No false modesty shall restrain me, therefore, from discussing this case upon its merits. Before entering upon it, however, I desire to call your attention to a few preliminary points.

In the first place, I ask you—who are all familiar with the record—if an undue sympathy for the defendant, Antonio, was not felt on the trial? The favor and good wishes of the court, the spectators, and of the reporter, were evidently enlisted for him as against his opponent. This Antonio, perhaps, was a very worthy fellow in his way; and in a criminal action—as on an indictment for murdering a family or two, or slaughtering a policeman—might have been, able to prove previous good character. But such a plea, in a civil action for debt, is entitled to no weight, while the fact that he was a good fellow in a series of scrapes, not the least of which was matrimony, does not entitle him to our sympathy. The prejudices of the court ought to have been against instead of for him. He had failed in business, could not pay his outstanding liabilities, and thus stood before the commercial world in the position of bankruptcy. The fact that he had made a foolish contract, which imperilled his life, does not improve his moral condition, or entitle him to any just sympathy, unless it could be shown that there was insanity in his family. No such plea was entered. His counsel did not attempt to prove that his great-grandfather owned a mad dog; a plea from which the court, fortified by many modern criminal decisions, might have inferred his moral insanity. No such attempt to relieve Antonio from the consequences of his criminal folly was made, and I can see nothing in the case to entitle him to the sympathy which was and had been always entertained for him.

Again: The lengthy and much-admired plea of the defendant's counsel on the subject of mercy was clearly out of place, especially if, as I have endeavored to show, the defendant was not entitled to any particular clemency or sympathy. The remarks of Portia, commencing,

'The quality of Mercy is not strained,'

(and, by the way, who but a woman would talk of straining an emotion as one strains milk?) are wholly irrelevant to the issue, and ought not to have been allowed. They were eloquent, indeed, but had nothing whatever to do with the trial, which arose on a very plain case at law: A owed B three thousand ducats, due and not paid on an ascertained day. Whereupon B moves the court for the penalty, and demands judgment. If the defendant had no answer at law, there is an end to the case; and it was very irregular, impertinent, and contrary to well-settled practice for the defendant's counsel to endeavor to lead off the mind of the court from the true issue of the case. Portia, in what she says of mercy being 'twice blessed' and 'dropping like the gentle rain from heaven,' &c., &c., was, I fear, 'talking buncombe,' and all that part of her speech should be stricken from the record, especially as it was addressed to the plaintiff instead of the court, a highly indecorous proceeding. Instead of indulging in all this sentimentality, her true course would have been to have filed a bill in equity against Shylock, and have obtained an injunction on an ex parte affidavit, which only requires a little strong swearing; or to have patched up a suit against him for obtaining his knife under false pretences; than which (under the New York code of procedure) nothing can be easier. But what better conduct of a suit can you expect from a she-advocate—an attorney-in-petticoats?

And this brings me to another point of some delicacy, and which nothing but a conscientious devotion to abstract justice would induce me to touch upon. What law, or what precedent, can be cited to authorize a woman to appear as an advocate in a court of justice and usurp the offices and prerogatives of a man? I will not dwell upon the impropriety of such conduct; but on my honor, as a member of the bar, the behavior of Portia was outrageous. This young female, not content with 'cavorting' around the country in a loose and perspicuous style, actually practises a gross swindle on the court. She assumes to be a man when she is only a woman, dons the breeches when she is only entitled to the skirts, and imposes herself upon the Duke of Venice as a learned young advocate from Rome, when in fact she is only a young damsel of Belmont, with half a dozen lovers on hand, on her own showing. And yet this young baggage, whose own father would not trust her to choose a husband, whose brains are addled by her own love affairs, and who had no more business in court than the deacon would have in Chancellor Whiting's suit in the Lowber claim, not only came into court under a fraudulent disguise, argued the case under false pretences, but actually took the words from the judge's own mouth, and decided her case on her own responsibility. I venture to say that such unparalleled impudence was never witnessed out of the court of a justice of the peace, and that even Judge —— (unless the editor of the —— had interfered) would have marched this false pretender out of court, or have deposited her in the Tombs on an attachment of contempt.

But these preliminary points appear of small moment when we come to consider the plea, if it be worthy of that name, which the counsel for the defendant opposed to the suit of the plaintiff. The bond is admitted, the penalty is confessed, the pound of flesh is forfeited, the bosom of Antonio is bared to the knife—when this brief but brief-less barrister, this skylarking young judge of Belmont steps jauntily forward, with a most preposterous quibble on her lips, and manages by an adroit subtlety to defeat the judgment to which the plaintiff is legally entitled. She awards the flesh, fibres, nerves, adipose matter, in controversy, to Shylock; but declares his life and fortune confiscate if he sheds a drop of blood, or takes more or less than the exact pound.

Now if there be one principle of law better settled than another (and probably it was as clearly set forth in the Revised Statutes of Venice as is set forth in our own common law), it is that a party entitled to the possession of a commodity, whether grain, guano, dead or live men's flesh, bones and sinews, is entitled, also, to pursue the usual necessary and appropriate means of obtaining the possession of the same. I appeal to Colonel W—— if this be not good law, and asking whether, if he be entitled to a dinner, he has not a right to seize upon it, whenever or however he can find it; whether, if a man owes him a bottle of champagne, he has not the right to break the neck of the bottle if a corkscrew is not convenient? So, to use a drier example, the sale of standing timber entitles the purchaser to enter the land upon which it is situated, and to cut down and carry off his own property. On the same principle, if A sells B a house and lot, entirely surrounded by other land owned by A, B has clearly a right of way to his own wife and fireside over A's land. (2 Blackstone 1149.) A hundred examples might be given in point, but it would be insulting the dignity of this court to argue at length a theory so transparently clear. If the shedding of a few drops of blood, more or less, was incidental and necessary to the rights of the plaintiff, if the article of personal property, forfeited to him on the bond, could be obtained in no other way, then, according to all the principles of law and common sense, he had a right to spill those drops, more or less; and that, too, without legal risk.

If the penalty was legal, and that were admitted, the method of exacting it was legal also. Portia's quibble was so transparent and barefaced that the decision of the court can only be explained on the theory that the court was drunk, or in love, which seems to have been the condition of several of the prominent parties in this proceeding, excepting always the plaintiff. As to the other part of Portia's plea, it is doubtless true that the plaintiff would take more of the commodity involved in the suit than the court awarded him at his peril; but as half a pound, or a quarter of a pound, cut off from the right spot would have answered his purpose, I do not see under what principle of law he was defrauded of that satisfaction. There was nothing to have prevented him from cutting less than a pound from Antonio's body, and of so releasing him, the defendant, from a portion of the penalty; and the court should have instructed the plaintiff as to his rights in this particular, instead of adopting a quibble worthy of only a Tombs lawyer or a third-rate pettifogger.

I cannot then believe that Mr. Reporter Shakspeare, in handing down to posterity the record of this remarkable case, meant to express an approval of Portia's subterfuge. My inference rather is that he was aiming a covert sarcasm at those women who thrust themselves conspicuously upon the notice of the public, and that he meant to hint that those who thus unsex themselves often make a showy appearance without displaying much solid merit. If this subtle, sharp, and strong-minded female did not turn out to be something of a shrew, before her husband was done with her, I am much mistaken. Possibly, however, Shakspeare's sarcasm might bear a more general interpretation, and implies that women in an argument seldom meet the true issue presented to them, but are prone to go off at a tangent on some side quibble, and to repel the arguments of their antagonists by the subtlety of their inventions rather than by the cogency of their logic. I appeal to my friend, the sage of Cattaraugus, who has a large knowledge of the customs of the sex, if this be not the usual result.

Not to cut the reply of the deacon too short, I go on to remark that whether he agrees with me or not, neither he nor any other well-balanced man would have descended, on the trial of so important a case as the one we are discussing, to a trivial playing upon words. Even my friend, the district attorney, than whom no man is more remorselessly given—in private life—to the depraved habit of quibbling, and who never hesitates to impale truth upon the point of a verbal criticism, would by the temptation of a fee commensurate with the vigor of the moral effort required, have discussed the question on broader and truer principles. Had he been retained on the part of Antonio, he would have proved himself equal to the occasion, and have unfolded a logical and consistent answer to the claim of the plaintiff.

