to reading the papers. And they were full of Northern
preparations and of Southern boastings; I grew more and more
unsettled as I read. Among other things, I remember, was a
letter from Russell, the _Times_ correspondent, over which my
heart beat wearily. For Mr. Russell, I thought, being an
Englishman, and not a party to our national quarrel, might be
expected to judge more coolly and speak more dispassionately
than our own writers, either South or North. And the speeches
he reported as heard from Southern gentlemen, and the feelings
he observed to be common among them, were most adverse to any
faint hope of mine that the war might soon end, or end
advantageously for the North, or when it ended, leave my
father and mother kindly disposed for my happiness. All the
while I read, a slow knell seemed to be sounding at my heart.
"We could have got on with those fanatics if they had been
either Christians or gentlemen" - "there are neither
Christians nor gentlemen among them." "Nothing on earth shall
ever induce us to submit to any union with the brutal, bigoted
blackguards of the New England States, who neither comprehend
nor regard the feelings of gentlemen." That was like what
Preston said. I recognised the tone well. And when it was
added, "Man, woman, and child, we'll die first" - I thought it
was probably true. What chance then for Christian and me?
"There is nothing in all the dark caves of human passion," Mr.
Russell wrote, "so cruel and deadly as the hatred the South
Carolinians profess for the Yankees." The end of the letter
contained a little comfort in the intimation of more moderate
counsels just then taking favour; but I went back to my father
and mother, and aunt, and Preston, and others; and comfort
found no lodgment with me. Then there was an extract from a