Memories of a Hospital Matron

IN TWO PARTS. PART TWO.

AT the beginning of the war we had no scarcity of provisions, such as they were, and we early became accustomed to rye coffee and sassafras tea. We had always been able to give the “ sweet-’tater pudding” to the Georgian, made after his mother’s fashion, and the biscuit demanded by the North Carolinian, “dark inside and white outside.”

But as the war went on, only peas, dried peas, seemed plentiful, and we made them up in every variety of form of which dried peas are capable. In soup they appeared one day; the second day we had cold peas; then they were fried (when we had the grease) ; baked peas came on the fourth day; and then we began again with the soup. Toward the last we lived on corn meal and sorghum, a very coarse molasses, with a happy interval when a blockade runner brought us dried vegetables for soup from our sympathetic English friends. A pint of corn meal and a gill of sorghum was the daily ration. Each Saturday I managed to get to the Libby Prison or Belle Isle, and many a hungry Confederate gave me his portion of more delicate fare, when such was to be had, to give to the prisoners who might be sick, and were “ not used to corn bread.” If beans and corn bread were not always wholesome, they certainly made a cheerful diet; and full of fun were the “ tea parties,” where we drank an infusion of strawberry and raspberry leaves. I never heard any one complain save those greedy fellows the convalescents, who could each have eaten a whole beef. I could only sympathize when they clamored loudly for a change of diet; for what could we do when we had only peas, corn bread, and sorghum ! At last convalescing nature could stand it no longer. I was told that the men had refused to eat peas, and had thrown them over the clean floor, and daubed them on the freshly whitewashed walls of their dining room. The unkindest cut of all was that this little rebellion was headed by a one-armed man who had been long in the hospital, a great sufferer, and in consequence had been pampered with wheaten bread and otherwise “spoiled.” Like naughty schoolboys, I found these men throwing my boiled peas at one another, pewter plates and spoons flying about, and the walls and floor covered with the fragments of the offensive viand.

“ What does this mean ? ” I asked. “ Do you Southern men complain of food which we women eat without repugnance ? Are you not ashamed to be so dainty ? I suppose you want pies and cakes.”

“ They are filled with worms ! ” a rude voice cried. “ I do not believe you eat the same.”

“ Let me taste them,” I replied, taking a plate from before a man and eating with his pewter spoon. “ This is from the same pea-pot. Indeed, we have but one pot for us all, and I spent hours this morning picking out the worms, which do not injure the taste and are perfectly harmless. It is good, wholesome food.”

“ Mighty colicky, anyhow,” broke in an old man.

The men laughed, but, taking no notice of a fact which all admitted, I said: “ Peas are the best fighting food. The government gives it to us on principle. There were McClellan’s men, eating good beef, canned fruits and vegetables, trying for seven days to get to Richmond, and we, on dried peas, kept them back. I shall always believe that had we eaten his beef, and they our peas, the result would have been different.”

This was received with roars of laughter. The men, now in good humor, ate the peas which remained, washed the floor and cleaned the walls. Such is the variable temper of the soldier, eager to resent real or imaginary wrongs, yet quick to return to good humor and fun. But the spoiled one - armed man had “ General Lee’s socks ” put on him, and went to his regiment the next day.

This discipline of General Lee’s socks was an “ institution ” peculiar to our hospital. Mrs. Lee, it is well known, spent most of her time in making gloves and socks for the soldiers. She also gave me, at one time, several pairs of General Lee’s old socks, so darned that we saw they had been well worn by our hero. We kept these socks to apply to the feet of those laggard “ old soldiers ” who were suspected of preferring the “ luxury ” of hospital life to the activity of the field. And such was the effect of the application of these warlike socks that even a threat of it had the result of sending a man to his regiment who had lingered months in inactivity. It came to be a standing joke in the hospital, infinitely enjoyed by the men. If a poor wretch was out of his bed over a week, he would be threatened with General Lee’s socks : and through this means some most obstinate cases were cured. Four of the most determined rheumatic patients, who had resisted scarifying of the limbs, and, what was worse, the smallest and thinnest of diets, were sent to their regiments, and did good service afterwards. With these men the socks had to be left on several hours, amidst shouts of laughter from the “ assistants ; ” showing that though men may withstand pain and starvation, they succumb directly to ridicule.