He would have boldly attacked the bond itself, as absolutely void in its inception, because it was aimed at the life of a citizen of Venice, and would have called upon the court to abrogate a contract which violated the very laws that the court was bound to administer. With his usual eloquence, he would have urged that a penalty so illegal, immoral, and monstrous, and which involved the commission of the highest crime, except treason, known to the laws of the state, could never be enforced in a civilized country. He would have offered to the court no woman's quibble like that of Portia, based upon the assumption that the penalty of a bond which sanctioned a high and capital crime could be enforced in a court of law; and in fine, would have addressed an argument to the reason and understanding of the court which might render a consideration of this case by the tribunal unnecessary.

But no good plea to the plaintiff's cause of action was made on the trial, and the court was, and I fear that the whole world has been deceived by Portia's subterfuge. We must, therefore, regard Shylock as a badly used man. After all, he was no worse than many creditors and note shavers of this day, who only demand the life blood of their victims, and if on the pleas before the court he was entitled to judgment, like them he should have had it. Doubtless in private life Shylock was a very honest and well-behaved gentleman, not a mere mountebank as he is sometimes represented on the stage, but a vigorous and energetic man of the world, shrewd, sagacious, and long sighted in business, honored on change, respected by his friends, and a pattern of prudence and morality. And then, perhaps, he was only carrying on a joke, a kind of Jew d'esprit, conceived in a moment of amiable eccentricity, and never to be executed. If not a joke, however, the judgment of Judge Portia should be set aside, and a new trial, with costs, should, in my opinion, have been ordered.



A HEROINE OF TO-DAY.

We had watched with her alternate nights throughout all her illness, but this night we thought would be her last, and neither of us was willing to leave her. The surgeons and nurses had gone, and we were at last alone. We sat through the remaining hours in deathly stillness, occasionally moistening the lips and tongue of the sufferer. It was the last office of friendship, and I yielded it, though reluctantly, to her earliest and dearest friend. Monotonous the hours were, but not long. We would have made them longer if we could, for though the waning life before us was but the faintest shadow of the life we had companioned with, we were loath to lose it—to face the blank that would be left when it was gone.

One, two, three o'clock sounded, and still no perceptible change; but soon after the breathing became shorter, a slight film gathered on her eyes, and we stood in the presence of the last great mystery. Shorter and shorter grew the breath, deeper and deeper the film, till, just as the first gray light showed itself in the eastern horizon, came the last sigh, and Mrs. Simmons, leaning forward, exclaimed in a low voice, 'It is over.' As for me, I buried my face in the pillow and wept unrestrainedly.

In a hospital the day treads closely on the night, and soon the morning came. We retired to our apartment for rest, but we could not sleep. We could only think of our loss, and after an hour or two we rose, somewhat rested, but not refreshed. Ever since my first acquaintance with Laetitia Sunderland, I had eagerly desired to learn her previous life. Glimpses of it I had obtained, but I wanted it as a whole, and now I was with one, perhaps for the last time, who could give me a full account of it. It was an opportunity not to be lost, and while partaking of our morning coffee, I asked Mrs. Simmons if she would tell me what I so longed to know. She willingly assented, and as I was relieved from duty for the day, and the morning was mild and beautiful, we sought a rustic seat in the garden, and there in a little nook retired from view, I heard the story of that life to which my own during the past year had been so closely knit.

'There is one thing,' said Mrs. Simmons, 'in regard to our friend, to which we have never alluded, and which, perhaps, you would rather have me now pass over; but on that very thing her whole character and history turn, and to omit it would leave nothing worth the telling—I mean her personal appearance.

'When I was a child, my parents moved into the suburbs of Condar, and as there were no houses between ours and Mr. Sunderland's, the two families soon became well acquainted. On the day that I was ten years old, my mother told me there was a baby girl at Mrs. Sunderland's, and said she would take me to see it. I was delighted, and wanted to go immediately, but mother said I must wait till to-morrow. To-morrow came, and I was sick; and at last the baby was a week old when I was taken, the happiest little mortal in existence, into that upper room where the little one lay in its nurse's arms. I looked at it, and then at my mother.'

"What is the matter, Mary?' said she.

"It isn't a very pretty baby, is it, mother?'

"Oh it will grow prettier," said my mother, and with that I was satisfied. I was extravagantly fond of babies, and this one I adopted as my especial care, for there was no other in the neighborhood; and besides, in my childish confusion of ideas, I supposed we were twins, our birthdays being the same.

'From the time Laetitia first learned to speak, she came to me with all her troubles and her interests, and I was always glad to be her sympathizer, her counsellor, and her playmate. When she was five or six years old she went to the nearest district school. She was always a marked girl, from her extreme homeliness, her excellent scholarship, her boldness in all active sports, and an odd humor which never failed to interest and amuse. My mother's prophecy, alas! was not fulfilled. She grew no prettier, but rather the reverse. She was the same in childhood as when you knew her, with the high, bold forehead, crowned with white, towy hair, small greenish-gray eyes, shaded and yet not shaded with light yellowish eyelashes, short and thin; scanty eyebrows of the same color; a nose so small and flat it seemed scarcely a projection from her face; teeth tolerably good, but chin and mouth receding in a peculiar manner, and very disagreeably; and a thick, waxy complexion, worse in childhood than of late years, for the spirit had not then found its way through it, as it did afterward. Moreover, by a singular malignancy of fortune, when she was twelve years old, she was attacked with varioloid, and taking a severe cold as she was getting well, had a relapse, and was left as you see her, not closely marked, but sufficiently pitted to attract attention.

'My parents thought more of education than the Sunderlands, and my advantages were much better than Laetitia's. I went for some time to a good select school in the town, and afterward two years to an excellent boarding school. When Laetitia had learned all that her instructors in the little district school could teach her, she came to me and begged that I would let her read with me. I was very glad to do so, and soon after my cousin and niece joined us. To those readings I am indebted for some of the most delightful hours of my life. My pupils, as I used to call them, were at that age when childhood is verging into womanhood, and it was my delight to watch the first dawnings of consciousness in their minds, the first awakening to the realities of life. Laetitia was the youngest of the three, but she was as intelligent and mature as the others. How well I remember the glow of enthusiasm with which she read of the heroes and martyrs of old, the intense sympathy with which she entered into the amor patriae of the Greek and Roman, and her fervent admiration for the nobleness of action which this feeling called forth in them!

'The second year I began to see the development of new sentiments. The romance of life, as well as its heroism and duties, was revealed to them. Pieces of poetry which before had been read listlessly, or with only a distant apprehension of their meaning, were now full of interest. The sentiment which had passed unnoticed, now kindled their imaginations with delight; and there came, too, all the new attentions to dress and looks which first show themselves at this time. Life lay before them, golden and beautiful, and they saw all its shining angels coming to meet them—love, friendship, duty, praise, self-sacrifice, each with a joy in her hand, but the sorrow was concealed from their eyes, or, rather, was but another form of joy. They admitted its probability, but it was with the disguised pleasure which we feel in the troubles of the heroines of romance.

'Laetitia shared these feelings with the others, though with less reason; but her thought and imagination were so vivid, and gave color so completely to her life, that it would have been as absurd for her as for them to have looked at the probabilities of the case. Never once did she say to herself, that to one in her circumstances, life would most likely be full of disappointments and commonplace incidents. But time, the great revealer, soon opened to her those pages which her wisest friend would not have dared to show her so early.

'One evening I went to Mrs. Sunderland's on some trivial errand. The family were all out excepting Laetitia, whom I found sitting by the window, in the dark, with her head resting on her hand. Her manner indicated great depression; and I looked at her a moment and said, 'My dear child, what is the matter with you this evening?'

'Her head dropped upon the table, and she burst into tears. She continued to weep and sob, till, seeing she was not relieved, I put my hand upon her shoulder and said, 'Laetitia, Laetitia, don't cry so.'

'Don't call me Laetitia,' she replied. 'I shall never be Laetitia again.'

'The answer seemed melodramatic, but I knew she was suffering. Still I responded lightly: 'Oh yes, you will be Laetitia many, many times yet. 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,' you know.'

