gone to water and waste paper.  The true story of the Lost Cause has yet to be written.  North of Mobile, in the Trans-Mississippi department, thousands whose every throb was devoted to the enterprise, welcomed the Northern invaders, not as destroyers of a hope already dead by the act of a few entrusted with its defence, but as something better than the anarchy that was not Southern independence or anything else human.

Such were the condition, period and place—­the people crushed between the upper and nether millstones of two hostile and contending civilizations—­when native thrift evoked a new element, that set in sharp contrast the heroism of life and the heroism of death, the courage that incurs danger to save against the courage that accepts danger to destroy.  The work was the saving of the valuable arms—­costing the government thirty thousand dollars per gun—­and the machinery of the sunken Milwaukee.[A] By a curious circumstance this party of divers was composed partly, if not principally or entirely, of mechanics and engineers who were exempt from military service under the economic laws of the Confederacy, yet who in heart and soul sympathized with the rebellion.  They had worked to save for the South:  now they were to work and save for the North.  It was a service of superadded danger.  All the peril incurred from missile weapons was increased by the hidden danger of the secret under-sea and the presence of the terrible torpedoes.  These floated everywhere, in all innocent, unsuspicious shapes.  One monster, made of boiler iron, a huge cross, is popularly believed to be still hidden in the bay.  The person possessing the chart wherein the masked battery’s place was set down is said to have destroyed it and fled.  Let us hope, however, that this is an error.

[Footnote A:  The Milwaukee was sunk nearly due east of the city:  the Osage, Tecumseh, several despatch-boats and steamers, besides the three monitors, were sunk by torpedoes in the bay.]

Keep in mind, in reading this account, the contrasted picture of peace in Nature and war in man—­the calm blue sky; the soft hazy outlines of woods and bay-shore dropping their soft veils in the water; the cottages, suggesting industry and love; the distant city; the delicate and graceful spars of the Hartford; the busy despatch-steamers plying to and fro; the bursting forts and huge ugly monitors; the starry arches of flying shells by night and flying cloud by day; the soft lap of the water; the sensuous, sweet beauty of that latitude of eternal spring; and the soft dark violet of the outer sea, glassing itself in calm or broken into millioned frets of blue, red and starry fire; the danger above and the danger below; the dark mysterious caverns of the sea, rich with coral grots and grove and abounding marine life; the impenetrable gloom of the ship’s hold, whose unimaginable darkness and labyrinthine intricacy of machinery set obstacles at every turn and move and