During a great part
of my flight I was exposed to a running fire from the Federal
pickets of such coarse expressions as, "Go it, Sally Reb," "Dust
it, my Confederate beauty," but I succeeded in reaching the
glorious Southern camp uninjured.
In a week afterwards I was arrested, by a lettre de cachet of Mr.
Stanton, and placed in the Bastile. British readers of my story
will express surprise at these terms, but I assure them that not
only these articles but tumbrils, guillotines, and conciergeries
were in active use among the Federals. If substantiation be
required, I refer to the Charleston Mercury, the only reliable
organ, next to the New York Daily News, published in the country.
At the Bastile I made the acquaintance of the accomplished and
elegant author of Guy Livingstone,* to whom I presented a curiously
carved thigh-bone of a Union officer, and from whom I received the
following beautiful acknowledgment:--
"Demoiselle:--Should I ever win hame to my ain countrie, I make
mine avow to enshrine in my reliquaire this elegant bijouterie and
offering of La Belle Rebelle. Nay, methinks this fraction of man's
anatomy were some compensation for the rib lost by the 'grand old
gardener,' Adam.
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