'She did not reply, and we sat a while in silence, till at length I begged of her to tell me the cause of her grief, just to see if I could not help her. I think she wanted to tell it, for she tried two or three times, but could not get any further than 'Yesterday afternoon'—At last she said, 'I have a very great trouble; it will never be any less as long as I live, and it will forever keep me from being happy. I cannot tell it to you: can you help me without knowing it?'

'This was a new appeal, and I did not know how to answer it, but a thought came to me, and I replied: 'Go and tell God about it.'

'This I said at a venture, for, old as I was, I had never called upon Him in deep distress, and I did not know what the effect would be; but I saw immediately that the advice was unexpected, and seemed to meet the exigency.

'Her mother's voice was at that moment heard at the door, and I went out to give Laetitia an opportunity of slipping off to her room without meeting the family.

''Have you seen 'Titia?' said Mrs. Sunderland to me.

''Yes, she has just gone to her room.'

''Well, I don't know what's the matter with the child since last night, she's acted so queer. I 'spect she'll get over it, though; she always did have tantrums.'

'In one sense, however, she never did get over it, and it was many years before she really recovered much of her old light-heartedness, although she had an appearance of it to superficial companions. For a long time her inner life was shut from the view of her friends; but I am at present able to read it for you, partly from what she herself told me afterward, and partly from that insight which we all have into those lives and experiences with which we are in sympathy.

'One afternoon she left me very happy and gay, and went to see a friend near the town. She was returning slowly toward home, satisfied with herself, and enjoying intensely the beauty of the season, when she saw two ladies approaching her. They were strangers, and she looked at them with interest, attracted by their pleasing faces and graceful bearing. As they passed her, she overheard one of them say in an undertone, 'What a frightfully homely girl!'

'There could be no mistake. She only was meant, and the words went like a sharp dagger to her heart.

'While she was thinking how charming they were, she to them appeared only frightful. The whole future in an instant opened before her, and she saw herself, as she moved through it, constantly exciting, wherever she went, only repulsion in the minds of strangers and friends.

'All the charm and interest of life fled at the moment. That day and the next she was in a stupor of grief, from which she was first awakened by my tones of sympathy. My advice, too, opened a door of relief by giving her something to do. For the first time she remembered there was a Being who knew all about her sorrow, knew it was coming, understood its cause, and its effects. This Being she could open her mind to, and only to Him. He would not be surprised, and He would not annoy her with sympathy which could not cure and would only irritate. She knelt down, and with minute fidelity told Him every thought of her heart. The next day she felt cheerful—she thought she was resigned; but it was only the reaction caused by the tears and confession of the previous night, and it soon passed away. The words 'frightfully homely' echoed and re-echoed through her heart. All that was dreary, hopeless, and miserable clustered around them, and shut out from her the bright, happy life of the past. Her duties were performed as before. With others she was sufficiently animated; but when alone, she was wretched. Thus the months rolled on, till they became a year; and I, who had never been deceived by her occasional liveliness, began to think what I could do to change the current of her thoughts, which seemed to have no tendency to change of themselves.

'But Laetitia's life was not all feeling. Feeling suffers passively, with greater or less endurance, according to the strength of the physical frame, but the intellect always seeks a remedy for sorrow. It seemed horrible to her that she of all the world—of all her world, at least—should be so homely that no one could look on her without pain. It was intolerable, it ought not to have been, but it was permitted, it must be. Rebellion came of course, bitter rebellion, but it could do no good. There was the fate, it was impossible to escape it. What then? Drag through a miserable life till death came happily to relieve it? She was too young. Fifty, sixty years of travel over a dreary, barren waste, with no joy upon it? No, no, she could not do it—suicide first. But suicide was wrong, and could never be resorted to. There must be some relief elsewhere. Where was it? what was it?

'Continual dropping will wear away a stone, and continual thinking will wear a hollow into the stoniest of mysteries. At length, through all the mists of proximate causes and natural laws, some glorious truths became clear to her. The near and the visible receded to their proper importance, and she learned to hold principles and ideas more dear than the externals which embody them. She saw that God loves His children equally, and though the laws of nature must take their course, there is room for each result in His design; and in the infinite of His heart and His work each individual has place and purpose. She found, too, that angels laden with joy might descend and ascend between His soul and hers without a ladder made of earthly triumphs and successes. Thus in place of rebellion came happy acquiescence.

'But she was not yet contented. She was convinced that there was a life for her which she could not or would not lead if she were like others; but this life she could not find. She saw no intimations of it in herself. She had no genius for any special thing, and she continued restless and disturbed, wondering what it was appointed to her to do. At length it came to her.

'One day, as she was passing the house of her physician, through the open window she saw and heard that which induced her to go in and offer her services. A man in a disgusting stage of intoxication had cut his arm badly, and had come to have it bound up. His little child was with him, shrieking with terror, her face and clothes covered with dirt. The doctor roughly and with ill-concealed repugnance was caring for the wound, while the cook, with no attempt at concealment, was loudly expressing her disapprobation of the whole proceeding. Laetitia assisted the doctor, and washed off the blood; then took the child home with her, bathed her, gave her clean clothes and a dinner, and sent her away with a new happiness in her heart. While she was doing all this, she found what she had been seeking. There are very many things in this world disagreeable in the extreme, which ought to be done with interest, with care, with love. Why should she not undertake to do them? In themselves they would be repugnant, but she would do them for God, and she loved her Heavenly Father so well that the hardest thing done for Him would be the sweetest. In a day or two the feeling settled itself: it was firmly impressed upon her mind that in these employments she would have rest.

'One morning, about two years perhaps after the first day of her sorrow, she dropped into my room with something of her old suddenness, and, after the customary greetings, said simply: 'I am happy again now.'

''You need not tell me that: I can see it in your face.'

'The pleased expression remained for a moment, and then an intensely black cloud fell upon her countenance. She said nothing more, and in a few minutes went away. You see how it was—by one of those freaks by which the imagination loves to torture us, my remark recalled her whole misery and its unalterable cause, and having lost for the time the keynote to her new-found joy, the other took entire possession of her mind and overwhelmed it. In a few days she came back to me, and I said: 'I pained you when you were here before. I do not know how, but I am very sorry.'

'You did pain me, but you were entirely innocent. Afterward it grieved me still more that I was pained—that what you said had the power to pain me. I will tell you all, if you will hear it;' and, without waiting for my answer, she gave me the key to the last two years of her life.

'She finished, but I had nothing to reply. She had said all. Hitherto I had led her, but now her experience was deeper than mine. Besides, I could then less than ever understand the life that was opening before her, for I had just yielded my heart and promised my hand to one whom I loved; and though I by no means thought it impossible that she, too, might have tried the same path, yet I knew she thought so; and I could not conceive how she could look forward with contentment to a life in which that element of happiness was wanting. I could only assure her of my own warm affection, an assurance which gave her a pleasure that it always makes me happy to think of.

'Notwithstanding the apparently contradictory evidence of her late depression, her new experience was not precarious and uncertain: it was firm, enduring, to be rested upon in the most trying emergencies; yet it was not, for many years, unwavering. During all that period of a woman's life when looks and manners pass for so much, and the real character for so little, she suffered at times greatly. As she went onward, every new phase of the feelings which possess a girl's heart brought with it its own pang, and each had to be overcome, some by stifling, some by postponement to another existence, and others by studying to dissever, if possible, the essential sentiment from the shows in which it was imbedded. She was unwilling passively to outgrow her trials, feeling that thereby she would lose the strength they were intended to give. Her work, however, helped her more than anything. She was not eager to enter upon it. She did not stretch forth impatient, unskilled hands toward what her Father had designed for her. Entirely confident, she was right, she was at ease, knowing her work would come to her in the proper time, and it did.

'I must say something about this work of hers, else you will be misled. She undertook to do that which others would not do, or would not do well, owing to a natural dislike to the thing itself. Not intending to become a drudge, she did not allow indolence or sentimentality to shift upon her that which others would be all the better for doing themselves. She knew what Master she served, and looked to Him for guidance, and not to the wishes and opinions of her fellow mortals. Gradually she found enough to do, first in her own house, and then outside. Friends and acquaintances called upon her, philanthropic societies applied for her services, surgeons and nurses sought her assistance, and even strangers learned that there was one who would willingly do for them, in cases of emergency, what they could not do, and what no wages could procure well done. As her life became known, she obtained the respect of some, the contempt of others, and the wonderment of most. I will not specify what she did, for my story is already getting too long; but you would be surprised to know how often she was needed.

