Georgette Heyer was still a doe-eyed teenager when she wrote her first novel, entitled The Black Moth. It features England in the midst of the eighteenth century, where the earl has just died, and his son, Jack Carstares, who had been disgraced years prior, was still oblivious to his father’s death and must be informed about this startling news.

Jack has since tried to pick up the pieces of his now shattered life and taking on a commoner’s job to make ends meet, while his brother Richard is wallowing in sadness at his brother’s absence, not to mention having to bear the constant threat of infidelity from his new wife. At the heart of every good story is a villain, and this novel which was written nearly a century ago is no exception, featuring the mysterious Duke of Andover, who is in fact a scheming villain hell-bent on getting his hands on the beautiful maiden named Diana Beauleigh, and Jack has taken it upon himself to halt the advances of the Duke.

While it is a remarkable achievement to have written a full-length novel when one is merely in the age where they should still be battling their hormones, it does, however, have its cons, some of which are shown in Heyer’s debut novel The Black Moth. While it features some of the stock characters which will become more prominent in the later novels of Heyer, its protagonists are still somewhat one-dimensional and unrelatable, with the latter probably stemming from the fact that the novel is set in a time-period that happened so long ago and somewhat exacerbated by Heyer’s writing, which may have been too loyal to the time period that made it alien to modern readers. In a way, the authenticity of the setting worked against the book especially when made to read by some of the younger audiences.

However, despite its flaws, The Black Moth still offers an insight on the workings of Heyer’s mind when she was still a teenager and it is interesting to follow how her mind developed from being a mere teen to a novelist who wrote not only in the field of romance but also dabbled in mystery as well as his history. The Black Moth may not be her best novel, but it offers readers a rare peek at her brain when she was younger and had a different perception of the world, something that could not be said for other authors who only started writing later in their lives.
 

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[That was to have been delivered at Boston, July 4th.]Mr. Editor,Citizens of Boston, South Commons, and Bunker Hill District:
I take my pen in hand to let you know that I am well, and hope these few lines will find you enjoying the same state of health, etc., etc. And, further, I wish to inform you that in anticipation of the celebration of the Fourth of July by the citizens at Boston town, I had prepared my little address for that occasion, thinking that perhaps I might be called upon by some enthusiastic individual to say a few words at that tremendous outpouring of oratory.

As no place could be found large enough for the jubilee, it had to be abandoned, and, where are we now? Is it right, Mr. Editor, and people of the outlying districts, that all the beauty, pathos and putty contained in these undelivered orations should be lost to posterity? I think not.  Posterity expects a legacy of Fourth of July orations that will glitter in the nation’s diadem, and illuminate the land from the rock-bound coasts of Maine to where calm Pacific’s waters lave the golden sands of  California. (Leave room here for cheers and groans.) If this neglect is allowed to prevail, the all-absorbing topic of Freedom will become a thing of the past ; the Fourth will die and be buried in the dead past along with the third and fifth, and then who can tell the difference?—not much. Excuse me, I drift—yes, drift with the tide of human   sentiment back to the time when the Bay State guards dumped King George’s tea into Boston harbor, in the disguise of Indians. I mean the guard, not the tea. Boston was not disguised as an Indian either. I don’t want to make any mistakes or erroneous impressions, as this may pass into history a hundred years from now, and be found sticking in the archives of the Capitol.

So you see the necessity of accuracy. ‘Tis well known that when Columbia, like the Roman mother, is asked to display her jewels, she proudly points to the Fourth of July as the brightest and biggest, in fact I might say the larorest of the whole caboodle of cobble stones that deck the nation’s shirt collar. The reasons, my dear children, for this day being sacred to the people of this ,country, are as follows, to-wit: On that day,more than a century ago, our four-fathers (I think there were four) decided to leave the old man’s workshop and start business for themselves. Of course the old man grumbled at first, but after a few years unpleasantness, and a few men killed, and the loss of a dozen boxes or so of Oolong and Japan, he gave up, and allowed the thirteen boys to go to house keeping for themselves ; so they fished out the tea and set up the cook-stove, and have since adopted several orphans from the western district, and now have a big wigwam at Washington, and an Indian training school at West Point.

