bear upon it, it was literally
impregnable--as shown by the fact that with all the resources of the
United States army and navy it was never retaken. The wooden quarters
had taken fire, and, for a time doubtless, the fort was a very
uncomfortable place, and it was feared that the magazine would explode.
But when Anderson surrendered all that danger had passed.

Major Anderson was a gallant officer who had proved his efficiency and
bravery in the Mexican War, for which he was rewarded with two brevets;
but for one who saw Sumter as I did, shortly after its surrender, when
nothing had been changed since Anderson saluted his flag and marched his
command on board the Confederate steamer Isabel, it is impossible to
understand why the surrender should have been made when it was.
Eventually his command might have been starved out. But although for
several days it was short of some kinds of desirable food, and destitute
of fresh provisions, there remained several barrels of pork which he
took with him when he left. Not only was no assault ever made, but the
enemy had no boats or scaling ladders with which to attempt an assault,
as Anderson must have known.

If the United States Government deliberately intended to force a war and
thus settle once for all the entire question between the North and the
South, no strategy could have been more effectual than that of
sacrificing Sumter exactly as it was sacrificed. The whole affair could
not have been arranged with greater shrewdness and finesse. Anderson and
his officers--without an exception, gallant and competent--were made to
appear as heroes and, in a sense, they were; the North was completely
_unified_, and the same can be said of the South. The lines were now
distinctly and definitely drawn, and every man from Maine to Georgia
must declare for the Government or against it. War began such as no man
could have foretold and such as could not cease till one side or the
other should be completely exhausted.

From Charleston I went to Baltimore by the Bay Line steamers from
Norfolk, arriving on Sunday morning--the day that the men who had been
killed the Friday previous were to be buried. The excitement was
intense, but the city was quiet--uncomfortably quiet. No one knew what
next to expect. I was for my own part, concerned only about getting to
New York. There were no trains running, bridges having been burned, and
no one could say when railway traffic would be resumed.

There