After the “ beans riot ” came the “ bread riot.” Every one who has known hospital life, in Confederate times especially, will remember how the steward, the man who holds the provisions, is held responsible for every shortcoming, by both surgeons and matrons as well as by the men. Whether he has money or not, he must give plenty to eat; and there exists between the steward and the convalescents, those hungry fellows long starved in camp, and now recovering from fever or wounds, a deadly antagonism, constantly breaking out into “ overt acts.” The steward is to them a “cheat,”—the man who withholds from them the rations given out by the government. He must have the meat, though the quartermaster may not furnish it, and it is his fault alone when the bread rations are short. Our steward, a meek little man, was no exception to this rule. Pale with fright, he came one day to say that the convalescents had stormed the bakery, taken out the half-cooked bread and scattered it about the yard, beaten the baker, and threatened to hang the steward. Always eager to save the men from punishment, yet recognizing that discipline must be preserved, I hurried to the scene of war, to throw myself into the breach before the surgeon should arrive with the guard to arrest the offenders. Here I found the new bakery— a “ shanty” made of plank, which had been secured at great trouble — leveled to the ground, and two hundred excited men clamoring for the bread which they declared the steward withheld from them from meanness, or stole from them for his own benefit.

“And what do you say of the matron ? ” I asked, rushing into their midst. “ Do you think that she, through whose hands the bread must pass, is a party to the theft ? Do you accuse me, who have nursed you through months of illness, making you chicken soup when we had not seen chicken for a year, forcing an old breastbone to do duty for months for those unreasonable fellows who wanted to see the chicken, — me, who gave you a greater variety in peas than was ever known before, and who latterly stewed your rats when the cook refused to touch them ? And this is your gratitude ! You tear down my bakehouse, beat my baker, and want to hang my steward ! Here, guard, take four of these men to the guardhouse. You all know if the head surgeon were here forty of you would go.”

To my surprise, the angry men of the moment before laughed and cheered, and there ensued a struggle as to who should go to the guardhouse. A few days after there came to me a “ committee ” of two sheepish-looking fellows, to ask my acceptance of a ring. Each of the poor men had subscribed something from his pittance, and their old enemy the steward had been sent to town to make the purchase. Accompanying the ring was a bit of dirty paper, on which was written: —

FOR OUR CHIEF MATRON

In honor of her Brave Conduct on the day of

THE BREAD RIOT

It was the ugliest little ring ever seen, but it was as “ pure gold ” as were the hearts which sent it, and it shall go down to posterity in my family, in memory of the brave men who led the bread riot, and who suffered themselves to be conquered by a hospital matron.

What generous devotion was seen on all sides ! What unanimity of feeling ! What noble sacrifice ! I have known a little boy of six or eight years walk three miles to bring me one lemon which had come to him through the blockade, or one roll of wheat bread which he knew would be relished by a sick soldier. In passing through town to go to meet exchanged prisoners, my ambulance would be hailed from every door, and the dinners just served for a hungry family brought out to feed the returned men. They would all say, with General Joseph Anderson, when I prayed them to retain a part of their dinner, “ We can eat dry bread to-day.” As I recall those scenes my heart breaks again. I must leave my pen, and walk about to compose myself and wipe the tears from my eyes. I see the steamer arrive, with its load of dirty, ragged men, half dead with illness and starvation. I hear the feeble shout they raise, as they reply to the assembled crowd in waiting. The faint wail of Dixie’s Land comes to my ears. Men weep, and women stretch their arms toward the ship. A line is formed, and the tottering men come down the gangway to be received in the arms of family and friends. Many kiss the ground as they reach it, and some kiss it and die ! Food and drink are given ; doctors are in attendance ; the best carriages in Richmond await these returned heroes ; the stretchers receive those who have come home to die. And these soldiers, in this wretched plight, are returned to us from “ a land flowing with milk and honey,” — from those who so lately were our brothers, — a land where there are brave men and tender women !