And now, children, I want you to be careful ofwho you entertain. The country is full of old veterans who would lay down their lives to establish this Fourth of July business ; you can see them on every street corner with a wooden leg and an old accordeon, and the music they make is so entrancing that you wish you had never been born, or if born, only lived a few hours. When I was a boy one of these old soldiers used to come around every summer. (I often wondered where he spent the winter.) And on rainy days would lie on the hay in the old barn and listen to his blood-curdling tales.

This connecting link between the past and the present,as he called himself, would tell of the glories of the revolution, and how sweet it was to die for one’s country. I never could see where the sweet came in. We listened to him all day, and dreamed of him all nieoht. I often  wished I could have been with General Washington at Valley Forge, where the army lived on fried oysters, boiled chicken and red birds, and slept on corduroy carpet. He only missed but one good thing in his  boyhood, and he has reg retted it ever since with the most resfretful  kind of regret.

Another almost foro-otten trait of the mule is his good looks. In taking his photo always take a front view. Several sudden deaths have been noted by disregarding this advice. Take his ears first, place a pair of innocent looking eyes about eighteen inches below the tip of each lug, and beneath his beaming cheeks leave an opening for his fog-horn or feedbox.

If your glass is now in good condition we would advise you to retire and complete the other part after you shall have made your last will and named a couple of executors. I repeat, with all due reverence for the rest of the long-eared tribe, that without the mule there could have been no war.

CO. K.
From the New Bedford, Pa., Mercury.

HERE’S a cap in the closet,Old, tattered and blue.Of very slight value It may be to you ;But a crown, jewel studded.Could not buy it to-day,With its letters of honor,Brave “Co, K.”The head that it sheltered Needs shelter no more;Dead heroes make holy The trifles they wore;So like chaplet of honor,Of laurel and bay Seems the cap of the soldier Marked “Co. K.”Bright eyes have looked cahnly Its visor beneath O’er the work of the Reaper,Grim Harvester Death!

Let the muster roll, meager,So mournfully say,How foremost in danger Went “Co. K.”Whose footsteps unbroken Came up to the town.Where rampart and bastion Looked threateningly down.Who, closing up breaches.Still kept on their way,Till guns, downward pointed,Face “Co. K.”Who faltered or shivered ?Who shunned battle stroke ?Whose fire was uncertain ?Whose battle line broke ?Go, ask it of history Years from to-day.

And the record shall tell you Not “Co. K.” Though my darHng is  sleeping To-day with the dead,And daisies and clover Bloom over his head,I smile through my tears As I lay. it away—That battle-worn cap Lettered ” Co. K.”

DIXIES SUNNY LAND
By Comrade Lauffer.

Air—” Some Twenty Years Ago.”Come friend and fellow soldier brave,Come listen to our song About the rebel prisons and Our sojourn there so long.Our wretched state and hardships great No one can understand But those who have endured this fate In Dixie’s sunny land.

When captured by the “chivalry”They stripped us to the skin,But tailed to give us back again The value of a pin,Except some lousy rags of gray Discarded by their band.And thus commenced our prison life In Dixie’s sunny land.This was our daily bill of fare In that secesh saloon.

No sugar, tea or coffee there At morning, night or noon ;But a pint of meal ground cob and all Was served to every man,And for want of fire we ate it raw In Dixie’s sunny land.We were by these poor rations soon Reduced to skin and bones;A lingering starvation, worse Than death, we could but own.There hundreds lay both night and day By far too weak to stand,Till death relieved their sufferings In Dixie’s sunny land.

We poor survivors oft were tried By many a threat and bribe To desert our glorious Union cause And join the rebel tribe ;Though fain were we to leave the place,We let them understand We’d rather die than thus disgrace Our flao- in Dixie’s land.

OUNTAINS are nature’s sentinels.Reviewing the ages as they pass In grrand review, in every clime,Moving- in silence like the spheres,Majestic and sublime.From Northland’s frigid halls of ice,To lands beyond the Southern sun ;When nature in her time ofave birth To land and sea on planet earth,From pole to pole.From Himalaya’s ariel  height,From Chimborazo’s craggy peaks.

