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THE author of the foregoing work was captured by the enemies of his country, on his way to Europe. A brief record of his captivity—an unvarnished writing in a jail-will not be an inappropriate appendix to the foregoing pages; and he thinks it may, also, be a valuable illustration of some opinions in this volume, and an exhibition of moral aspects of the war, which are, indeed, the most interesting part of its history.

No one can justly charge the writer with attempt at any base gratification in libel or abuse in the following pages. He leaves such resources of revenge to the baser of his enemies; and he challenges every man who respects the freedom and honesty of literature, to say whether in these pages he has been insensible even to one glimpse of kindness in his prison, or has done more than refuse, for any interest or convenience, to compromise



RUNNING THE BLOCKADE.-The "Greyhound."-Passing the Blockade Lines.-The Capture.-Yankee Courtesy.-Off Fortress Monroe.

"RUNNING THE BLOCKADE" to Europe, is a pleasant thought to one in Richmond; the imagination of an adventure at the end of which are golden visions and that beatitude which may be summed up in "plenty to wear and to eat." The first stage of the adventure brings one to Wilmington; and here he already finds in the luxurious cabins of the blockade-runners the creature-comforts to which he has long been a stranger in

the Confederate capital, and has a foretaste of some of the sweets of his adventure.

Oranges, which, if they existed in Richmond, would be ticketed in some Jew's window at twenty dollars apiece; pineapples, with their forgotten fragrance; wines and liquors, of which we have only the poisoned imitations in Richmond; and an array of cut and stained glass-ware that would have put to the blush the stock of all the hotels in the Confederacy (I had been eating and drinking out of tin at the Wilmington hotel), were set out with a bewildering profusion in the cabin of the "Greyhound," when I called to make my respects to Captain "Henry" and concluded my arrangements for passage out to Bermuda. What a splendid fellow he was: a graceful dash of manner, which yet beamed with intelligence, an exuberant hospitality, a kindness that when it did a grateful thing so gracefully waived all expressions of obligation. He had been all over the world; was familiar with the great capitals of Europe; bore the marks of a wound obtained in the campaign of Stonewall Jackson; and as to his name and nationality-why, passengers on blockade-runners are not expected to be inquisitive of these circumstances, and must beware of impertinent curiosity.

"Want to get out on the Greyhound? Why, certainly; shall be very glad to have you;" and the captain blew his piratical silver whistle, and his clerk had soon noted my height, color of my eyes, &c., for the Confederate officer, who was to come aboard next morning to muster crew and passengers and see that no conscripts made an unticketed exit from Wilmington.

[The reader must understand that on vessels running the blockade there is no accommodation for passengers, unless in the contracted space of the captain's own cabin; hence, passengers are taken only by extraordinary favor.]

What a contrast was the ready consent of Captain "Henry," an entire stranger, to the negatives and quibbles of others. For there are in Wilmington specimens of the Southern Yankee: men, as we have seen them in Richmond, whose swollen wealth, and beefy vulgarity, and insatiable avarice, number them with that brood of moral bastardy. Two officers of the volunteer navy of the Confederacy, who desired passage to

proceed to a most important rendezvous, in urgent interests of the public service, were ruthlessly disappointed, because they could not manage to pay, for a seventy hours' passage to Bermuda, four hundred dollars in gold-eight thousand in the currency of the Confederacy.

On the night of the 9th of May, the Greyhound was lying off Fort Fisher, the signal-men blinking at each other with their lights in sliding boxes. It was necessary to get a dispensation from the fort for the Greyhound to pass out to sea, as no less than three fugitive conscripts-"stow-aways"-had been found aboard of her. Two of them were discovered on searching the vessel at Wilmington. But lower down the stream the vessel is overhauled again, and goes through the process of the fumigation of her hold to discover improper passengers. In the case of the Greyhound, to the intense disgust of the captain, and execrations of the crew, the process brought to light an unhappy stow-away, who was recognized as a liquordealer of Wilmington, and made no secret of his design to flee the conscription. After the threat, and apparently serious preparations, to throw him overboard, the stow-away was, no doubt, relieved to find himself taken ashore to the comparative mercies of the enrolling officer.

At last we are off. The moon is down; steward has had orders to kill the geese and shut up the dog; the captain has put on a suit of dark clothes; every light is extinguished, every word spoken in a whisper, and the turn of the propeller of the Greyhound sounds like the beat of a human heart. There is an excitement in these circumstances. The low, whitegray vessel glides furtively through the water, and you catch the whispered commands of the captain: "Stead-ey," and then the more intense and energetic whisper: "Black smoke, by G-; cut off your smoke." Every eye is strained into the shadows of the night. But how utterly useless did all this precaution and vigilance appear on the Greyhound; for after two hours of suspense we were out of the blockade lines, and had seen nothing but the white cape of the waves.

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