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Yarrow Revisited is never, I suppose, quite the same as Yarrow Visited. Washington has not passed unchanged through the fierce disorders of our battle-years. Peaceful and prosperous enough, her streets have not yet lost the echoes of war, and still on her highlands we see
"Grandest of mortal sights,
The sun-browned ranks to view,--
The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights,
And the dusty Frocks of Blue!"
A living presence, he walks here still, the patient, sad-eyed man who led the people through the sea and through the wilderness and was not,
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for God took him. A spirit broods over these familiar landscapes, and sheds for all time an influence stronger than the gay laugh or the merry word can dispel. There comes over me a great longing to see the old places,--alas! the old faces I shall never see again. Arlington still fronts us from her wooded nest,--Arlington with her pillared stateliness afar, with her cheap finery at hand. The old oaks that have not been despoiled are as beautiful as ever; there are still the noble groves, the broad estate, but it is sown with a more precious seed than ever its owner scattered. All along the drive-way, by the roadside, in grove and garden and field they lie, "comrades of camp and mess," foes in battle, but friends in death,--"Union," "Rebel," "Unknown," tenderly cared for, smiled on by sun, sheltered by shade, sung to by bird and breeze. O,
"Well may Nature keep Equal faith with all who sleep,"
and well may our country emulate Nature enfolding the dead in her motherly embrace. But a mightier arm than government's holds
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ownership here, and no reversion of decree can dispossess the speechless hosts that haunt these woods,
It is eminently fitting that a part of this estate should be tenanted by the Freedmen. Their little whitewashed village is the picture of neatness. Children are playing in the hard, gravelled streets, and old men are sunning themselves on benches before the door. It is a hazardous thing, this government tutelage, but I suppose it was the only thing to be done, and so it come to an end at the earliest possible moment, I trust it will bring only good. Driving through the village we make occasion to stop and push inquiries, and are soon surrounded by a dozen negroes, chiefly women and children, little black-eyed imps that look irresistibly roguish, but keep a respectful though grinning silence while their elders are talking. We are presently joined by an infirm and very aged man, and "How are you getting on, uncle?"
"Poorly, poorly," with a smile, and a soft, tremulous, low voice.
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"Were you also freed by the war?"
"No Mass'r, I was fuss slave in Maryland, den I was sole down in South Carlina. Mass'r, he kep me thar till I was too ole to work, den he freed me, an' gib me money to pay my fare, an' started me Norf again to get to my chil'en."
"Which do you like best, being a freedman or a slave?"
"O, I 'd be better with my ole Mass'r. Nobody can take as good care of me as my ole Mass'r. Don't give me money enough now to buy a chaw of tobacky."
This objection to freedom is speedily removed, and the old man is voluble in his gratitude, "God bless you, Sir, and send you to Heaven, Sir." Hurry slowly there, old friend, but tell us does not government help you live?
"O yes! gub'ment gives rations of meat once in five days."
"And how much is a ration?"
"Well, two, free pounds," which seems a very respectable ration after all.
"Can you tell us how old you are, uncle?"
"If I live till this time next year, I shall be a hundred."
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Old as he looks, we are a little incredulous of this statement, but he refers us to Mrs. ----- in Washington, who knows his age, and will corroborate his assertion.
On our way home our colored driver--colored legally, but his olive complexion, his straight glossy black hair, his dark gray-blue eyes, give no sign of any but the pure blue blood,--is questioned about this matter of freedom. "Are the blacks in Washington really any better off than before they were free?"
He thinks they have more priv'leges.
"Are they intelligent enough to comprehend or appreciate freedom?"
"The blacks is just like other folks; some is perfectly ign'ant, some is apt to learn, and some is intelligent."
"Are they industrious, and do they have a fair chance for a living?"
"Them what's mind to work can do well, an' them what 's lazy and hang roun' don' do nothin'."
He distinguishes also between the contrabands and the refugees, the former class comprising those who were freed by the army, and the lat-
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ter those who came over of their own will from Maryland. One of these he puts quite above the other, but I have forgotten which it is!
Another colored man, formerly a slave on the Mount Vernon estate, when asked his opinion of freedom as compared with slavery, replied demurely, "I ain't no fault to find with my last master."
"That was Mr. Washington."
"No, myself!"