Clad in their uniforms of snow.Unchanging as the ocean’s ebb fiow.Forever and forever.In endless age and nightless day,Guarding widi undisputed sway One planet and two hemispheres,Saluting clouds for countless years,Sentinels of Time.

ARMY CORiN.
Rv S. Creelman.

SOLDIER had a full grown corn On the top of his little toe,And every place the soldier went The corn was sure to oro.It went with him to the picket line.And it went with him for rations.And many a kick the boys did get,And once in a while a thrashino-o.And so the soldier turned him out Of a hole in the army shoe,And swore he’d kill the first son of a gun That would tramp on—the Red, White and Blue.

It went with him to the surgeon’s tent To get a little corn-ation.When the doctor jerked it out of root He yelled like thunderation.60 And so the doctor turned him out.As it was against the army rules To have a soldier pray and shout When driving- government mules.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.
Anon.

Dedicated to the First Minnesota Inf., whose loss of 83 per cent, at  Gettysburg, July 3d,1863, is unparalleled in history.HEN at last the victim fired.And work of blood had end ;And twinkling gray had passed away.And morpheus night descend.Oh ! what shouts of pain and hollow moans With terrors rent the air ;Expiring warriors’ dying groans.and all the agonizing tones of heroes in despair.

THE ARMY MULE.
By S. CreeIvMAN.

Had there been no mule there would have been no war; the fact is the army mule in war is as requisite as the army musket, both having good kicking qualities, and when actively engaged have been known to create desolation and woe. Of the two, perhaps, the mule is the most to be  dreaded, as with his ears laid back, and his rear understandings horizontally inclined, he stands as the signal of dano-er; not so with the simple, innocent musket,with its damaged powder and defective cap. It is the well fed and fully developed, long-eared army mule with the galvanic battery attached to the two rear shoes that requires eternal  vigilance ; and on more than one occasion has proper credit been denied the mule for conspicuous actions, not only in batde or in the wagon train, but in peaceful camp.

Many devout teamsters and piously inclined soldiers have broken  pledges made in childhood days by coming in contact and being on too intimate terms with the army mule. He is also noted for his economical habits. He never wastes his amunition,or, in other words, he never kicks unless there is absolute necessity for kicking; and when he does let fly, like the hornet, he seldom makes a mistake,but hits the mark. Another commendable trait of the army mule is, he is quiet and unassuming. In times of danger his winkers are generally open,but he says nothing ; and instances have been known where he received a thrashing intended for another,all without the use of his veto power, and patiently awaiting a time to have revenge. The fact is, the mule was born for war, as it were; a patent self-acting howitzer, and by reversing himself could use his
driving wheels as a single or double header.

ARMY BEANS
By Capt. A. Laufman.

Tune—” Swei t Bye and Bye.”HERE’S a plant that grows out ot the soil,Not a rose or a shrub do I mean ;’Twas sown by the poor sons of toil,And was known as the white army bean.Chorus—’Tis the bean that we mean.That we ate in the old days of yore.Little beans without greens.That we ate on the James River shore.The hard-tack and salt pork we’ve eat,And sea-horse from out the far west,In the bonds of a Union all meat,Still we like the small white bean the best.Chorus—’Tis the bean, etc.There’s a spot that the soldier loved dear,The mess tent’s the old place I mean,And the grub that we used to eat there Was our old friend the white army bean.Chorus—’Tis the bean, etc.When the drear nights of winter came grim,And the camp-fires gleamed on the scene,Then the mess kettle filled to the brim With salt pork and little white beans,Chorus—’Tis the bean, etc.

On the bright glowing coals it would sit.When the daylight had fled from the scene,And boil till the darkness had flit,And had softened the hard-hearted bean.Chorus—’Tis the bean, etc.In the camps on the James River shore,On the march to the South do I mean,When we’d turkey and hard-tack no more We fell back on the white army bean.Chorus—’Tis the bean, etc.We’ll have beans in the sweet bye-and-bye.We’ll have pork that you always find With roast beans and bean-soup and pie Made with beans of the old-fashioned kind.

