Riding near the Elmwood Cemetery, yesterday, I witnessed a curious feature of Southern life. It was a negro funeral—the cortégecortège, a third of a mile in length, just entering that city of the dead. The carriages were filled with negro families, and, almost without exception, they were driven by white men. If such a picture were exhibited in Boston, would those who clamor in our ears about negro equality ever permit us to hear the last of it?
[III.
THE DUNGEON.]
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
We were all sea-swallowed, though some cast again,
And by that destined to perform an act,
Whereof what's past is prologue.
Tempest.
On Sunday evening, May 3d, accompanied by Mr. Richard T. Colburn, of The New York World, I reached Milliken's Bend, on the Mississippi River, twenty-five miles above Vicksburg. Grant's head-quarters were at Grand Gulf, fifty-five miles below Vicksburg. Fighting had already begun.
Running the Vicksburg Batteries.
We joined my associate, Mr. Junius H. Browne, of The Tribune, who for several days had been awaiting us. The insatiate hunger of the people for news, and the strong competition between different journals, made one day of battle worth a year of camp or siege to the war correspondent. Duty to the paper we represented required that we should join the army with the least possible delay.