'Her means, though small, were large enough to allow her to do most of her work gratuitously, but she received sufficient pecuniary compensation during the year to enable her to provide well for herself and give much to others.

'In pursuing the duties of her vocation, she came in contact at one time or another with almost every kind of misery, and though, from familiarity, she ceased to be shocked at new forms of suffering, yet she never became hardened, but each year grew more tender and sympathizing.

'In due time the practical workings of the great sin of the nineteenth century came under her observation. She talked with fugitive slaves, and all the pent-up fire within her burst forth in intense indignation. She had not thought of the question before—it had not been in her way; but now every feeling, her love of God, her love of country, her great interest in human rights and destinies, conspired to make her throw her whole soul into it, and she saw slavery as it is, its intense wickedness and its fearful results. She looked with dismay at its effect upon the country, its 'trail' upon everything in it, on church, on politics, on society, on commerce, on manufactures, on education. There was nothing which had not been corrupted by it—it was fast eating into the vitals of religion and liberty. The more she studied the subject the more earnest grew her feeling. But what should she do? She had not lost self-love, that passion which never deserts us; but she had lost its glamour—eyes that have wept much see clear—and she knew that the least valuable offering which a woman without good looks, high position, or great talent, can make to an unpopular cause, is—herself. So far from her conspicuous support of a new thing being an encouragement and assistance to others, it would be a hindrance: fear of being identified with her would be another lion to be encountered in the path.

'She loved her cause better than she loved herself, and would not make it more odious by any marked advocacy of it. It was a new trial to her, but she did not murmur. One who in early youth has rebelled against the very laws by which he has his existence, and has become reconciled, does not go through life hitting his head against every projection which society thrusts in his way. She did what she could. She cleared herself, as far as possible, from all participation in the sin, gladly avowed her views when called upon, and never hesitated to show, by suitable words and acts, her sympathy with a despised people. Yet she could not accomplish much. But if she did little for the cause, it did a great deal for her. It broadened her life, enlarged her views, increased her comprehension of the world's progress as revealed in history, and brought her into closer sympathy with reformers of all ages. It gave her a perpetual object of interest. It was like a great drama, whose acts were years and whose scenes were continually passing before her. It gave a new zest to life, made this world more real, and diminished her longings for the next. In narrowing her friendships it made them more vital and satisfactory; and being in communion with hundreds of other minds in the country, reading their thoughts became almost like personal intercourse with them, and was a new happiness to her. Studying daily a subject of such vast complications, her mind perceptibly grew, and from year to year she was able to grasp new and higher truths. She gained the hatred of a few clear-sighted opponents, but most persons only ridiculed her, contemptuously wondering why she should pursue this course when her interest lay so clearly the other way. But she was now far beyond the reach of such weapons.

'I have given you, thus, a sketch of the history and character of Laetitia, but I cannot reproduce her as she appears to my own mind. You must fill up the outlines from your own personal knowledge. I fear I have rendered her too intense, and, perhaps, too sombre. Intense she certainly was, but it did not oppress one in ordinary intercourse; and she was not at all sombre. After she recovered fully from her youthful grief, her elasticity of temperament returned, and her love of fun. She looked on the bright side of all things, and was full of encouragement and hope for her friends. To me, besides being, during the last five years particularly, a valuable friend and adviser—no one but myself can know how valuable—she was always an interesting companion. And yet she was not generally liked. She was seldom understood. Her life was so deep, her tone of thought so peculiar; and her dependence upon the opinions of others so slight, that persons ordinarily could not 'make her out,' as they said. Still she had very warm friends, and derived great pleasure from their friendship. I have never seen any one derive more. But she distrusted strangers; I mean their interest in her. She did not expect new persons to care for her, and it took her a long while to be sure that they did. I must myself confess, for the first and last time, that until within two or three years I never met her after an absence without being newly impressed with her exceeding homeliness. It was a sin against friendship, I knew, and I was glad when I felt I was free from it.'

'It was not so with me,' I said. 'After I became accustomed to her face it never affected me unpleasantly. I did not see the features, but the spirit which animated them.'

'Yes, you were with her continually, and, besides, she must have been so completely identified in your mind with the relief of pain, that you could think of her only as an angel of mercy. It was a great advantage to her that she was always scrupulously neat in her dress and person; and her clothes, too, were well put on, if without a great deal of taste.

'Upon the whole, her life was a happy one, though not perhaps triumphant except in periods of exaltation, for there was a large part of her nature unsatisfied; but she was thoroughly contented, willingly living as long as was necessary, glad to go whenever the time came. She never expected to die young, but she did; she was only thirty-six.'

'She seemed older,' I said.

'Yes, she always looked older than she was, and then she had lived so much that she necessarily impressed one as being old.

'She followed,' continued Mrs. Simmons, resuming her narrative, 'with increasing interest the progress of the grand anti-slavery drama, until that winter which, in defiance of all mathematical measurements, every American knows to be the longest in the annals of his country. With fixed attention she watched every event, every indication. What next would come she could not see, but she felt sure she should have some part in it, whatever it was. At length the signal gun pealed forth, the first shot was fired, the spell was broken. She wrote me, 'America calls her sons and daughters. Up! up! to work! all true-hearted men and women! live for me, die for me, and your reward shall be everlasting. There is a work for all, for all who love freedom, for all who love democracy, for all who love humanity, for all who love right law, union, and peace.'

'She felt that all her life had been preparing for this moment. Averse to war as she was from instinct and principle, she yet believed it necessary in the progress of the world, and her clear eyes scattered all the sophisms which made both sides partly wrong and partly right. She looked only at essential principles, and she saw that on one side was God, and in the current of His good will to men they were fighting; on the other was Satan, and by whatever plausible arguments he might deceive some, he could never do aught but cause and perpetuate evil. Her mind was quickly made up, and she asked me in her letter what steps she should take. I sent for her to come to me, and we applied to a committee to receive her as nurse. A great many questions were asked her, and then her application was accepted; but she was kept waiting for the final answer more than a week. Fast as heads and hearts and hands moved in those days, still time could not be annihilated—it must have its place in every work. I was present when her case was discussed.

''I think she is an enthusiast,' said one; 'I am sure she will not do.'

''We are all enthusiasts now,' answered another; 'that does not make any difference.'

''I don't believe she is,' exclaimed a pretty young woman; 'behind such a face there can be only a very matter-of-fact mind.'

'A tall, cold-looking lady said: 'No, she is a devotee; I know it by her manner. We do not want such persons.'

''I do not think we can afford to lose her services,' interrupted another, who had been looking over a pile of papers. 'Listen to her testimonials. Here is one from Dr. Weston, another from the Rev. Mr. Samuels, and others. Listen, she is just the one we want.'

All listened, and when Laetitia came, after another flood of questions, her credentials were given her. During this delay, though she was, like all the rest of us, at white heat regarding her country, she was entirely quiet about herself. I asked her what she would do if she were not accepted. 'I shall go,' said she, 'whatever obstacles are thrown in the way.' She started very soon for the seat of war. I came here with her to see that she had everything she needed, and you know the rest better than I do.'

Yes, I knew the rest, for I had been with her ever since.

Though a resident of Washington, I was not 'to the manor born,' but a 'mudsill' from Vermont, and when the war broke out I applied to be received into the hospitals, but was refused on account of want of experience. Intent, notwithstanding, upon making my services necessary, I passed part of every day in one or other of them. One day I noticed a new comer. Her head was bent down as I approached her; but when I passed, she looked up for a moment, and I had a glimpse of her face. 'That is the homeliest face I ever saw,' said I to myself. It will be a perpetual annoyance to me. I am sorry she has come.' The next day I was again in that hospital, and, standing near a door which opened into a side room, I overheard a conversation going on between a surgeon and a lady. It was not of a private nature, and I kept my place and listened to it. I was charmed by the agreeable tones of the lady, her well-chosen words, and the great good sense and tender kindness of her remarks. 'I must know that woman,' said I, 'she will be a treasure if she is going to stay here.' She came out, and I recognized the homely nurse of the previous day. I was astonished, but my prejudice was entirely disarmed. I soon made her acquaintance, and gradually established myself as her assistant, until, at her request, I was allowed to take up my abode in the building.