I can never forget a poor fellow from whose feet and legs, covered with scurvy sores, I was three weeks taking out with pincers the bits of stocking which had grown into the flesh during eighteen months’ imprisonment. Every day I would try to dispose his heart to forgiveness ; every morning ask, “Do you forgive your enemies ? ” — when he would turn his face to the wall and cry, “ But they did me so bad! ” Vainly I reminded him, “ Our Lord was crucified, yet He forgave his enemies,” and that unless he forgave he would not be forgiven. Only the last day of his life did he yield, and with his last breath murmur : “ Lord, I forgive them ! Lord, forgive me! ”

One day, while at Camp Winder, there was brought into the hospital a fine-looking young Irishman, covered with blood, and appearing to be in a dying condition. He was of a Savannah regiment, and the comrades who were detailed to bring him to us stated that in passing Lynchburg they had descended at the station, and hurrying to regain the train, this man had jumped from the ground to the platform. Almost instantly he began to vomit blood. It was plain he had ruptured a blood vessel, and they had feared he would not live to get to a hospital. Tenderly he was lifted from the litter, and every effort made to stanch the bleeding. We were not allowed to wash or dress him, speak, or make the slightest noise to disturb him. As I pressed a handkerchief upon his lips he opened his eyes, and fixed them upon me with an eagerness which showed me he wished to say something. By this time we had become quick to interpret the looks and motions of the poor fellows committed to our hands. Dropping upon my knees, I made the sign of the cross. I saw the answer in his eyes. He was a Catholic, and wanted a priest to prepare him for death. Softly and distinctly I promised to send for a priest, should death be imminent, and reminded him that upon his obedience to the orders to be quiet, and not agitate mind or body, depended his life and his hope of speaking when the priest should appear. With childlike submission he closed his eyes, and lay so still that we had to touch his pulse from time to time to be assured that he lived. With the morning the bleeding ceased, and he was able to swallow medicine and nourishment, and in another day he was allowed to say a few words. Soon he asked for the ragged jacket which, according to rule, had been placed under his pillow, and took from the lining a silver watch, and then a onehundred-dollar United States bank note greeted our eyes. It must have been worth one thousand dollars in Confederate money, and that a poor soldier should own so much at this crisis of our fate was indeed a marvel.

I took charge of his treasures till he could tell us his history and say what should be done with them when death, which was inevitable, came to him. It was evident that he had fallen into a rapid decline, though relieved from the fear of immediate death. Fever and cough and those terrible night sweats soon reduced this stalwart form to emaciation. Patient and uncomplaining, he had but one anxiety, and this was for the fate of the treasures he had guarded through three long years, in battle and in bivouac, in hunger and thirst and nakedness. He was with his regiment at Bull Run, and after the battle, seeing a wounded Federal leaning against a tree and apparently dying, he went to him, and found he belonged to a New York regiment, and that he was an Irishman. Supporting the dying man and praying beside him, he received his last words, and with them his watch and a one-hundreddollar bank note which he desired should be given to his sister. Our Irishman readily promised she should have this inheritance when the war ended, and at the earliest opportunity sewed the money in the lining of his jacket and hid away the watch, keeping them safely through every change and amidst every temptation which beset the poor soldier in those trying times. He was sure that he would " some day ” get to New York, and be able to restore these things to the rightful owner. Even at this late day he held the same belief, and could not be persuaded that the money was a “ fortune of war; ” that he had a right to spend it for his own comfort, or to will it to whom he would ; that even were the war over, and he in New York, it would be impossible to find the owner with so vague a clue as he possessed.

“ And did you go barefoot and ragged and hungry all these three years,” asked the surgeon, “ with this money in your pocket? Why, you might have sold it and been a rich man, and have done a world of good.”

“ Sure, doctor, it was not mine to give,” was the simple answer of the dying man. " If it please Almighty God, when the war is over, I thought to go to New York and advertise in the papers for Bridget O’Reilly, and give it into her own hand.”

“ But,” I urged, “there must be hundreds of that name in the great city of New York. How would you decide should dishonest ones come to claim this money ? ”

“ Sure I would have it called by the priest out from God’s holy altar,” he replied, after a moment’s thought.

