it with paper. Grandma was now besieged with requests for a pair or two of the blue stockings she was constantly knitting. They begged me to make a plum-cake, and papa gave a bottle of wine. The children bought nuts and candy; and Lula, after an anxious talk with me, sent, as her own particular gift, pocket-handkerchiefs marked with his name—" D. P. Fleming." Papa having suggested something to read, Johnnie brought his favorite books, Arabian Nights and Pilgrim's Progress, and could with difficulty be persuaded to substitute Harper's Magazines.

The acknowledgment of the box was a grateful letter that more than repaid us. Lula was specially delighted, because Mr. Fleming confessed to a weakness for candy, and her father had laughed at her for sending bonbons to a soldier. There was a note to Mr. Nelson, in which Mr. Fleming said he was to have a furlough, with the rest of the regiment, before re-enlisting for the war. He begged permission to see Lula. Mr. Nelson immediately wrote for him to come. But we did not tell Lula, to save her the excitement and fretting of expectation. About two weeks afterward I was reading in my room when Lola flew in.

" Mamma," said she, " there is a soldier down stairs asking for you !" And she hid her face in my dress and began to tremble.

The servant brought in his card.

" Don't you wish to see Mr. Fleming, Lula?" "No, No, no !" she sobbed.

"I am going down, and will send Margaret up for you. You may be disappointed in him, Lula ; but remember, he is fighting our battles for us ; he is a soldier, and as such deserves comfort and kindness. Expect nothing, but come down quietly when I send for you."

I owned to a little trepidation myself : a glance dispelled it. He was a tall, robust young man—almost handsome. His voice trembled a little as he responded to my welcome, and told me he could never tell all our goodness had done for him. Lula's letter came when he felt forsaken—desperate—and saved him. His regard for her seemed a kind of reverence. While he was talking I saw Lula peeping in at the other end of the drawing-room, and I called her. At that name he rose, dropped the cap he held, and went forward to meet her. She was blushing like a peony—an old-fashioned red one smiling, and looking up at him from under her long lashes. He offered her his hand without a word. Lula gave him hers, when he kissed it as if she had been a princess and he of the blood-royal. She was a little afraid of him at first ; but all shyness wore off when Johnnie came home, and went into a complete state of admiration. Mr. Nelson asked him to stay with us during his leave, and I was afterward very glad he did so, for that week gave me thorough knowledge of him, and when he left us I loved him as if he had been one of mine.

For a long time after Mr. Fleming's departure Johnnie and Lula played army plays exclusively. They drilled with canes, got up camp suppers, fought battles, were taken by guerrillas—embodiments of the stories of their friend. A few letters passed between us, for I now undertook the bulk of the correspondence; then the campaign began, and we heard nothing. I was sure, from the silence that followed Gettysburg, in which his regiment took a prominent part, that something had happened to him. Mr. Nelson vainly inquired. He was thought to be a prisoner, but it was not positively known. Lula and Johnnie could not realize our fears. To be a prisoner was a fine thing in their eyes. What a story Mr. Fleming would have to tell them !

That fall we went to Baltimore to visit an old aunt, and in the course of our stay we went to see the hospitals. As I never lost any chance of hearing of the lost Fleming, I told his story to the pleas-ant young nurse who walked about with us. She had been to the front, in the very first rank of those who went to care for the wounded.

There was a Captain Fleming ill in one of the wards, dying of the wounds received at Gettysburg. She did not know his first name, or any thing about him, except that he had no friends to whom news of his condition could be sent. I asked her to point him out, for a misgiving seized me. Surely it was be, white and changed. I drew back, fearing he would see me too suddenly. The nurse spoke, and told hint some one had come to see him. A little color flashed into his face as I came forward, and the poor fellow turned his face into the pillow and sobbed. I cried too. "Why didn't you let us know where you were ?" I asked at last.

"I did," said he ; " but my letters had been unanswered for so long that I thought perhaps you had done enough for me, so I wrote no more. Isn't Lula here?"

"You shall see her to-morrow. When you are a little stronger, and can be moved, you must come to us. We will nurse you well again."

' I shall soon be well enough to be moved," said he, with a melancholy significance, " but not to your house, dear lady. Do you think Lula will know me? I hope she will not be afraid again. You will bring her to-morrow ?"

I promised—and the next day we came. Lula knew he was very ill, but she was not quite pre-pared for the white face, the great black eyes, with their eager, intense glance. He smiled, and motioned her to come near him.

"Then you didn't forget your soldier after all."

"Oh, I didn't—I didn't!" And both the soft arms went round his neck. "Can't you get up, poor Mr. Fleming ?"

"Do you know," said he, holding her to him , with his little strength, " they have made me a

captain, and given me a sword ? Lula, I must give it to you with may own hands. I know you will keep it for my sake. If I never disgraced my office, never hesitated in my duty, never doubted in the cause at last, it was because I knew Lula loved me and believed in me. There it is. Will you bring it to me?"