Her presence in the hospital was soon evident. The surgeons found with surprise that her skill and knowledge were equal to every requirement, that she shrank from no task, however fearfully repelling it might be, and they quickly began to avail themselves of her womanly deftness. To the soldiers she was a perpetual blessing. Every means which her thoughtful experience could suggest she put in requisition to soothe their pain or strengthen them to bear it. Nature, who never denies all gifts to any of her children, had given her a good voice, not powerful, but sweet and penetrating, and often, when all else failed, I have seen her lull a patient to sleep with some favorite tune set to appropriate words. Priceless indeed were her services, and priceless was the recompense she received.

But for the humor that peeped out occasionally in Miss Sunderland, to an ordinary observer her character—as she moved unambitiously through the wards, doing always the right thing at the right time, unexpectant of blame and regardless of praise, obeying directions apparently to the very letter, yet never allowing the mistakes or carelessness of the director to mar her own work—would have seemed almost colorless; but I have never considered myself an ordinary observer where character is concerned, and I soon saw that hers was not the unreasoning goodness of instinct, that it derived life and tone from a past full of culture and discipline. I noticed in her three things particularly: First, complete and unusual happiness, a happiness entirely independent of the incidents of the day. It was as if an unclouded sun were perpetually shining in her heart. This came, I knew afterward, from the fact that she was serving the cause she loved most, that she was doing her work well, and that through it and connected with it she found place for all her best qualities and highest knowledge. Second, her thorough refinement. Without, as I perceived, hereditary breeding, and without conventional pruderies, she had a rare purity and elevation of feeling, which exerted a manifest and constant influence, sadly needed in a soldiers' hospital. Third, her life within. From choice, not from necessity, her life continually turned upon itself; from within she found her chief motive, sanction, and reward, and this took from her intercourse with others all pettiness, and made their relations to herself uncommonly truthful.

From time to time, as the scene of battle shifted, we removed to other hospitals, I always accompanying Miss Sunderland; but at last, in the spring, we again got back to Washington. The battles all around were raging fearfully, and the wounded were continually brought to us in scores. Day and night Miss Sunderland was engaged. Usually careful of herself in the extreme, she seemed now to forget all prudence.

'You cannot endure this,' said I one day to her. 'Your first duty is to take care of your health.'

'No, no,' said she, 'my first duty is to save the lives of these men; the second, to take care of my health for their future benefit; but I cannot give out now. Don't you see how necessary my work is?'

'Yes, I see it,' I replied. 'I don't know how you could spare yourself, but it does not seem right that you should be entirely worn out.'

'Yes, it is right,' answered she; 'a life saved now is of as much consequence as one saved next year. I am useful at this time, for I understand my profession; but others are learning the art of nursing in no feeble school, and if I die, you will find plenty of new comers ready to fill my place.'

I knew from this that she anticipated the result, yet neither did I myself see how it could be avoided; but I resolved to watch and spare her all I could.

During all the year, notwithstanding her unceasing cares, she had kept herself well informed on public affairs. She knew every incident of the war, and particularly all its moral defeats and victories. At one time defeats of both kinds seemed to come thick and fast. She would shudder sometimes, as she laid down the newspaper, and say: 'This prolongs the war such a time;' weeks, months, or years, as it might be; but she never was really disheartened. She did not doubt that the contest, when it did come to a conclusion, would end in the triumph of the right, in the triumph of freedom, in the regeneration of the nation; and her courage never yielded, her resolution never faltered, till one day in the latter part of May.

She went out then in the afternoon to breathe the fresh air she so much needed, but in a half hour came back with a new look in her face. A stern, forbidding expression did not leave her during the day, and at night she tossed about on her bed, wakeful and disturbed. At length she rose, and sat for more than an hour by the window in the darkness, seeking that peace which had left her so unaccountably. A new thought, in time, took possession of her. She went back, and slept. In the morning she called me to her, and told me that on the previous day she had seen a black man knocked down in the streets of Washington and carried in chains to slavery. Then she said in earnest tones: 'Child' (she always called me child, though I was not much younger than herself), 'have you in your life done all that you could do against this abomination?'

'No,' said I.

'You hate it?' She asked; 'you understand its vileness, and hate it?'

'Yes, I do now, from the bottom of my heart.'

'Will you not promise me that until you die, you will, regardless of self, use every effort in your power against it?'

'I will, in all solemness and truth.'

She was satisfied, and said no more, for she never wasted words, and I recognized this as her legacy to me. The next day she was taken ill. I immediately sent for Mrs. Simmons, who thought she would be able to take her home with her; but before she arrived, I saw it would not be possible. Her only hope of recovery was in remaining where she was.

Mrs. Simmons came, and Miss Sunderland, notwithstanding our careful preparations, was so overcome with emotion at meeting her old friend, that for some time she could scarcely speak. After this warmth of feeling had subsided, she looked up in her face with a pleasant smile, and said:

'I was well named, after all. I have entered into the joy of my Lord.'

The next day she had an earnest talk with her friend on the present state of the country. Her faith had returned through intuition, but the grasp of her intellect was weakened by disease, and she could not see clearly the grounds of it. Mrs. Simmons, though she had, like the rest of us, seasons of doubt, was in a very hopeful mood that morning, hopeful for our leading men, for the common people, and for the tendency of events; and she explained the reasons for her belief that the enormities of that period were no new crime, but a remnant of the old not to be eradicated at once, any more than it is possible for an individual to turn from great baseness to real goodness without some backslidings, even after the most unmistakable of conversions. Miss Sunderland was satisfied, the future again became clear to her, and after that she seemed to lose interest in the details of affairs. Her thoughts and conversation were filled with heaven and a regenerated earth.

We clung to hope as long as possible, but she herself saw the end of the disease from the beginning. She talked with us, and with the soldiers who were permitted to see her, as long as she was able. Wise words she spoke, and words ever to be remembered; but at last weakness overcame her, and her life was but a succession of gasps. One morning, after being unconscious for many hours, she opened her eyes wide and looked at us. She glanced from one to the other, and then, fixing her gaze on Mrs. Simmons, said:

'Mary, I am glad—I am glad'—but she was too weak, she could not finish the sentence. Again she essayed. We heard the words 'frightfully homely,' but we could not catch the rest. The light faded from her eyes, and we thought we had seen the last expression of that wise and vigorous mind; but the next day the bright, conscious look came again into her face, but it gave no evidence of recognition, though ardent affection sought eagerly for it. For a moment she lay still, and then said, in a feeble but distinct voice:

'It is better to enter into life maimed and halt than, having two hands and two feet, to be cast into hell.' A half hour afterward she said softly, as if to herself:

'The joy of my Lord.'

They were her last words. She relapsed into unconsciousness, and lingered till the dawn of the next day, when she went to join that glorious and still-increasing band of martyrs who have been found worthy to die for our country.



SIMONY.

Thou hast diamonds and emeralds and greenbacks, Thou hast more than a mortal can crave; Thou canst make a big pile, yet be honest, Contractor—oh, why wilt thou shave?



NATIONAL ODE.

SUGGESTED BY THE PRESIDENT'S PROCLAMATION OF JANUARY 1, 1863.

I.

Shine forth upon the earth, Bright day of dedicated birth, And breathe in thundering accents thy command! A mighty nation's heart awake, Her self-enwoven fetters shake, And vivify the pulses of the land! Arising from the past With stormy clouds o'ercast, And darkened by a long-enduring night, The Future's child and Freedom's—seraph bright! Arise great day, and legions of the free, Beneath thy conquering flag, lead forth to victory.

II.

Great Freedom dead! Foul thought From lies of vaunting Treason caught, And Fear's pale minions, wrapped in sorrow's pall. Great Freedom dead! In God-like power, 'Tis Freedom rules e'en this dread hour, And guides the tempest 'neath whose blows we fall. Yea! War and Anarchy Discord and Slavery, And drunken Death, and all these tears Shaking our hearts with unaccustomed fears— E'en these are Freedom, waiting to arise In glad eternal triumph from her foul disguise.

III.

Our country's glory slain! Her kingdom rent and torn in twain! Her strong foundations crumbling into dust! With Truth's shield armed, and sword of light, Speak thou, Columbia, in thy might, Unharmed by thy false children's hate and lust. Arise—no more betrayed By fears too long obeyed, And bid, from shore to distant shore, Ten million voices, like the ocean's roar, In one full chorus gloriously proclaim The pride and splendor of thy star-immortal fame.