It was hard to destroy in the honest fellow the faith that was in him. With the priest who came to see him he argued after the same fashion, and, as his death approached, we had to get the good bishop to settle this matter of “ conscience money.” The authority of so high a functionary prevailed, and the dying man was induced to believe he had a right to dispose of this little fortune. The watch he wished to send to an Irishman in Savannah who had been a friend, a brother to him, for he had come with him from the “ old country.” As for the money, he had heard that the little orphans of Savannah had had no milk for two long years. He would like “ all that money to be spent in milk for them.” A lady who went t© Georgia the day after we buried him took the watch and the money, and promised to see carried out the last will and testament of this honest heart.

But space would fail me to tell of all. There were those noble Israelites of Savannah and of Carolina, who fought so bravely and endured pain so patiently, and were so gentle and grateful when placed with their own people, that generous family of Myers, whose hearts and purses were open to us all. And my poor, ugly smallpox men ! How could I fail to mention you, in whose sufferings was no “glory,” — whose malady was so disgusting and so contagious as to shut you out from companionship and sympathy ! We had about twenty of these patients in tents a mile away, near Hollywood Cemetery, where they could well meditate amidst the tombs. Often in the night I would wake, thinking I heard their groans. Lantern in hand, and carrying a basket of something nice to eat, and a cooling salve for the blinded eyes and the sore and bleeding faces, I would betake me to the tents, to hear the grateful welcome, “ We knew you would come to-night! ” “ Can I have a drop of milk or wine ? ” A few encouraging words and a little prayer soon soothed them to sleep. These were my favorites, except some men with old wounds that never would heal, and our “pet” whom we rescued from the deadhouse.

In war as in life it is not always December ; it is sometimes May. Even in hospitals, as I have shown, there are often droll scenes and cheerful laughter. One day a young Carolinian was brought in, wounded in the tongue. A ball had taken it half off, and a bit of the offending member hung most inconveniently out of his mouth, and prevented his eating and speaking, obliging him to be fed through a tube. In vain he made signs to the doctor, and wrote on a slate that they must cut off this piece of tongue. The surgeons refused, fearing the incision of the small blood vessels would be fatal. One day, when he was left alone with the faithful servant who had been with him in every danger, he obliged this man to perform the operation. After doing it, the poor negro was so frightened he ran to us, exclaiming: “ I done cut Marse Charlie’s tongue off! Come quick ! ” Fortunately, he had but a very dull pocket knife, and so the blood vessels filled as he cut, and there was little or no harm done. “ Marse Charlie ” got well, and went to fight again. I forget if he could talk understandingly.

In the intervals of nursing and cooking we wove straw for our bonnets, and dyed it with walnut hulls, and made gloves from brown linen and ratskins. From old pantaloons we got our boot tops, which were laced with twine and soled by some soldier. Woolens and cottons were woven in the country, and we cut the gowns with less regard to form than to economy. After General McClellan’s retreat from the peninsula, we had quantities of captured kitchen furniture, which was divided amongst the hospitals. I went to town to get my share. A mirror hung in the shop, high over the door. Glancing up, I saw in it a strange-looking woman, in an ill-hung gown of no particular color, a great cape of the same, and a big blue apron, while her head was surmounted by a shapeless hat of brown straw. “ Do I look like that?” I asked, surprised. The muchamused man replied that I certainly did.

As the “ lines ” drew in closer and closer, the men nurses (convalescents) were taken to the field, and our servants, many of them, ran away. Then came our daughters and the young ladies of the city to assist us. The dainty belles of Richmond, amongst them General Lee’s own daughters, would be seen staggering under a tray of eatables for a ward of forty patients, which food they would be enjoined to make go as far as possible. Miss Jeannie Ritchie had a wonderful knack at making a little go a great way, often satisfying her men and having something to spare to the others who had not enough to go round. I have seen three or four of these belles drag from an ambulance a wounded man fresh from the lines at Petersburg, washing and dressing him with their dainty fingers.

It is wonderful how we slept, those last two years in the beleaguered city, with guns booming night as well as day, and the whistle from the railway giving signal continually of a load of wounded from the lines.