Chorus—’Tis the bean, etc.We have mince-pie and pound cake at home.
And forofet all about the mule team ;But we always will weep and  bemoan The loss of the white army bean.Chorus—’Tis the bean, etc.

THE SOLDIER’S FUNERAL.
By Caroline E. Norton.

ARK to the shrill trumpet callinof,It pierces the soft summer air ;Tears from each comrade are falling,For the widow and orphan are there.The bayonets earthward are turning,And the drum’s muffled breath rolls around ;But he heeds not the voice of their mourning,Or awakes to the bugle sound.Sleep, soldier, tho’ many regret thee Who stand by thy cold bier to-day;Soon, soon shall the kindest forget thee.And thy name from the earth pass away.

The man thou did’st love as a brother A friend in thy place will have  gained;Thy dog will keep watch for another,Thy steed by a stranger be reined.Tho’ the hearts that now beat for thee sadly Soon joyous as ever shall be,Tho’ thy bright orphan boy may laugh gladly As he sits on some kind comrade’s knee,There is one who will still pay the duty Of tears for the true and the brave,As when first in the bloom of her beauty She wept o’er the soldier’s grave.

ELL, no, my wife ain’t dead, sir.Hut I’ve lost her all the same ;She left me voluntarily.But neither was to blame;It’s rather a queer story.And I think you will agree,When you hear the circumstances,’Twas rather rough on me.She was a soldier’s widow,He was killed on Malvern Hill,And when I married her She seemed to sorrow for him still.

But I brouofht her here to Kansas,And I never want to see A better wife than Mary was For .five bright years to me.

The change of scene brought cheerfulness,And such a rosy glow Of happiness warmed Mary’s cheeks And melted all the snow.I think she loved me some,I’m bound to think that of her, sir;And as for me, I can’t begin to tell How dearly I loved her.Three )’ears ago the baby came Our humble home to bless,And then I reckon I was nigh To perfect happiness.

‘Twas her’s, ’twas mine,But I’ve no language to express to you How that little orirl’s weak finoers Our hearts together drew.Once we watched it through a fever.And with each gasping breath,Dumb with an awful,worldly woe,We waited for its death;And, though I’m not a pious man.

Our hearts together there For Heaven to save our darling-Went up in voiceless prayer.And when the doctor said ‘twould Hve,Our joy, what  words could tell,Clasped in each other’s arms Our grateful tears together fell.Sometimes you see the shadows Fall across our little nest,l)iit It only made the sunshine seem A doubly welcome guest.

Work came to me a plenty,And I kept the anvil ringing,Early and late you’d find me there,A hammering and singing.Love nerved my arm to labor And moved my tongue to song,And though my singing wasn’t sweet,It was almighty strong.One day a one-armed soldier Came to have me nail a shoe,And while I was at work We passed a compliment or two.

I asked him where he lost his arm ;He said ’twas shot away At Malvern Hill—” At Malvern Hill?” ” Did you know Robert May? ” ” That’s me,” said he. ” You, you,” cried I,Shouting with horrid doubt,If you’re a man, just follow me,We’ll solve this mystery out.With dizzy step and aching heart I led him to Mary—alas, ’twas true.Then the bitterest pangs of misery Unspeakable I knew.

Frozen with deadly horror.She stared with eyes of stone,And from her wild and quivering lips Went one despairing moan.’Twas he, the husband of her youth,Now risen from the dead;But all too late.And with one bitter cry her senses fled.What could be done; on his return He sought in vain some tidings of His absent wife to learn.’Twas well that he was innocent,Else I’d have killed him, too,So dead he never would have roseTill Gabriel’s trumpet blew.

It was agreed between us That Mary should decide,And each by her decision Would sacredly abide,No sinner at the judgment seat,Waiting eternal doom Could suffer what I did While waiting sentence in that room.Rigid and breathless there we stood,With nerves as tense as steel.While Mary looked on each white face In piteous appeal.Oh! could not woman’s duty Be less hardly reconciled Between her lawful husband And the father of her child ?

