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Robert E. Lee Portrait
MR. BRADY, the photographer, to
whose industry and energy we are indebted for many of the most reliable pictures
of the war, has been to the Gettysburg battle-field, and executed a number of
photographs of what he saw there. We reproduce some of these pictures on pages
One of them shows us the old man
JOHN BURNS, the only citizen of Gettysburg who shouldered his rifle and went out
to do battle in the Union ranks against the enemies of his country. The old man
made his appearance in a uniform which he had worn in the last war, but he
fought as stoutly as any young man in the army. Honor to his name! Old BURNS'S
house is there too, a memorial in its way of the fight: from its condition it
looks as though it would not be very likely to remain many years as an object of
Other pictures are the
General LEE and
General MEADE near the battle-field; modest,
unpretending farm-houses in themselves, but destined hereafter to be as famous
and as great an object of curiosity to travelers as the barn and mill at
Waterloo. Elsewhere we see the rough breast-works thrown up in the woods behind
which the troops crouched to repel the enemy's charges, with the trees above and
around them scarred and furrowed every where by round shot, shell, and
VIEW OF GETTYSBURG FROM
THE WEST will give the beholder a general idea of the field of battle—a great
valley well adapted for the movements of infantry and artillery. Mountains in
the back-ground explain why the cavalry could not pursue very far. We have
details as well. There is the GATE OF THE CEMETERY, which was the scene of more
than one fierce conflict, and where hundreds of Union men and rebels fell side
by side; THE COLLEGE, which our troops used as a hospital after the battle; THE
WHEAT-FIELD IN WHICH GENERAL REYNOLDS WAS SHOT, and THE BARN to which he was
carried, and where he breathed his last moments, etc.
Coupled with these interesting
pictures we give, on page 533, an illustration of THE CROSSING OF THE
RAPPAHANNOCK BY THE ADVANCE OF THE TWELFTH ARMY CORPS IN PURSUIT OF LEE.
Intelligence of this movement is contraband, and the author of our sketch warns
us to be careful to disclose no facts which may be useful to the enemy. We
therefore let the picture speak for itself.
BY CHARLES READE, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "IT IS NEVER TOO
LATE TO MEND," ETC.
LONG before this open rupture
Jane Hardie had asked her father, sorrowfully, whether she was to discontinue
her intimacy with the Dodds; he thought of course he would say "Yes," and it
cost her a hard struggle between inclination and filial duty to raise the
question. But Mr. Hardie was anxious her friendship with that family should
continue; it furnished a channel of news, and in case of detection might be
useful to avert or soften hostilities; so he answered rather sharply, "On no
account: the Dodds are an estimable family; pray be as friendly with them as
ever you can." Jane colored with pleasure at this most unexpected reply: but her
wakeful conscience reminded her this answer was given in ignorance of her
attachment to Edward Dodd; and urged her to confession. But at that Nature
recoiled: Edward had not openly declared his love to her; so modest pride, as
well as modest shame, combined with female cowardice to hold back the avowal.
So then Miss Tender Conscience
tormented herself; and recorded the struggle in her diary; but briefly, and in
terms vague and typical; not a word about "a young man"—or "crossed in love"—but
one obscure and hasty slap at the carnal affections, and a good deal about "the
saints in prison," and "the battle of Armageddon."
Yet, to do her justice, laxity of
expression did not act upon her conduct and warp that, as it does most mystical
To obey her father to the letter,
she maintained a friendly correspondence with Julia Dodd, exchanging letters
daily: but, not to disobey him in the spirit, she ceased to visit Albion Villa.
Thus she avoided Edward, and extracted from the situation the utmost
self-denial, and the least possible amount of "carnal pleasure," as she naively
denominated an interchange of worldly affection, however distant and respectful.
One day she happened to mention
her diary, and say it was a present comfort to her, and instructive to review.
Julia, catching at every straw of consolation, said she would keep one too, and
asked a sight of Jane's for a model. "No, dear friend," said Jane: "a diary
should be one's self on paper."
This was fortunate: it precluded
that servile imitation, in which her sex excels even mine; and consequently the
two records reflect two good girls, instead of one in two skins; and may be
trusted to conduct this narrative forward, and relieve its monotony a little:
only of course the reader must not expect to see the plot of a story carried
minutely out, in two crude compositions written with an object so distinct: he
must watch for glimpses and make the most of indications. Nor is this an
excessive demand upon his intelligence; for, if he can not do this with a book,
how will he do it in real life, where male and female characters reveal their
true selves by glimpses only, and the gravest and most dramatic events give the
diviner so few and faint signs of their coming?
Extracts from Julia Dodd's Diary:
"Dec. 5th. It is all over; they
have taken papa away to an asylum: and the house is like a grave, but for our
outbursts of sorrow. Just before he went away the medal came—oh no, I can not.