Yet these guns seemed less near and less fatal than those at Charleston, where I went during the siege of that city, on my way to Georgia to beg for our hospital. We were in need of everything, — sheets for the beds, shirts for the men. We had not a rag with which to dress wounds, and even paper for spreading poultices and plasters was difficult to obtain. I had transportation with the soldiers, and traveled with them in box cars, sleeping on the floor, covered with a big shawl, with a little carpet bag for a pillow. When we stopped to change cars, I lay down with the men on the platform of the station, and slept as soundly as they did, always meeting with kindness and offers of service. Sometimes my transportation got me a provision train loaded with grain, where I slept comfortably on the bags of corn, and so readied Augusta. The Messrs. Jackson, who had fine cotton mills, generously gave me sheetings and shirtings in abundance, with a piece of fine shirting for General Lee, one for General Cooper, and a third for the ladies of our hospital. Everywhere were the same generosity and hospitality. The dweller in the poorest cottage would give something “ for the soldiers,” — a package of precious rags, a bunch of herbs for teas, — things which would be of little value in time of peace, but were now priceless. At Macon the priest and his sister came to the station and took me to their house ; and from kind Mr. and Mrs. Gilmartin, of Savannah, it was difficult to get away. I came home laden with spoils.

Stopping in Charleston, I went to see my friends the Sisters of Mercy, who had now enough to do in their own city. One of these, full of courage, proposed to show me the beautiful houses on the Battery, which were fast being torn to pieces by the shells of the enemy. There had been an intermission in the firing that day, and the Sister was sure we would have time to see everything and get back before the guns recommenced. While we were mourning over these ruined homes, the seats of renowned hospitality, and whose roses were clinging to the falling walls, we heard a whizzing above our heads, and down we went to the bottom of the carriage, and down went the latter into a cellar, to shelter us from the danger to which our curiosity had exposed us. On my return to Richmond I joined Colonel Tabb’s Virginia regiment, and was with them when they had a fight for the possession of a bridge over Nottoway Creek, near Petersburg. The charming young colonel recommended me to leave the train, and go into one of the houses near. Here was a scene of fear and dismay. Women were hurrying with their beds and furniture to a hiding place in the woods, weeping, and shouting to one another, sure the Yankees would be upon them immediately to burn and rifle their houses. Happily for them and for us all, our people drove the enemy away, and with one wounded man and one prisoner we reached Richmond without further delay.

Amongst the sad events of 1864 was the death of General J. E. B. Stuart, who was wounded mortally in one of the raids around Richmond. We hurried to town to see once more this preux chevalier. President Davis knelt at his bedside, and life was flowing fast away. Of all the military funerals I have seen, this was the most solemn. As we walked behind the bier which carried this hero of the Song and Sword, who, like Körner,

the stillness was broken only by the

Every one recalled the lines : —

Eleven months later came “ that day of woe, that awful day,” which saw the evacuation of Richmond. All day and night streamed forth the people who could get away. Every carriage, wagon, cart, every horse, was in demand, and sadfaced people on foot, with little bundles, thronged the one outlet left open from the ill-fated city. By night it was deserted: only a few old men, with women and children, remained, and the swarm of negroes awaiting the triumphal entry of their Northern brethren, whom we knew to be the advance of the army of occupation. The next morning dawned on a scene truly demoniacal. Fire seemed to blaze in every quarter, and there was no one to combat it. Our people had set fire to the Tredegar Works before leaving, in order to deprive the enemy of them. My brother-in-law had gone with the President, and my sister, in her terror, prayed me to come into town to protect her when the enemy should enter. I set out from the hospital on foot, taking along a big South Carolina soldier named Sandy, who was full of fight and strength, to pilot me through the perilous way. Between us and the city lay the penitentiary in flames, and from out of the building poured a hideous throng, laden with booty, and adding to the general uproar by their shouts. We hid behind a wall till they passed, when next was encountered a hearse drawn by two negroes, from out of which streamed ends of silk and calico and cotton stolen from some shop. Farther on came another hearse, from behind which oozed upon the ground tea and coffee and sugar, ill secured in the hasty flight of the thieves. On every side of us were falling walls and beams from the burning houses, and with every explosion from the factories of arms the earth would tremble, as it seemed, and the shock would sometimes throw us to the ground. We were long making our way to the pandemonium which awaited us in the town. Here tottered a church steeple; there a friend’s house was on fire, and women and children were trying to save the household goods which the negroes were appropriating to themselves. We met some women who told us that the railway station was on fire, filled with wounded men from Petersburg. Happily, the men had been withdrawn by the ever helpful women. But here was a sight! The street ran flames of burning spirits, which had been emptied from the stock of the medical director in ortier to prevent their being used by the incoming soldiery. On the roof of my sister’s house wet blankets were laid by her servants; and a few doors below was Mrs. Lee, infirm, unable to walk, yet in danger from the falling of a burning church and the houses across the way. My cousin Mrs. Rhett and I proposed to make our way to the commandant and ask for means to meet this danger. The fire raged furiously between us and the Capitol, the “ headquarters,” and we made a long detour through Broad Street to reach it. Here we encountered the regiment of negro cavalry which came in the advance. Along the sidewalk were ranged our negroes, shouting and bidding welcome, to which the others replied, waving their drawn sabres, “We have come to set you free ! ” My little nephew, who held my hand, trembled, but not with fear. He kept repeating, “I must kill them, I must strike them.” “ Be still, or you will be killed,” was all I could say. It was not that we were afraid of our own people. The Southern negro never forgot the love and respect he had for his master. There is not one record against their true, warm hearts. Yet what might we not have encountered but for the prompt and kind care of the officers in command! In a few hours sentinels were at every corner; the thieves were compelled to yield up their ill-gotten gains, and every instance of insult to ladies was summarily punished.