IV.

Arise! no more delay! Arise! For this triumphant day Shall crush the serpent cherished in thy breast. E'en now the slimy coils unfold, The venomed folds relax their hold, The tooth is drawn that stung thee from thy rest. Arise! For with a groan Falls Slavery from his throne! While, seizing Song's immortal lyre, And girt afar with Heaven's Promethean fire, Eternal Freedom, winged with prophecy, Awakes, in swelling chords, the Anthem of the FREE.

V.

No more Conspiracy, With Treason linked and Anarchy, Shall dig, with secret joy, their country's grave. No more thy waning cheek shall pale, Thy trembling limbs with terror fail, Thy bleeding wounds Heaven's balsam vainly crave. Uplift thy forehead fair, And mark the monstrous snare Of subtle foes, who sucked thy fainting breath, And yielding thee to the embrace of death, Awaited the fulfilment of their reign, To shed thy lovely limbs dismembered o'er the plain.

VI.

No more, degenerate, And heedless of their darkening fate, Shall thine own children revel in thy woes— Enchained to Mammon's loathsome car, Led on by War's red, baleful star, No longer shall they sell thee to thy foes— No more abandoned, bare, Piercing with shrieks the air, Thy millioned slaves shall lift on high Their black, blank faces, dragging from the sky The curse, which, riding on the viewless wind, Sweeps Ruin's hurricane o'er all of human kind.

VII.

No longer in sad scorn Shall Freedom wander forth forlorn, Forsaking her false kingdom in the West, Quitting a world too sunk in crime To heed that glorious light sublime— No longer shall she hide her burning crest— No more her children's cries In vain appeal shall rise, While ruthless War's fierce earthquake shocks With throes convulsive thy dominion's rock, And tyrants, in their proud halls, celebrate The anguish of a nation tottering to her fate.

VIII.

Thy courts no more defiled, Thy people's hearts no more beguiled! What foes, what dangers shall Columbia fear? Prosperity and holy Peace Within thy borders shall increase— The Future's dawning glory draweth near! The vine-clad South shall rest Upon her brother's breast, And, smiling in the glory of his worth, Her teeming wealth and sunny gifts poured forth, While tributes of the world's full treasures blent With tides of plenty lave the love-girt continent!

IX.

Joy! Joy! Awake the strain, And still repeat the glad refrain Of Liberty, resounding to the sky. Around thee float thy sacred dead, Whose martyr blood for thee was shed, Whose angel choirs, celestial, hover nigh! Joy! Joy! No longer weep: Rich harvests shalt thou reap, Whose seeds, in tears and anguish sown, With bounteous rapture thy rich feasts shall crown, When, rising to fulfil thy destiny, Thou leadest the nations on to Peace and Liberty.

X.

Hail then to thee, great day, Bright herald of the coming sway Of Truth immortal and immortal Love— Uplift in fuller strains thy voice, Call all the nations to rejoice, And grasp thy olive—Time's long-promised dove! No longer tempest-tost, Redeem dark ages lost; And may the work by thee begun Ne'er pause nor falter 'till yon rising sun Beholds the flag of Promise, now unfurled 'Neath Freedom's conquering smile, extending o'er the world.



THE SURRENDER OF FORTS JACKSON AND ST. PHILIP, ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.

A complete history of the bombardment and subsequent surrender of Forts Jackson and St. Philip, and of the brilliant passage of our fleet up the Mississippi river, which resulted in the capitulation of New Orleans, is yet wanting, to afford the public a full comprehension of all the attendant circumstances, respecting which there appears to have been some misunderstanding. The daring exploit of running by the forts must be recorded as another evidence of the historic valor and coolness of the American navy. No less renown will attach in future times to the bombardment of the forts by the mortar fleet, conducted as it was entirely on scientific principles, and proving the efficiency of mortars, when used with discretion and with a knowledge of the localities. The great destruction in the forts was only fully ascertained after the surrender, and shows that the success of the fleet, in passing them safely, depended, in a great measure, upon the inability of greater resistance on the part of Fort Jackson.

A number of vessels, comprising the 'Western Gulf Squadron,' were commanded by comparatively young officers, and that very important branch of the same, the mortar flotilla, was mostly under the individual guidance of captains (acting masters) selected from the merchant marine. It became necessary for the navy department to select a commander-in-chief (flag officer) and a commander for the mortar flotilla, possessed of such qualities as to manage and render effective the various branches of this peculiar combination of armed vessels, as well as to inspire confidence and give satisfaction to their respective commands.

The appointment of Captain David G. Farragut as flag officer of the squadron, was acknowledged as a judicious one. He was popular in his fleet, and has realized the expectations of the country. His personal bravery was demonstrated during the hazardous passage of the forts—while his ship was enveloped in flames, kindled from an opposing fire raft—by his dashing attack on the Chalmette forts near New Orleans, and his speedy reduction of the city.

The choice of a suitable commander for the mortar flotilla was less difficult, inasmuch as this little fleet was a creation of the officer who was chosen as its leader. David D. Porter, for gallantry and ingenuity, for theoretical and practical seamanship, and for general popularity among the officers of his own rank and date, has no superior in the navy, and his appointment to this command was truly fortunate.

The squadron, after having rendezvoused at Key West and Ship Island, arrived without any material detention, at the South West Pass of the Mississippi. A want of acquaintance with the changes in the bar, occasioned probably by the sinking of four or five rafts, flatboats, and an old dry dock by the enemy, resulted in some delays, but the whole squadron at length, with the exception of the frigate Colorado, got safely over, and anchored twelve miles up the river at the head of the passes.

The efficiency of mortars, elevated permanently at forty-five degrees, depends chiefly upon an accurate knowledge of the distance to the object to be fired upon. This distance determines the quantity of powder necessary for the discharge, and the length of the fuses to be employed. Captain Porter understood the impossibility of judging and estimating distances and bearings correctly, particularly when the objects are for the most part hidden from view, as was the case with the forts on the wooded and crooked Mississippi, and had therefore requested of the department the aid of a party from the U. S. coast survey, and the writer of these notes had been detailed by Prof. A. D. Bache, the superintendent of that work. One acting assistant, two sub-assistants, and one aid were attached to the party, and the steam gunboat Sachem was placed at their disposal. This vessel arrived in the Mississippi on the 11th of April. Captain Porter at once requested Mr. Gerdes to furnish a reliable survey of several miles of the river, below and including the fortifications. In this service a number of gunboats belonging to the fleet and to the mortar flotilla accompanied the Sachem, partly to afford protection, and partly to draw the enemy's attention from the operations of the surveyors. Mr. Gerdes commenced work with his party on the 13th of April, and continuing for five consecutive days, made a reliable map of the river and its shores from the 'Jump' to and including Forts Jackson and St. Philip, with their outworks and water batteries; the hulks, supporting the chain across the river, and every singular and distinguishable object along its banks. The survey was made by triangulation carried forward simultaneously on both sides of the river. Two coast survey signals were found, the 'Jump telegraph post,' and 'Salt-work's chimney top,' of which the geodetic relations were known, and the work was founded upon a base line connecting these two points. Sub-assistant Oltmanns, and Mr. Bowie as aid, were detailed for the west shore, Mr. Gerdes and acting assistant Harris taking the eastern side, while sub-assistant Halter observed angles from permanent stations. The angular measurements were made with all kinds of instruments found suitable to the locality. Only a few of the stations were on solid ground, nearly all the shore being overflowed. Frequently the members of the party were compelled to mount their instruments on the chimney tops of dilapidated houses. In other places boats were run under overhanging trees on the shore, in which signal flags were hoisted, and the angles measured below with sextants. It was very satisfactory, however, that the last measurement determined (leading to the flagstaff on St. Philip) agreed almost identically with the location given by the coast survey several years ago. It seemed to be a regular occupation of the garrison in the fort, to destroy, during the night-time, the marks and signals which were left daily by the party; and for this reason, Mr. Gerdes caused numbered posts to be set in the river banks, and screened with grass and reeds so that they could not be found by the enemy in the dark. From these marks, which were separately determined, he was enabled to furnish to Captain Porter the distances and bearings, from almost any point on the river to the forts, and by the resulting data the commander selected the positions for his mortar vessels.