Mount Vernon has been greatly improved since it came into the hands of our countrywomen. On the brightest of all bright autumn days, we visited it, passing through a waste yet lovely country, through the smutty little town of Alexandria, past the slave-pen, past the house where Ellsworth rushed to his death long ago, tarrying to enter the little ivied church where Washington came to worship, and which keeps still in its ancient form the square pew which he occupied. We linger in the shaded church-yard among the quaint inscriptions, and drop a natural tear to the memory of "dorothy harper, who departed this life after and in Dispocion of three years," rejoice with the surviving relatives of
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another lady in the comfortable reflection that she was connected with several of the most respectable families of Virginia, and mentally chide those mischievous soldier boys, who have made some of these stones tell a different story from what they were set to speak. Then again across the scarcely inhabited country, till we enter the Mount Vernon estate, and drive mile after mile through its magnificent grounds, over broken, rugged, perhaps dangerous, but romantic roads to the beautiful home that Washington loved so well,--the charming, rural home, set in the glory of gay greenwood and sunny slope and velvet sward and winding way, fronting the river and the dam, and wooing to itself all the enchantments of earth and sea and sky. I am glad to see that neatness and order have taken the place of its late unthrift, and restored to it something of the comeliness of its first estate. The turf is smoothed and the walks clean. The old disgraceful untidiness of the tomb is banished, and all things are done decently. Yet I must confess I do not see the necessity of having so large a part of the house closed to visitors. I supposed it was the property of the women of
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the country, held for the country's honor and benefit; yet of the eighteen rooms that the house contains, we are allowed to see but four or five,--no more than were open when it was in the possession of Mr. Washington. Our conductor informs us that these are the only rooms of any interest, but I would much prefer to judge for myself what rooms have interest. I think Washington's library has a very deep and peculiar interest, but it is used as a dining-room by its present occupant, and is inaccessible. The guest-chambers of Washington cannot be entirely commonplace, but none of them are open to inspection. Indeed, the house seems just as much a private house as when it was in private hands. It may be necessary for safe keeping that a part of the house should be occupied, but certainly its safety might be insured without devoting thirteen or fourteen rooms to its custodians, and leaving only four or five to the world.
For the one colored school that used to be in Washington, a stone of stumbling, and a rock of offence, there are colored schools springing
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up in various directions, unconcerned and unnoticed. I found them in no respect essentially different from any common country district school. Some of the pupils were bright, and some were dull. Some answered promptly, some hesitatingly, and some not at all. It is as our driver says, "the blacks is just like other folks," and the sooner we become convinced of the fact, and cease special measures and ways of thinking, the better. In the churches, however, there seemed a greater difference between African and American modes than in the schools. One church which we attended was celebrating the Lord's Supper. It was a large house, but the lower part was already filled to overflowing. We went up a narrow, steep flight of stairs, to the galleries. The sexton met us at the head of the stairs, and put to each one who came up the question, "Are you a member?" The "ayes" were conducted to a seat, or at least to a standing-place. The "noes" were very courteously informed, that, owing to the great numbers present, the church was able to provide seats only for "members." The sexton permitted us to remain standing as long as we chose, and seemed partic-
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ularly to regret his inability to accommodate us. He came to us once or twice, expressed his sorrow, hoped we should not fail to come to them again, and expressly invited those who went away to return in the evening, when there would be room for all. His regrets and apologies were expressed not with servility, but with a gentle, soft-spoken courtesy that was very winning. The services were conducted in an orderly and serious manner. The prayer was fervent, and seemed to spring from a heart conscious of the exigencies of the time. The speaker besought the Lord to "nerve us for the work laid upon us,--that we may not fear frowns nor court smiles." The singing was melodious and energetic. A good many of the congregation kept time with their feet, and the rhythmic thumps seemed to give a sort of emphasis to the ascriptions of praise. As the services went on, we became aware of a certain ground-swell of enthusiasm without any especial exciting cause. There was a swaying and a rocking of the body, an eagerness and a loudness of response, but no ungainly tumult.