Coming into the presence of General Weitzel, we hastily explained our errand. “ Mrs. Lee in danger ! ” he cried. “ The mother of Fitz Lee, — she who nursed me so tenderly when I was ill at West Point? What can I do for her ? ” We explained that it was as well for her as for the other Mrs. Lee that we claimed his aid. In an instant he wrote upon his knee an order for the ambulances we needed ; and at the head of five of these conveyances we led the way through the fire and smoke, our sleeves singed and our faces begrimed with soot and dirt. We posted an ambulance at every door where there were sick and infirm, and little children ; and when I reached my sister’s with the last one, my driver had unaccountably become so drunk that I could hardly hold him upon his seat. At the door were my sister’s little girls, each with her bundle of most precious things to be saved. In vain would I “ back up ” to the pavement; my man would jerk the horse, and off we would go into the middle of the street, where he would hiccough : “ Come along, Virginia aristocracy ! I won’t hurt you ! ” An officer galloping by, seeing my dilemma, stopped, seized the horse’s head, backed him, and gave the driver a good whack with his sheathed sword, which sobered him for a moment. We loaded up, and moved off to the lovely house of Mrs. Rutherford, which, with its fine furniture, lay open and deserted. Here we took refuge, and leaving our driver without an encircling arm, I am persuaded he went under the horse’s heels, before long.

There came in with the first division Dr. Alexander Mott, of New York, as chief of the medical department. I had known him from his boyhood, and his wife was our friend and connection. He sought me out, and begged me to go instantly to our officers’ hospital, left vacant by the Sisters of Charity, into which he must put his sick and wounded, and for whom he had no nurses. He could not provide nurses until the way was well opened with the North. I was glad to do this, especially as there were many of our officers yet remaining, who had been recommended to my care by the Sisters, and the few men who were still at Camp Winder could well be cared for by others.

I had naturally many contretemps in this my new hospital, though the surgeons in charge knew that I was nursing their people for sweet charity’s sake, and not for their “filthy lucre.” They first laid hands on the furniture of my room, which I had removed from Camp Winder, and which had been given me by friends to make me comfortable. I assured them it was private property, yet they contended it could be “ confiscated ” for their use. Fortunately, Dr. Simmons, a surgeon of the “ old army,” was now medical director, and, knowing him to have been a friend of General Lee and General Chilton, I went to him with my report of the matter. He roundly declared there should be no “stealing” in his department: so next day my bed and wardrobe came back, with many apologies. We had been afraid that these surgeons would put their “ colored brethren ” in the same ward with our officers, but the latter were spared this humiliation. Apropos of the colored soldiers, one day the doctor in charge of these wards came to tell me he had great difficulty in managing some of them. They were homesick, would not eat or be washed and dressed.

“ Perhaps they are Southern negroes,” I said, “ and accustomed to the gentle hand of a mistress. I will see.”

