icture was occupied by the bridge,
one hundred and fifty yards distant, with woods at either end. In the
left foreground lay massed by foreshortening the long lines of stacked
arms, with crowds of figures, some moving but most of them at rest. In
the distance, under the bridge, this line bent gracefully around to the
right of the picture. Half a hundred fires were blazing along the edge
of the water, growing brighter every minute as the darkness thickened.
Directly over the bridge hung the planet Venus, now moving in that part
of her orbit where she shines with the greatest splendor. There were no
clouds, the wind had fallen, and the air was delightfully cool. Supper
being over we had sat down in companies upon the grassy bank to smoke
and enjoy the incomparable scene. Every present influence tended to
make us forget the enemy, and to call to mind only associations of the
beautiful. Under such inspirations it was impossible to resist the
impulse to sing. It was a thing of unsophisticated nature. Music came
to our lips as if it were an instinct, as if it were the very condition
of our being, just as if we had been birds. It will be difficult for
any one not of that company to realize with what tender, touching
pathos the simplest home melodies melted over those waters, though the
words and airs might be trite and even trivial.

Some one started Morris' popular song of "Annie of the Vale";--

"The young stars are glowing,
Their clear light bestowing!
Their radiance fills the calm, clear summer night!
Come forth like a fairy,
So blithesome and airy,
And ramble in their soft mystic light!"

The chorus, by spontaneous impulse, welled out tenderly yet with grand
effect:--

"Come, come, come, Love, come!
Come, ere the night-torches pale!
Oh! come in thy beauty,
Thou marvel of duty,
Dear Annie, dear Annie of the Vale!"

Then all was hushed to listen to the melody again:--

"The world we inherit
Is charmed by thy spirit,
As radiant as the mild, warm summer ray!
The watch dog is snarling,
For fear, Annie darling,
His beautiful young friend I'd steal away!"

And the chorus broke in as before. A pause--and like a variation in
the song of the nightingale, rose the pathetic air of the "Poor Old
Slave";--

"'Tis just one year ago to-day
That I remember well,
I sat