Poor, poor mamma!
8 P.M. In the midst of our
affliction Heaven sent us a ray of comfort: the kindest letter from a lady, a
perfect stranger. It came yesterday; but now I have got it to copy: oh, bless
it; and the good, kind writer.
DEAR MADAM,—I scarcely know
whether to hope or to fear that your good husband may have mentioned my name to
you; however, he is just the man to pass over both my misbehavior and his own
gallantry; so I beg permission to introduce myself. I and my little boy were
passengers by the Agra; I was spoiled by a long residence in India, and gave
your husband sore trouble by resisting discipline, refusing to put out my light
at nine o'clock, and in short by being an unreasonable woman, or rather a
spoiled child. Well, all my little attempts at a feud failed; Captain Dodd did
his duty, and kept his temper provokingly. The only revenge he took was a noble
one; he jumped into the sea after my darling Freddy, and saved him from a watery
grave, and his mother from madness or death; yet he was himself hardly recovered
from a wound he had received in defending its all against pirates. Need I say
more to one who is herself a mother? You will know how our little
misunderstanding ended after that. As soon as we were friends, I made him talk
of his family; yourself, Edward, Julia, I seem to know you all.
When the ruffian, who succeeded
our good captain, had wrecked poor us, and then deserted us, your husband
resumed the command, and saved Freddy and me once more by his courage, his
wonderful coolness, and his skill. Since then the mouse has been at work for the
lion: I despair of conveying any pleasure by it to a character so elevated as
Captain Dodd; his reward must be his own conscience; but we poor little women
like external shows, do we not? and so I thought a medal of the Humane Society
might give some pleasure to you and Miss Dodd. Never did medal nor order repose
on a nobler heart. The case was so strong, and so well supported, that the
society did not hesitate: and you will receive it very soon after this.
You will be surprised, dear
Madam, at all this from a stranger to yourself, and will perhaps set it down to
a wish to intrude on your acquaintance. Well then, dear Madam, you will not be
far wrong. I should like much to know one, whose character I already seem
acquainted with; and to convey personally my gratitude and admiration of your
husband, I could pour it out more freely to you, you know, than to him.
Yours very faithfully,
LOUISA BERESFORD. And the medal
came about an hour before the fly to take him away. His dear name was on it, and
his brave courageous acts.
Oh, shall I ever be old enough
and hard enough to speak of this without stopping to cry?
We fastened it round his dear
neck with a ribbon. Mamma would put it inside his clothes for fear the silver
should tempt some wretch: I should never have thought of that: is there a
creature so base? And we told the men how he had gained it (they were servants
of the asylum), and we showed them how brave and good he was, and would be again
if they would be kind to him and cure him. And mamma bribed them with money to
use him kindly: I thought they would be offended and refuse it: but they took
it, and their faces showed she was wiser than I am. He keeps away from us too.
It is nearly a fortnight now."
"Dec. 7th. Aunt Eve left to-day.
Mamma kept her room and could not speak to her: can not forgive her interfering
between papa and her. It does seem strange that any one but mamma should be able
to send papa out of the house, and to such a place; but it is the law: and
Edward, who is all good sense, says it was necessary; he says mamma is unjust:
grief makes her unreasonable. I don't know who is in the right: and I don't much
care: but I know I am sorry for Aunt Eve, and very, very sorry for mamma."
"Dec. 8th. I am an egotist: found
myself out this morning; and it is a good thing to keep a diary. It* was
overpowered at first by grief for mamma: but now the house is sad and quiet I am
always thinking of him; and that is egotism.
Why does he stay away so? I
almost wish I could think it was coldness or diminished affection; for I fear
something worse; something to make him wretched. Those dreadful words papa spoke
before he was afflicted! words I will never put on paper; but they ring in my
ears still; they appall me; and then found at their very door! Ah, and I knew I
should find him near that house. And now he keeps away."
Dec. 9th. All day trying to
comfort mamma. She made a great effort and wrote to Mrs. Beresford."
POOR MAMMA'S LETTER.
"DEAR MADAM,—Your kind and valued
letter reached us in deep affliction: and I am little able to reply to you as
you deserve. My poor husband is very ill; so ill that he no longer remembers the
past, neither the brave acts that have won him your esteem, nor even the face of
his loving and unhappy wife, who now thanks you with many tears for your sweet
letter. Heart-broken as my children and I are, we yet
*Egotism. The abstract quality
evolved from the concrete term egotist by feminine art, without the aid from
derive some consolation from it.
We have tied the medal round his neck, Madam, and thank you far more than we can
find words to express.
"In conclusion, I pray Heaven
that, in your bitterest hour, you may find the consolation you have administered
to us: no, no, I pray you may never, never stand in such need of comfort.