And so it proved. As I went from bed to bed, I asked, “ Where did you come from, uncle ? ” “I come out der family ob de great Baptis’ preacher Mr. Broadus, in Kentuck,” said one. “ I ain’t used to no nigger waitin’ on me when I ’se sick. My ole missis always ’tend me, an’ gib me de bes’ ob brandy toddy wid white sugar an’ nutmeg in it.” When I could say I knew his illustrious family, I was admitted to the privilege of washing his old black face, cleaning his fevered mouth, and putting on his clean shirt, and he drank eagerly the toddy made like that of “ ole mis’.” And so with them all. They did not “ want to fight ” and be killed ; all they wanted was to be “ carried back to Ole Kentuck.”

These were the days which tried women’s souls. Not one of our friends came to see us whose pocket was not examined by the sentinel at the gate, to see if I had given her a bit of bread or a few beans for the starving people outside. I had to make a compact with my surgeons to draw my ration of meat and give it away if I pleased : and it was thus I obtained for Mrs. Lee her first beefsteak. After General Lee came in from “ the surrender,” he might have had the rations of half the Northern soldiers, had he been willing to receive them. I have seen an Irishman who had served under him in Mexico stand at his door with a cheese and a can of preserves, praying him to accept them. General Lee thanked him, and sent the things to the sick in the hospital. As soon as provisions could be brought in, rations were distributed to the inhabitants. It was not infrequent to see a fine lady, in silk and lace, receiving timidly, at the hands of a dirty negro, the ration of fat pork and meal or flour which her necessity obliged her to seek. Fortunately, many people had hidden under the cellar floor rice and beans, upon which they lived till the better days came. These came on the first steamer, heralded by Mr. Corcoran from Washington, who, with his pockets filled with ten and five dollar notes, placed one in every empty hand, and soothed every proud heart with words of sympathy. There came also Mr. Garmandier, of Baltimore, with wine and brandy and whiskey for the old and feeble, distributing them from house to house.

I must not fail to relate my visit to the Libby Prison and its changed inmates. Upon what pretext these men were crowded into the Libby I cannot conceive, since they were paroled prisoners, who expected to be sent to their homes by the terms of the surrender. Hearing that this prison was filled with men to whom no rations were distributed, I went there, to find the house besieged by women seeking their missing friends, weeping and crying out: “ John, are you there ? ” “ Oh, somebody tell me if my husband is in there! ” and again, “ Let down your tin cup, and I ’ll send you up something in it! ” With difficulty I entered, and with greater difficulty moved about. The very staircases were crowded with men, packed like herrings in a box; they could neither lie down nor sit down. I was able to satisfy the women and send them away. The sentinel at the door was very civil. He said the men could not be fed without bread, none having come. He was sure they would soon be released, etc. Alas, the cruelties of war, and its abuses !

When I applied to the commandant, General Gibbon, for a pass to go to the North, I was asked if I had taken “ the oath.” “No,” I replied, “and 1 never will ! Suppose your wife should swear fealty to another man because you had lost everything ? You would expect her to be more faithful because of your misfortunes.” “ She has you there, general,” said a young aide-de-camp. “ Let me give her the pass.” And he did so.

My first visit was naturally to our old home, near Alexandria, and here I found several of the neighbors trying, like myself, to trace the once familiar road. Trees gone, fences burned, houses torn down, the face of the whole country was changed. From the débris of the ruined houses the freedmen had built themselves huts, in which they swarmed. In vain I tried to buy out those who sought refuge in our ruins. The offer to send them to Boston was received with scorn. They had no notion of leaving “ Ole Virginny.” My next visit was to see the man whom we all delighted to honor, — now more than ever, as he was suffering imprisonment and wrong for our sakes. I went to Old Point, made my way into his presence, and spent a day in talking with him and Mrs. Davis of the sad past, the sadder present, and that future which looked saddest of all.