Lula was greatly afraid of any weapon, I knew. I saw her pause and turn from hint to the sword.

" It will not hurt you, my child," said I. " It is in its sheath."

So the dimpled, inexpert hands brought it to the bedside. He grasped it by the hilt, and held her hand with his there. A moment passed in silence. I thought he prayed.

"Now good-by, dear little one! When I get well I will come for the sword. Keep it for me. Will you kiss me, Lula ?"

She stooped her pouting mouth to his, and then looking up to me, one arm hugging the fearful sword, held out the other hand to be led away. The soft eyes were full of awe. She did not cry, but sat very still in the carriage. When her father came in at night, and Lula tried to tell him every thing, she could not for her sobs.

The next day Mr. Nelson went with me to the hospital ; but all was over. We told Lula that Mr. Fleming was well. God had taken him home to his mother and father.

A few days after my husband went to Washing-ton and succeeded in seeing Fleming's colonel, who spoke of our soldier in unqualified praise.

"I gave him a sword," said he, "for he saved my life once that day. His bravery won him his shoulder-straps and—a grave. Proud fellow ! he lay suffering in Baltimore, and would not let me know. I would have given all I own to have found him."

When we were once more at home her father hung the sword on the wall of Lula's room.

" My little girl must remember," said he, turning and seeing the tears running down her cheeks, "that Captain FlemIng never failed in his duty, died in doing it. She must guard purely what he won bravely. A child may live the life of a soldier in its highest sense. Lula, may yours never dishonor the sword!"

A POOR CLERK'S STORY.

Peon, and in search of lodgings, I wandered into the humblest district of western London, and after some failures in my applications for a lodging, I lighted upon a fairly presentable house in a shambling sort of terrace, not very distant from the principal thoroughfare of that section of the town. I was admitted—after repeated knocks, and just as my patience was becoming exhausted—by an old woman of about sixty-five, though it is possible that she might have been prematurely aged by want and illness. When I inquired of the portress the terms of the lodgings, the poor old creature, who was shaking in voice and body from a sort of palsy, stammered out that she would call her daughter to answer my questions, but " would I please step in-side a moment." I complied, and waited on the ragged mat in the dingy passage while the old woman hobbled and jerked herself down the stairs to the kitchen. I knew when she arrived at the door, for a dull sound of voices, which I had noticed upon entering, suddenly expanded into a confused roar, in which I detected both male and female laughter. The occupants of the kitchen, who were evidently carousing (though it was but three o'clock in the afternoon), seemed to me to greet the old woman with shouts of derision. Something bard was flung at her at her entrance, I am sure, for I heard her cry out in her quaky treble, and the missile, what-ever it was, rolling upon the wooden floor. A great laugh was raised at this sally, after which I recognized the trembling old tones, declaring, I presume, the mission which had so unseasonably interrupted the mirth of the kitchen. There was a lull directly ; and I shortly afterward heard a younger and lighter step ascending the staircase, and my land-lady stood before me. She was a bold, sluttish-looking woman of about thirty, with a face which, though not positively ill-looking, was of a low stamp, and certainly unattractive. She instantly assumed a smirk and courtesy to the prospective lodger ; but I perceived a trifling thickness of utterance, and a peculiar lack of lustre in her eyes, which were the outward and visible signs of excess. She excused herself for not waiting upon me immediately; but "it was all along of that stupid old woman-servant which she kept out of charity, the', Heavin knew, she did nothing for the use of the house in return for all the eatin' and drinkin' which was provided," and so on. Abusing the wretched old woman, and denying in every word the fact that it was her mother of whom she spoke so evilly, the landlady preceded me to the "drawing-room floor," and threw open the door with a conscious pride. They were very inferior lodgings. I believe at any other time I should have incontinently left the spot; but something prompted me, and I agreed to lodge there for a month. I had become interested in spite of myself, and I was determined to know something more about my shaky old friend.

I had agreed upon taking the lodgings from the first of December till the New-Year's Day following; and on beginning my reign in my new quarters, I found the wisdom of hiring apartments of this sort weekly, a plan I ever adopted afterward. Nothing could have been more completely inconvenient as far as accommodation and attendance were concerned, and yet I staid, for I had already found an interest in the place. The shaky old woman was the servant-of-all-work, the factotum, the fag of the lodgings. Often I have myself relieved her of the breakfast-tray, when the cup and saucer and butter-boat and tea-pot have been trembling responsively, and the egg designed for my humble repast has been divorced from its cup and has been rolling wildly from side to side, like a barrel on deck in a storm. She cleaned the boots, she swept the stairs, answered the bell, fetched the beer (no sinecure), and performed, in short, every menial oilier, while her shameless daughter and recreant son-in-law ate,


 

 

  

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