sleeves, lofty bearing, and stands like Ariadne on an island of pedestal size, surrounded by two or more pre-Raphaelite trees. In the offing comes or goes a steamboat, also pre-Raphaelite; and if Ariadne Adelaide’s Bacchus is on board, he is out of sight at the bar.
Such an Adelaide brought me in sight of Fortress Monroe at sunrise, May 29, 1861. The fort, though old enough to be full-grown, has not grown very tall upon the low sands of Old Point Comfort. It is a big house with a basement story and a garret. The roof is left off, and stories between basement and garret have never been inserted.
But why not be technical? For basement read a tier of casemates, each with a black Cyclops of a big gun peering out; while above in the open air, with not even a parasol over their backs, lie the barbette guns, staring without a wink over sea and shore.
In peace, with a hundred or so soldiers here an there, this vast enclosure might seem a solitude. Now it is a busy city, — a city of one idea. I seem to recollect that D’Israeli said somewhere that every great city was founded on one idea and existed to develop it. This city, into which we have improvised a population, has its idea, — a unit of an idea with two halves. The east half is the recovery of Norfolk, — the west half the occupation of Richmond; and the idea complete is the education of Virginia’s unmannerly and disloyal sons.