Ah, how my heart was chilled to ice When she knelt down and said,Forgive me, John, he is my husband ;Here, alive, not dead.I raised her tenderly And tried to tell her she was right,But somehow in my   achino- breast The pinioned words stuck tight.”But, John, I can’t leave baby,”What ! Wife and child, cried I.

State and number ; and in this four acre bivouac of the dead you will find one headstone with this inscription; ” Florena Budwin, born in Philadelphia, 21 years of age.” The records state that she was the wife of Captain Budwin, who was killed by one of the guards at  Andersonville, Ga.,and from that place sent with the other male prison ers to Florence.

She enlisted as a soldier in disguise,and. with love for husband and devotion to country, shared the sad fortunes of war, which cruelly severed her affections, her sex remaining unknown until death revealed the well-kept secret, and left her loyalty and devotion inscribed on monumental marble —perhaps less durable than the causes that prompted her to alone take the  vanguard when the flag that now waves over her called for defenders.

We leave her romantic and “windowless palace” musing,”The thoughts of war overpower all others.”

The object of our visit to these old prison pens was in part to find the  last resting place of a comrade and brother who died here durine the war. We failed to find a record of him amone the known,leaving Fame to say of one and all :

“Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave ;
No impibus footstep here shall tread The herbage of  your grave.
Nor shall your glory- be forgot While Fame her record keeps.
Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudh’ sleeps.”

In the middle of the cemetery is a mound four feet high, from which arises a flag-pole, at the top of which the United States flag proudly waves from sunrise to sunset; to the south of it a few feet you will observe two cannons standine with their mute mouths pointing heavenward, balls being laid upon them to signify their peaceful mission—looking from the silent graves to the silent spheres—from the once wild music of war to the now calm serenity of death.

FORAGING
By S. Creklman.

OT a shot was heard, nor the tap of a drum,As the porker we took was borrowed;No farewell crack from the owner’s shot-gun,But a siMi and look of deep sorrow.

We covered him over with our army blouse.As the night being cold affected his liver;And we hastened to leave the old farmer’s house On the banks of the Tennessee river.

We husded him lively on that lonely night,With his bristles for a shroud around him ;Wondering if the rest we left in the nest Would meet his sad fate in the morning.

Little they’ll think of the risk they run When they wake up for corn on the morrow,As we meant to take them, every last one,But we found them too heavy to carry.

We landed him safely in the dead of night,Not a cookoo or whooperwill singing;And with moonshine alone for a signal light,To the camp we determined to bring him.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down.Waiting to quarter and scrape him ;
And we slept like warriors on the camp ground Until the hour of one in the mornino-.Not a prayer was said with the funeral rites,As his bones over the ramparts we lowered,In the dead of night, when the miisquito bites And gets in full time with his borer.

We dreamed of the time when soldiering was done,And pigs could eat corn unmolested;And with tearful fun about the porker’s last run.When—the General had us arrested.!!! To Be Continued.

URNING the finger on the dial face of Time forward to the quarter  century mark leaves us on the transformed historic spot, with its  changed aspect, and its vivid reminder of the scenes enacted duringthe
drama of Civil War — twenty- five years ago.

We arrived at Andersonville during the month of September, 1889. The town consists of eight or ten dwellings, and one hotel. We hired a  colored guide, who escorted us to the old prison inclosure.

The ground is now owned b)- two negroes, and a cotton crop now covers its once repulsive surface;all the evidence of imprisonment once used by the Confederate military authorities have ceased to exist,save a small shed over the once famous spring, that many claimed had supernatural origin. The stock acle is all down, nothing to define the once ponderous inclosure, except that the stumps of the logs, and the outlines of the prison are well traced and defined by the old water wells, dug by the Union prisoners.

There are no remains of the Confederate cookhouse,dead-house, or  Captain Wertz’s headquarters ; only the unleveled remains of the earthen breastworks,from which Commander Wertz used to point sections of artillery, loaded with grape and canister, to awe and intimidate the prisoners who. dared to singpatriotic songs within range of the guns.