On the 17th day of April the mortar schooners were moved to their designated positions, and the exact distances and bearings of each vessel being ascertained from the map, were furnished to the respective captains. Then the bombardment fairly commenced, and was continued, with only slight intermission, for six days. Twice Captain Porter ordered some of the vessels to change their positions when he found localities that would answer better; the coast survey party furnished the new data required. From the schooners, which were fastened to the trees on the riverside, none of the works of the enemy were visible, but the exact station of each vessel and its distance and bearings from the forts had been ascertained from the chart. The mortars were accordingly charged and pointed and the fuses regulated. Thus the bombardment was conducted entirely upon theoretical principles, and as such with its results, presents perhaps a new feature in naval warfare. When the whole number of shells discharged from the flotilla is compared with those that fell and left their marks on the dry parts of Fort Jackson (to which must be added, in the same ratio, all those falling in the submerged parts), the precision of the firing appears truly remarkable, and must command our highest admiration, particularly when we consider that every shot was fired upon a computed aim.

During the days of the bombardment, the exact damage done to the forts could not be ascertained. A deserter from the garrison came to the fleet and stated that Jackson was a complete wreck, but his information was considered rather doubtful. After six days' firing, when the forts showed no disposition to surrender, and when our stock of ammunition was considerably reduced, Captain Porter submitted to the flag officer a plan for passing with the fleet between the forts. The order to pass the forts was given on the 23d of April, and a favorable reference in this order was made to Captain Porter's plan. On the morning of the 24th of April, at three o'clock, the fleet got under weigh. The steam gunboats of the flotilla ran up close to the western fort and engaged the water battery and the rampart guns, and from the mortar vessels a shower of shells was thrown into the besieged work. This bombardment made it impossible for the leaders of the enemy to keep their men on the ramparts. Three times they broke, although they were twice driven back to their guns at the point of the bayonet. From Fort St. Philip a much greater resistance was offered to the ships in their passage up between the works, as that fort had not been (comparatively speaking) so effectively attacked, nor had it suffered previously nearly so much as the other from the mortars of Captain Porter. That the resistance of Jackson was much slighter on this occasion, is further demonstrated, by the fact, that our ships received little injury from the port side (Fort Jackson), while nearly all the shot holes were found to be on the starboard, the Fort Philip side.

After the fleet had thus passed the stronghold of the enemy, and destroyed ten or twelve of his armed steamers, the famous ram 'Manassas' among them, Captain Farragut gallantly ascended the river, took and occupied the quarantine, where he paroled the garrison, and then continued his course for New Orleans. In the mean time, it had been ascertained, that the iron-clad battery Louisiana, fourteen guns, and two or three other armed steamers of the enemy were still unharmed near the forts, and it appeared therefore precarious, for Captain Porter to remain with his mortar schooners (all sailing vessels) quite unprotected and liable to momentary attack from such overpowering structures. He consequently despatched them to the gulf, to watch and cut off in the rear all communication with the forts, while he remained with the few steam gunboats of the flotilla, at the station occupied during the bombardment. The Sachem, commanded by Mr. Gerdes, he had sent east of Fort St. Philip, to aid Major-General Butler in landing troops by the back bayou, leading to the quarantine. This duty was successfully executed by the coast survey party. They sounded the channel, and buoyed it out with lamps, and thus facilitated the landing of about one thousand five hundred soldiers during the night in boats and launches of the transports.

By this time, flag officer Admiral Farragut had successfully silenced the extensive batteries of Chalmette, and finally appeared with his fleet before New Orleans.

LIST of the Mortar Flotilla, attached to the Western Gulf Squadron, under the command of Com. D. D. PORTER.

STEAMERS.

STEAMER DIVISION.

Harriet Lane, Lt. Com. J. M. Wainwright. Flagship of Com. D. D. Porter. Westfield, Com. W. B. Renshaw. Owasco, Lt. Com. J. Guest. Clifton, Act. Lt. Com. Charles Baldwin. Jackson, Lt. Com. S. E. Woodsworth. Miami, Lt. Com. A. D. Harrel. Sachem, Ass't. Coast Survey, F. H. Gerdes.

MORTAR VESSELS.

FIRST DIVISION

Norfolk Packet, Schooner, Lt. Com. W. Smith. Oliver H. Lee, " Act. Mas. W. Godfrey. Para, " Act. E. G. Furber. C. P. Williams, " Act. A. R. Langthorn. Arletta, " Act. T. E. Smith. W. Bacon, " Act. W. P. Rogers. Sophronia, " Act. L. Bartholomew.

SECOND DIVISION

T. A. Ward, " Lt. Com. W. W. Queen. M. J. Carlton, " Act. Mas. Charles E. Jack. Mathew Vasser, " Act. H. H. Savage. George Mangham, " Act. J. Collins. Orvetta, " Act. F. C. Blanchard. S. C. Jones, " Act. J. D. Graham.

THIRD DIVISION

John Griffith, " Act. H. Brown. Sarah Bruen, " Act. A. Christian. Racer, " Act. A. Phinney. Sea Foam, " Act. H. E. Williams. Henry James, " Act. L. W. Pennington. Dan Smith, " Act. G. W. Brown. Horace Beal, Bark, Act. G. W. Summer.

The First Division Commanded by Lt. Com. W. Smith. The Second Division Commanded by Lt. Com. W. W. Queen. The Third Division Commanded by Lt. Com. K. R. Breese. The Steamer Division Commanded by Com. W. B. Renshaw.

LIST of Vessels and Officers commanding them, that passed up the river:

FIRST DIVISION, CAPT. T. BAILY, Commanding.

Cayuga, Lt. Com. N. B. Harrison. Pensacola, Capt. Henry W. Morris. Mississippi, Com. M. Smith. Oneida, Com. S. P. Lee. Varuna, Com. Charles S. Boggs. Katahdin, Lt. Com. G. H. Preble. Wissahickon, Lt. Com. A. N. Smith.

SECOND DIVISION, Fleet Captain H. H. BELL, Commanding.

Hartford, Capt. R. Wainwright. Brooklyn, Capt. Thomas T. Craven. Richmond, Com. James Alden. Sciota, Lt. Com. E. Donaldson. Iroquois, Com. John De Camp. Pinola, Lt. P. Crosby. Winona, Lt. Com. Edward T. Nichols. Itasca, Lt. Com. C. H. B. Caldwell. Kennebec, Lt. Com. J. H. Russell.

When this fact became known to General J. K. Duncan, he accepted terms for the surrender of Forts Jackson and St. Philip to Commodore Porter. While negotiations were progressing on board the 'Harriet Lane,' between our own and the confederate officers, (that vessel, and the Westfield, Clifton, Jackson, and Owasco, were at anchor between the two forts, each carrying a large white flag at the masthead,) the leaders of the enemy's marine forces set fire to the iron-clad battery Louisiana, cast her loose, and sent her adrift straight for our fleet. This dishonorable act on the part of the enemy during a time of truce, and while their own officers were in consultation with the commander of our forces, on board of a United States vessel, might have resulted in a very serious disaster to us, had not the magazine of the Louisiana exploded before she reached the fleet, which it did in full view of our vessels, and not far off. This explosion was succeeded by a crash, presenting a scene such as has been rarely witnessed. After this fearful episode, the capitulation was concluded, and both the forts, the garrison, the armament, ammunition, stock, and provisions, were formally surrendered to Commander Porter, of the mortar flotilla, and transferred by him, on the next day, to Major-General Butler, commanding the United States army in the Department of the Gulf.

Many contradictory opinions existed regarding the actual damage inflicted by the bombardment, as well as by the broadside fire of the passing fleet; and, Captain Porter desired Mr. Gerdes to make such a survey of Fort Jackson, as would settle all doubts touching the matter in question. Under his supervision, Acting Assistant Harris, aided by the other members of his party, traced in their corresponding places on the large existing detailed plan of the fort, all the injuries arising from the attack. Every hole in the ground, (whether caused by the mortar shells or round shot,) break in the walls, crack in the masonry, each gun dismantled or disabled, the burnt citadel, the hospital and outbuildings, the destroyed bridges and injured magazines, were noted by actual measurement.