Yours gratefully and sincerely,
"Dec. 10th, Sunday. At St. Anne's
in the morning. Tried hard to apply the sermon. He spoke of griefs, but so
coldly; surely he never felt one: he was not there. Mem.: always pray against
wandering thoughts on entering church."
"Dec. 11th. A diary is a dreadful
thing. Every thing must go down now, and, among the rest, that the poor are
selfish. I could not interest one of mine in mamma's sorrows; no, they must run
back to their own little sordid troubles, about money and things. I was so
provoked with Mrs. Jackson (she owes mamma so much) that I left her hastily: and
that was Impatience. I had a mind to go back to her; but would not; and that was
Pride. Where is my Christianity?
A kind letter from Jane Hardie.
But no word of him."
"Dec. 12th. To-day Edward told me
plump I must not go on taking things out of the house for the poor : mamma gave
me the reason. 'We are poor ourselves, thanks to ——' And then she stopped. Does
she suspect? How can she? She did not hear those two dreadful words of papa's?
They are like two arrows in my heart. And so we are poor: she says we have
scarcely any thing to live upon after paying the two hundred and fifty pounds a
year for papa."
"Dec. 13th. A comforting letter
from Jane. She sends me Hebrews xii. 11, and says, 'Let us take a part of the
Bible, and read two chapters prayerfully, at the same hour of the day: will ten
o'clock in the morning suit you? and, if so, will you choose where to begin?' I
will, sweet friend, I will: and then, though some cruel mystery keeps us apart,
our souls will be together over the sacred page, as I hope they will one day be
together in heaven; yours will at any rate. Wrote back, yes, and a thousand
thanks, and should like to begin with the Psalms: they are sorrowful, and so are
we. And I must pray not to think too much of him.
If every thing is to be put down
one does, I cried long and bitterly to find I had written that I must pray to
God against him."
"Dec. 14th. It is plain he never
means to come again. Mamma says nothing, but that is out of pity for me; I have
not read her dear face all these years for nothing. She is beginning to think
him unworthy, when she thinks of him at all. There is a mystery; a dreadful
mystery: may he not be as mystified too, and perhaps tortured like me with
doubts and suspicions? they say he is pale and dejected. Poor thing! But then oh
why not come to me and say so? Shall I write to him? No, I will cut my hand off
"Dec. 16th. A blessed letter from
Jane. She says 'Letter-writing on ordinary subjects is a sad waste of time and
very unpardonable among His people.' And so it is; and my weak hope, daily
disappointed, that there may be something in her letter, only shows how inferior
I am to my beloved friend. She says 'I should like to fix another hour for us
two to meet at the Throne together: will five o'clock suit you? we dine at six:
but I am never more than half an hour dressing.'
The friendship of this saint, and
her bright example, is what Heaven sends me in infinite mercy and goodness to
soothe my aching heart a little: for him I shall never see again.
I have seen him this very
It was a beautiful night: I went
to look at —the world to come I call it—for I believe the redeemed are to
inhabit those very stars hereafter, and visit them all in turn—and this world I
now find is a world of sorrow and disappointment—so I went on the balcony to
look at a better one: and oh it seemed so holy, so calm, so pure, that heavenly
world: I gazed and stretched my hands toward it for ever so little of its
holiness and purity; and, that moment, I heard a sigh. I looked, and there stood
a gentleman just outside our gate, and it was hint. I nearly screamed, and my
heart beat so. He did not see me: for I had come out softly, and his poor head
was down, down upon his breast; and he used to carry it so high, a little,
little while ago; too high some said; but not I. I looked, and my misgivings
melted away; it flashed on me as if one of those stars had written it with its
own light in my heart—'There stands Grief; not Guilt.' And before I knew what I
was about I had whispered 'Alfred!' The poor boy started, and ran toward me: but
stopped short and sighed again. My heart yearned: but it was not for me to make
advances to him, after his unkindness: so I spoke to him as coldly as ever I
could, and I said 'You are unhappy.'
He looked up to me, and then I
saw even by that light that he is enduring a bitter, bitter struggle: so pale,
so worn, so dragged! Now how many times have I cried, this last month? more than
in all the rest of my life a great deal. 'Unhappy!' he said; 'I must be a
contemptible thing if I was not unhappy.' And then he asked me should not I
despise him if he was happy. I did not answer that: but I asked him why he was
unhappy. And when I had, I was half frightened: for he never evades a question
the least bit.
He held his head higher still,
and said, 'I am unhappy because I can not see the path of honor!'
Then I babbled something, I
then he went on like this—ah, I
never forget what he says—he said Cicero says AEquitas ipsa lucet per se;
something significat* something else: and he repeated it slowly for me, he knows
I know a little Latin; and told me that was as much as to say 'Justice is so
clear a thing, that whoever hesitates must be on the road of wrong. And yet,' he
said, bitterly, 'I hesitate and doubt, in a matter of right and wrong, like an
Academic philosopher weighing and balancing mere speculative straws.' Those were
his very words. 'And so,' said he, 'I am miserable; deserving to be miserable.'