The low ground or swamp lying between the north and south sides of the prison is now grown over with canebrake and brushwood ; this was the locality so uninviting and repulsive while occupied by the prisoners. In other parts of the prison inclosure are trees twelve to fifteen inches in diameter, of the pine and persimmon variety. Time, with its mellowing influences,is tenderly weaving and quietly placing the cover of    forgetfulness on these tragic scenes of other days.

The cemetery, a short distance from the old prison pen, is maintained by the Government. Capt.Bryant, the superintendent, was a Union soldier, and the visitor is made to feel at home, notwithstanding the melancholy memories that surround him. The Hao- now waves over one livingr and fourteen thousand dead. The known graves number 12,779, and the unknown number is 923.

The unknown have a square marble head-stone with the sohtary number in figures on its face ; the known have the soldier’s name, number and State, and a look at the register in the  superintendent’s office tells you the company and regiment. The  cemetery is inclosed with a durable red brick wall five feet high and eighteen inches in thickness. The six prisoners who ended their  captivity here on the gallows, during the year 1864, and were executed by the [)risoners for murdering their fellow prisoners, have their head-stones marked “Raiders,” with their names and States.

Their names are thus inscribed: P. Delaney and W. Collins, of  Pennsylvania; Charles Curtis, of Rhode Island; John Sarsfield, of New York ; W. Dickson and A. Munn. both of the United States Navy. The crimes for which they suffered were desperate, and desperate cases required desperate remedies. The old water wells dug by the prisoners still remain unfilled, many of them now being covered over with
posts and logs.

Florence, S. C, was next visited. The stockade here, like the one at  Andersonville, is rapidly disappearing and decaying under die relendess hand of Time. The earthen embankment along the outside of the  wooden stockade, on which the Confederate sentinel paced to and fro and hourly shouted the time of night, is all that now remains of the  obstacle to freedom where ten thousand prisoners suffered during the weary and dreary months of the wmter of 1864. The Government has also a cemetery here.

It, like the one at Andersonville,, is inclosed by a red brick wall, and a macadamized roadway, one mile in length, is now under construction, and will connect the town of Florence with the cemetery.!!! To Be Continued.

History may refer us to Geneva, where arbitration superceded the sword, and a costly warfare with the British Isles avoided, and silendy yet forcibly remind us that ” Peace hath her victories not less renowned than war.” And “with malice toward none and charity for all,” let us nail the lid on the coffin with the contents of the past, its gory battle-fields, its loathsome prisons, its  sorrows and sufferings, and deposit it in the cemetery of forgetfulness, and let there be inscribed on its epitaph in characters plain, and In letters and language imperishable and bold : War is destructive of human happiness.

As to who was responsible for this gloomy picture of our civil war, let posterity and the iron pen of history decide, as a verdict now, while many of the actors survive, would not. be accepted as impartial.

If such could be the case we would charge it up to the debit side of the Confederate ledger owned by Jefferson Davis and his cabinet only ; for the masses of the South we would say, ” not guilty.”Was it caused by choice or necessity, let the reports on file in the War Department relating to provisions found and captured by Sherman and his generals,and the abundant supply of woodland surrounding the stockades answer. The reader can form his own opinion and give a verdict as to the intent and meaning of the following order, issued by Brigadier General John H. Winder in regard to opening fire on the prisoners should the victorious Sherman threaten or dare to Uberate the prisoners:

Headquarters Military Prison,
Andersonville, Ga., July 27, 1864.
The officers on duty and in charge of the battery of Florida artillery at the time will, upon receiving notice that the enemy has approached within seven miles of this post, open upon the stockade with grapeshot, without reference to the situation beyond the lines of defense.John H. Winder,Brigadier-General Commanding.

Who was responsible for this order? Subordinates seldom assume  liberty to issue orders of like import and meaning without instructions from superiors.

Was it dictated by Messrs. Winder and Wertz, or did the authority emanate from the Confederate capitol ? In military parlance its terror and tone would indicate origin above and beyond that of a brigadier or commander of a military post.