I could not stay long in the North, though it contained the dearest object of my affections, the only child of my only brother. Lost without my accustomed employment, I asked myself what remained for me to do in the world. The work was at hand, as I found. Soon I was occupied in Baltimore, in taking food and clothing to the sufferers on the Rappahannock. Mr. John S. Gittings gaye me transportation on his steamers to Fredericksburg and back, and every week I had boxes and barrels to distribute along the river, collected by the generous Baltimoreans; while Miss Harper, Major Mathias, and others made me welcome to their houses and to their stores. From the highest to the lowest, the hearts of the people were open to us. In a grocer’s shop, one. day, I was telling a lady I knew of an Episcopal clergyman and his wife who had been two years without flour. “ I ’ll give you a barrel for them,” said the kind grocer, and I had the pleasure of delivering it the next day. One Sunday, in Fredericksburg, I asked the lady with whom I was staying why she did not go to church. She glanced down at her feet, and I perceived she had no shoes, — only bits of black woolen made in the shape of shoes. Next time I brought a good load of shoes for distribution amongst the ladies and gentlemen living in the ruined cellars of their once fine houses.

In the intervals between these trips, and when I paused with my family, then living in Tappahannock, we commenced to collect the Confederate poems of the war, with which to make a volume. The poems which we had preserved from patriotic feeling must now be made to bring aid to the helpless orphans of the Confederacy. Many of the children I had promised to look after when the war should be over, and some of them had been confided to me by dying parents. Money must be had for this purpose. Murphy, of Baltimore, agreed to publish this book, providing it be made ready and sold while men’s minds were busy with our fate. Done ! The first edition went off in three months, and a new edition was called for. The first payment, one thousand dollars, enabled me to dispose of half of my “ daughters.” Schools were kind, friends helped me to clothe my girls, I had free travel on every Southern road, and Mr. Robert Garrett gave transportation for ten to go to St. Louis. These the Southern Relief Association took from me, educated and clothed them, and returned them to their homes, — those who had homes! Miss Harper’s house was the rendezvous in Baltimore. Friends far and near would adopt a girl for me. My old friend Miss Chew, of New London, Connecticut, and her niece Miss Lewis, each took a “ daughter,” and many boxes of clothing came from these and other charitable persons at the North. Here I must relate that the first money which I received for these girls came from that admirable and charming woman Mrs. Hamilton Fish, whom I had known in Washington when Governor Fish was in Congress. Hearing of my undertaking, she bade me Godspeed and sent me twenty dollars. During the war we had had a most interesting correspondence. I forget from which of us the proposal first came : that she should send to the Federal sick and wounded prisoners the medicines, clothing, and dainties which we did not have to give them, while I pledged myself to see these things distributed according to her instructions ; and she, in turn, was to give to our prisoners what we could spare from our necessities. Unreasonably, as it seemed to us, the Northern government refused to sanction our interchange of charity, greatly to the distress of those in whose hearts I had raised hopes to be disappointed.

Several firms sent me half-worn books and music. I had even a sewing machine given me for the use of these children, and the Adams Express sent them free to the schools at which they were placed. Another thousand dollars from my kind publisher freed me from all embarrassment, paid all my debts for schooling and clothing, and my friend Miss Harper inviting me to travel with her in Europe, I gladly left my responsibilities and my memories behind me, and went to another world and another life.

After several years of interesting sojourn in France, Germany, Spain, and Italy, we came home to learn from the pilot who met our ship that General Lee was no more. Full of that love and veneration which we all bore him, I resolved to write his life in a popular form, with Mrs. Lee’s approval. Manuscript in hand, I went to see this dear old friend, this heroic wife of our great hero, and with her went over my poor pages ; modifying everything which she thought my love had exaggerated, and changing incidents and anecdotes which she thought of doubtful authenticity. When we came to a striking story in which General Lee rebukes the men who are jeering at a clergyman, she paused. “ Does that sound like General Lee ? ” “ To take this away will spoil my best chapter,” I pleaded. “ But you would not put into this book what is not true? ” she asked. So I sacrificed my story. What trials of heart and sufferings of body this noble woman bore ! Sustained by a faith I have never seen surpassed, and by accomplishments of mind which made her independent of discomforts which would have crushed others, she lived serenely on her own high level. The sale of The Popular Life of Lee canceled all the liabilities I had incurred for the education of my " daughters.” Of the first comers, many had remained at school only two years, and had gone home to teach, while others took their places. And I am proud and happy to say that, of them all, I do not recall an instance of one who has not done honor to her people, and who has not profited by the opportunity afforded her to advance the interests of her family and make herself a useful member of society.

Emily V. Mason.

(The end.)