The levees, which before the attack had kept the high water of the Mississippi from entering the fort, were found destroyed in numerous places by bomb-shells. Much of the area of the fort was in consequence overflowed. The number of balls and shells which fell in the inundated parts, was estimated from the proportion found in the dry parts. In the plan, the submerged parts were distinctly marked, and it plainly shows, that hardly one quarter of the whole area remained dry or above the level of the water.

From this survey the following statistics are gathered:

1. Number of 13 in. shells fired from the mortar flotilla that fell on solid ground 1,113

2. Number of shells purposely exploded over the forts 1,080

3. Number of shells that fell in overflowed ground (computed) 3,339

4. Number of round shot visible on dry ground fired from the fleet and the gunboat of the flotilla 87

5. Number of round shot that fell on overflowed ground (computed) 261

6. The total destruction of the citadel of the forts, of the hospitals, the outbuildings, the magazines, the bridges, and of thirteen scows for use in the moat.

7. The very severe injury to the ramparts, particularly on the northwest side to the casemates, all along the front, (which were cracked from end to end,) to the levees, which were completely riddled, and to the works in general. The demolition was so great, that the shell holes in the ground left hardly anywhere a free passage for walking.

It is further ascertained from this survey, that the armament of the fort consisted of fifty 32-pounders, seven columbiads, ten short guns, three rifle guns, two brass field pieces, and three mortars, in all seventy-five guns.

* * * * *

The following are extracts from Mr. Harris' report to Assistant Gerdes, accompanying the plan, which was published by the Navy Department:

'My informant, (an intelligent and reliable eyewitness,) voluntarily gave the credit of reducing the forts to the bomb fleet. The fort was so much shaken by this firing, that it was feared the casemates would come down about their ears. The loss of life by the bombs was not great, as they could see them coming plainly, and avoid them, but the effect of their fall and explosion no skill could avert.

'About one shell in twenty failed to explode; even those that fell in the water going off. It is worth noticing, that the bombs that fell in the ditches close to the walls of the fort and exploded there, shook the fort much more severely, than any of those that buried themselves in the soft ground.

'The fort was in perfect order when the bombardment commenced, the dirt which now disfigures everything is the accumulation of a few days. The water did not enter the fort until the levee had been broken by the bombs; during the summer of 1861, when the Mississippi was even higher, the parade ground remained entirely dry.'

The above statistics and information show, that the surrender of the forts was caused by the terrific bombardment of the mortar fleet, a fact which should always remain identified with the brilliant achievements, that ended in the recapture of the second commercial city of our country.



REASON, RHYME, AND RHYTHM.

All arts are one, howe'er distributed they stand, Verse, tone, shape, color, form, are fingers on one hand.'

INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME FIRST.

The first volume of this work contains an inquiry into the principles of art, and an attempt to present a rational solution of the delight felt in the contemplation of Beauty. The related thoughts upon art and beauty, found scattered almost at random over so many pages, and in so many different tongues, have been brought together, and, closely linked in logical sequences, placed in such connections that they now mutually illustrate and corroborate one another. No longer drifting apart in the bewildering chaos of multitudinous pages, they now revolve round a common centre, the heart of all artistic beauty, through whose manifestations alone it gains its power to charm the human soul: viz., 'the infinite attributes of the Author of all true Beauty.'

These thoughts on Art and Beauty have been carefully compiled, condensed, and arranged from many writers of eminence: Tissandier, Ruskin, Schlegel, etc., etc.; and are interwoven with much original matter, placing their great truths in new relations, and developing their complex meanings. By working up with them the thoughts suggested by them, the author has sedulously endeavored to form them into a whole of higher power.

The first volume being devoted to the theory of art, an attempt has been made in the second to bring the more general thoughts to a focus, and concentrate their light upon the vexed and confused subject of versification. The second volume may indeed be considered as a 'Manual of Rhythm,' for the most practical rules are given for its construction and criticism, and simple and natural solutions offered of its apparent irregularities and anomalies; while examples of sufficient length are cited from our most musical poets to give just ideas of the characteristics and power of all the measures in use in English versification.

That the book may prove useful to the reader, is the earnest wish of the author!

* * * * *

LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO EUGENE B. COOK.

When the busy little sailor bird builds himself a nest in which he—with his mate and their tiny brood—may swing secure through the sudden storms of fitful springs, and find shelter from the heats of summer, sewing it so tightly together that the rain cannot permeate it, nor the wild winds waft away the light beams and rafters of the swinging home, we do not quarrel with the little architect because he has industriously gleaned such materials as were needed for his purpose, because he has torn his leaves from the great forest book of nature. The leaves are freely given by God, and the little builder has a natural right to play the artist with them, if he can succeed in forming them into a new whole, fitted for the maintenance of a higher order of life. Thus the thoughts of great men are the common heritage of humanity.

Or, when we eat of the fragrant honey, we do not quarrel with the thymy bees because they have blended for us the sweets of Hybla. The flowers from which they were drawn are lovely and perfumed as before, but the workers have made from them a new whole, in which the pilfered sweets have gained a higher value from their perfect union. Those who prefer the dewy juice as it exists in the plant, may use their own powers to extract it, for the bee has not injured the flowers, and they may still be found blooming in the keen mountain air; but let those who may not scale the heights, nor work the strange transmutation, who yet love the fragrant honey, eat—blessing the little artist for his waxen cells and winged labor.

Who would quarrel with a friend because he had roamed through many a clime to find flowers for a wreath woven for our pleasure? Virgin Lilies from the still lakes of Wordsworth, Evergreens from the labyrinthine forests of Schlegel, Palm from the holy hills of Tissandier, Amaranth with the breath of angels fresh upon it from the Paradise groves of Ruskin, interwoven with Passion Flowers and Anemones of his own wilds,—shall we not acknowledge our wreath as a new whole, seeing that the isolated fractions are raised to a higher power in becoming essential parts of a new unity?

Eugene, the wreath of Lilies, Evergreen, Palm, and Amaranth—the honey of Hybla—the many-leaved nest of the little architect, in which you may swing through the storms of the finite, into the deep and cloudless blue of the infinite,—are now before you!

Will you not look up from the fleshless and skeleton perfection of the problemed forms, which start at your slightest touch from the formal squares of the chess board,—forms which confuse me with their complexity, bewilder me in the mazes of their ceaseless combinations, dazzle me with their chill erudition, and appal me with want of life,—and smile acceptance on the glowing gifts here lovingly tendered you?

* * * * *

CONTENTS OF VOLUME FIRST.

CHAP. I, Beauty. CHAP. II, The Soul of Art. CHAP. III, The Infinite. CHAP. IV, Unity. CHAP. V, Order, Symmetry, and Proportion. CHAP. VI, Truth and Love. CHAP. VII, The Artist and his Realm—The Ideal.

BEAUTY

'The awful shadow of some unknown Power Floats, though unseen, among us, visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower.' SHELLEY.

A philosophical theory of poetry and the fine arts should consider, in the first place, the fundamental and general laws of Beauty; in the second place, analyze the faculties necessary for the perception or creation of the Beautiful; and, in the last place, should strive to account for the pleasure always experienced in its contemplation. Such an analysis is necessary, as an introductory study, to the full and complete comprehension of any specific branch of art.

On the other hand, every specific art has its own special theory, designed to teach the limits of its means, and the difficulties peculiar to the medium through which it is to manifest the Beautiful, with the various rules by which it must be regulated in its realization of the fundamental laws of Beauty.

A clear, deep, and comprehensive view of the origin and nature of the Fine Arts, is the work most needed by the readers and thinkers of the present century. Some noble attempts have indeed been made in this direction, but, valuable as such essays may be, they do not yet correspond to the growing, requisitions of the public mind. It is true such a work would be one of great difficulty, exacting immense stores of information, and highly cultivated tastes. The writer must possess the logical power requisite for the most subtle analyses; he must have the creative genius to combine the scattered facts of natural beauty, with their varied effects upon the human consciousness, into one great whole; while, at the same time, the tenderness and susceptibility of the receptive genius must be equally developed in him. He should blend the loving and devout soul of a Fra Angelico with the logical acumen of a Bacon. How seldom is the creative genius sufficiently tender and humble to be, in the full sense of the term, at the same time, receptive!