This republic, as the party of the first part, holds a first bond and mortgage on Sumpter county, Georgia,and the recital of that obligation should read,that for a valuable and costly consideration, the county of Sumpter, in the State of Georgia, shall and will henceforth and forever retain our dead, who sleep on her soil, and they shall rest in honored graves under the folds of one flag, the flag of the republic.!!! To Be Continued.!!! To Be Continued.

Such is suspense, terrible suspense that we experienced on that eventful morning, caused by delays,uncertainty and doubt in attesting and   signing the necessary papers. We bade farewell to our cooking Utensils, and remembered them on account of their age and usefulness in the  past.

We marched to the north-east branch of the Cape Fear, and were kindly received by Schofield’s army, whose bands played “Home, Sweet  Home,”which seemed to infuse new life into our bodies and nerves, and led us to hope that in the near future we would have new clothes also, and soon be permitted to once more view the green fields of  Pennsylvania,After receiving a supply of crackers and tobacco we marched to Wilmington and remained there one week waiting for an escort to accompany our steamers and transports to Annapolis,Maryland ; the Confederate privateers were hovering around the coast, and an  escort of iron-clads was necessary for safety.

We were quartered in the railroad buildings and received all the rations we could wish for or desire.

One thing remarkable occurred here ; we could not sleep neither by day or night during the seven days that we remained here ; the doctors told us the cause of it was drinking large quantities of strong coffee, which so excited our nerves that sleep or slumber was impossible until our nervous system ceased to be effected by the stimulant. From this place we were taken down the Cape Fear, along the Atlantic coast into the Chesapeake at Cape Henry,up the Chesapeake to Annapolis, and after receiving new uniforms entered Camp Parole, and a few days afterwards received sixty day furloughs and took trains on different routes for home. We will add another item in regard to the manner of keeping and observing time in prison ; guard No. i would cry aloud, ” Corporal of the guard, post No. i, nine o’clock and all’s right,” which would be repeated by each guard with the number of the post, until it came around to the place of beginning, the word “all” receiving an extra amount of emphasis, and while food was scarce we received time every hour.

During the exciting political campaign in the year 1864, when the  northern states were voting for Lincoln and McClellan, the  Confederates, wishing to satisfy their curiosity, and test the political preference of the prisoners, placed two sacks of beans,one black, the other white, inside the dead line, and wished us to vote for our choice ; black beans to be cast for Lincoln and white ones for McClellan. It was a primitive way of voting, with economy as a factor, as next day we were fed with the same beans.

The inspectors, instead of counting, meas ured the ballots by the (^iiart to economize time and figures. As many of us were youno-, It was our first vote as American citizens ; eatino- the ballots may have inculcated the political appetite for the future  interest we have since exhibited in ballot boxes.

Much more could be written and told of the privations,the sufferings  and distress ; much could be said of the unmerciful, inhuman and hard-hearted Werts, who left his liberty-loving- Switzerland to help establish slavery in another hemisphere. Much could be related of the terrors of the dead line, and the deadly bullets of the sentry ; and the cemetery with its fourteen thousand occupants ; the dismal dead house, the  howling blood hounds, the squeaking of the prison gates opening to  receive the unfortunates,the rattle of the ball and chain, the stocks, the morning roll-call, the noon-day sun, and the mid-night storm ; wrecked constitutions and deranged minds, bright intellects, whose morning sun went down at noon.

We say that much more could be written, but it is already recorded in history,and liberal minded readers of a more liberal and advanced age than ours, may perhaps be more charitable,and after reading the cause of our civil conrtict, our customs, manners, and teachino-s, assign us a place in history that may not be in keeping with our boasted  civiHzation in this evening of the nineteenth century, and may say that we hved in a halfciviHzed age, when reason was compelled to remain silent and unable to stay the bitter animosity instigated and inflamed by leaders of the North and the South ; that prejudice and passion ruled  when reason, arbitration and compromise should have decided,and bloody warfare been avoided ; they may perhaps refer to the Czar of Russia, who by a stroke of the pen liberated the millions of serfs of his dominions.!!! To Be Continued.