Then I ventured to remind him
that he, and I, and all Christian souls, had a resource not known to heathen
philosophers, however able. And I said, 'dear Alfred, when I am in doubt and
difficulty, I go and pray to Him to guide me aright: have you done so?' No, that
had never occurred to him; but he would, if I made a point of it; and at any
rate he could not go on in this way; I should soon see him again, and, once his
mind was made up, no shrinking from mere consequences, he promised me. Then we
bade one another good-night, and he went off holding his head as proudly as he
used: and poor silly me fluttered, and nearly hysterical, as soon as I quite
lost sight of him."
"Dec. 17th. At church in the
morning: a good sermon. Notes and analysis. In the evening Jane's clergyman
preached. She came. Going out I asked her a question about what we had heard;
but she did not answer me. At parting she told me she made a rule not to speak
coming from church, not even about the sermon. This seemed austere to poor me.
But of course she is right. Oh, that I was like her."
"Dec. 18th. Edward is coming out.
This boy, that one has taught all the French, all the dancing, and nearly all
the Latin he knows, turns out to be one's superior, infinitely; I mean in
practical good sense. Mamma had taken her pearls to the jeweler and borrowed two
hundred pounds. He found this out and objected. She told him a part of it was
required to keep him at Oxford. 'Oh indeed,' said he: and we thought of course
there was an end: but next morning he was off before breakfast, and the day
after he returned from Oxford with his caution money, forty pounds, and gave it
mamma: she had forgotten all about it. And he had taken his name off the college
book, and left the university forever. The poor, gentle, tears of mortification
ran down his mother's cheeks, and I hung round her neck, and scolded him like a
vixen; as I am. We might have spared tears and fury both, for he is neither to
be melted nor irritated by poor little us. He kissed us and coaxed us like a
superior being, and set to work in his quiet, sober, ponderous way, and proved
us a couple of fools to our entire satisfaction, and that without an unkind
word: for he is as gentle as a lamb, and as strong as ten thousand elephants. He
took the money back and brought the pearls home again, and he has written 'SOYEZ
DE VOTRE SIECLE' in great large letters, and has pasted it on all our three
bedroom doors, inside. And he has been all these years quietly cutting up the
Morning Advertiser, and arranging the slips with wonderful skill and method. He
calls it 'digesting the 'Tiser!' and you can't ask for any modern information,
great or small, but he'll find you something about it in this digest. Such a
folio! It takes a man to open and shut it. And he means to he a sort of little
papa in this house, and mamma means to let him. And indeed it is so sweet to be
commanded; besides it saves thinking for one's self; and that is such a worry."
"Dec. 19th. Yes, they have
settled it; we are to leave here, and live in lodgings to save servants. How we
are to exist even so, mamma can not see; but Edward can; he says we two have got
popular talents, and he knows the markets (what does that mean, I wonder), and
the world in general. I asked him wherever he picked it up, his knowledge; he
said, 'In the 'Tiser.' I asked him would he leave the place where she lives. He
looked sad, but said, 'Yes; for the good of us all,' so he is better than I am;
but who is not? I wasted an imploring look on him; but not on mamma; she looked
back to me, and then said sadly, 'Wait a few days, Edward, for—my sake.' That
meant for poor credulous Julia's, who still believes in him. My sweet mother!"
"Dec. 21st. Told mamma to-day I
would go for a governess, to help her, since we are all ruined. She kissed me
and trembled; but she did not say 'No;' so it will come to that. He will be
sorry. When I do go, I think I shall find courage to send him a line: just to
say I am sure he is not to blame for withdrawing. Indeed how could I ever marry
a man whose father I have heard my father call—" (the pen was drawn through the
"Dec. 22d. A miserable day:
low-spirited and hysterical. We are really going away. Edward has begun to make
packing-cases: I stood over him and sighed, and asked him questions: he said he
was going to take unfurnished rooms in London, send up what furniture is
absolutely necessary, and sell the rest by auction, with the lease of our dear,
dear house, where we were all so happy once. So, what with 'his knowledge of the
markets and the world,' and his sense, and his strong will, we have only to
submit. And then he is so kind, too; 'don't cry, little girl,' he said. 'Not but
what I could turn on the waters myself if there was any thing to be gained by
it. Shall I cry, Ju,' said he, 'or shall I whistle? I think I'll whistle.' And
he whistled a tune right through, while he worked with a heart as sick as my
own, perhaps. Poor Edward!"
"Dec. 23d. My Christian friend
has her griefs too. But then she puts them to profit: she says