A NIGHT IN THE WATER.
ON A LATE VENDUE.
THE RIDE TO CAMP.
THE TRUE STORY OF LUIGI.
COMMUNICATION.
HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.
SERVICE.
MADAME RÉCAMIER.
THE WELLFLEET OYSTERMAN.
CHARLES LAMB'S UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS.
PAUL JONES AND DENIS DUVAL.
THE FUTURE SUMMER.
DEMOCRACY AND THE SECESSION WAR.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by TICKNOR ANDFIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District ofMassachusetts.
That was a pleasant life on picquet, in the delicious early summer ofthe South, and among the endless flowery forests of that blossomingisle. In the retrospect, I seem to see myself adrift upon a horse's backamid a sea of roses. The various outposts were within a five-mileradius, and it was one long, delightful gallop, day and night. I have afaint impression that the moon shone steadily every night for twomonths; and yet I remember certain periods of such dense darkness thatin riding through the wood-paths it was really unsafe to go beyond awalk, for fear of branches above and roots below; and one of my officerswas once shot at by a Rebel scout who stood unperceived at his horse'sbridle.
We lived in a dilapidated plantation-house, the walls scrawled withcapital charcoal-sketches by R., of the New Hampshire Fourth, with agood map of the island and its paths by C. of the First MassachusettsCavalry; there was a tangled garden, full of neglected roses andcamellias, and we filled the great fireplace with magnolias by day andwith logs by night; I slept on a sort of shelf in the corner, bequeathedto me by Major F., my jovial predecessor,—and if I waked up at anytime, I could put my head through the broken window, arouse my orderly,and ride off to see if I could catch a picquet asleep. I spell the wordwith a q, because such was the highest authority, in that Departmentat least, and they used to say at post head-quarters that so soon as theofficer in command of the outposts grew negligent, and was guilty of ak, he was instantly ordered in.
To those doing outpost-duty on an island, however large, the main-landhas all the fascination of forbidden fruit, and on a scale bounded onlyby the horizon. Emerson says that every house looks ideal until we enterit,—and it is certainly so, if it be just the other side of the hostilelines. Every grove in that blue distance appears enchanted ground, andyonder loitering gray-back, leading his horse to water in the farthestdistance, makes one thrill with a desire to hail him, to shoot at him,to capture him, to do anything to bridge this inexorable dumb space thatlies between. A boyish feeling, no doubt, and one that time