As the numbers increased to a crowd around
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us, and as ventilation has not, I regret to say, been carried to any greater perfection in colored churches than in our own, we generously relinquished our standing-places to later comers and went to another church. This was about half full. Several ministers were in the pulpit, tall, stalwart, well-dressed, and good-looking men. The pastor of the church read the notices, but the preacher for that day was a stranger. We missed the first part of the sermon, but the theme seemed to be the deliverance of the Israelites out of Egypt. As might be supposed, the subject would naturally lead to exciting topics, and the congregation showed themselves fully alive to the existing state of things. Their Amens and Glory to God's grew gradually louder and louder, till they became fused into one homogeneous and prolonged "hi! yi!"--a kind of sacred yell recurring at minute intervals during the most exciting passages, and fairly drowning the speaker's words. He fully shared in the excitement which he had kindled. Repeatedly he jumped from the floor as high as he could leap, two or three times in succession,--a gesture more impressive than sol-
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emn. His voice, as well as his body, was raised to the highest pitch. "When the Lord wanted to let the Egyptians go, he brought in the elements. When this country was so clogged with slavery that the truth of God was become a lie,"--hi! yi! hi! and clerical gymnastics,--"distinguished divines--" Hi! yi! "God removed slavery at once!" Renewed and prolonged yells, during which the preacher's lips seemed to be framing words, and his straining muscles indicated extreme exertion; but there was no distinguishable voice in the storm of sound. The whole congregation seemed to be swaying towards him, drawn unconsciously but irresistibly by a kind of magnetic attraction. One of the occupants of the pulpit, a middle-aged, light-complexioned, gray-whiskered man, who in repose looked as if he might be Secretary of the American Board, or some other equally grave and reverend seignior, seemed to be in an ecstasy. He rubbed his hands, slapped his knees, bobbed his head down almost low enough to meet them, hitched and twisted himself to right and left, jerked his head sidewise, laughed and shouted and talked to himself.
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"Eight years ago," said the preacher in ear-splitting tones, "I was stationed here. What a difference between then and now! Now we can come to meeting and go anywhere. Then if I stayed out late I was in danger of being taken up. If I was out to evening meeting after ten o'clock, I was put in the old prison and taken before Squire Deeley, Monday morning, and had to pay five dollars and FORTY-NINE CENTS before I could go home!" (Renewed applause.) "Then they talked about our meetings because we made such a growling and racket, but now"--drowning shouts--"political smiles and bows, and it 's all right." Then he gradually drew away from politics and returned to religion proper, assuring his hearers with great force, and not without eloquence, that "there is no other name given under heaven among men whereby we can be saved, not Europe, nor Asia, nor Ameriky, nor the star-spangled banner, nor any other banner, but the blood-stained banner of the cross!" The discourse was rambling and disconnected, but no more so than the address of any illiterate and unthinking man might have been.
I went afterwards to another church at the
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evening service. The first part was a religious, and the second a business meeting. The various officers of the church handed in their reports, which seemed to be minute and satisfactory. The treasurer reported five hundred and fifty dollars in the hands of the trustees, and three hundred and fifty in those of the steward, as the fund for church support, which is certainly a very fair showing, and compares favorably with white churches. A contribution of about twenty dollars was called for. The box is not passed around, but laid on the table, and the people go up and deposit their gifts as the spirit moves them, and different hymns are sung till the work is over. The contributing at this time went on very briskly at first, the precher reporting the increasing amount from time to time. As it began to slacken he interspersed explanatory and exhortatory remarks. "Sixteen dollars. It may not be perfectly understood what is the object of this contribution, and I will therefore say it is to make out the last quarter of your unworthy servant's salary. Seventeen dollars and a half. I would say to all of you that have not paid, that it is desirable you pay quick.
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We don't want it dragging along. We don't want to say anything more about it than is necessary. It is nineteen dollars, and I think we had better stop. We don't want to sing for a dollar." But the people keep on coming till they had contributed a dollar or two beyond the required sum, and were cautioned not to be too generous; so the meeting dissolved in great good humor. But it was by no means an exhibition of the inability of the African race to take care of itself.
Another illustration of its sagacity, was the story that came to me from a colored servant. He was a fine-looking young man, with straight hair and blue eyes. At the North he would never be suspected of any but the true azure blood. His father was of the best Virginia stock. His mother was a slave, and served as cook in a restaurant in a Southern city. When Jack was a year old, a party of drunken revellers at the restaurant were attracted by his cries as he lay in the cradle, and in a fit of maudlin generosity they contributed fifty dollars, bought him, and presented him to his mother.
Being colored, he could not attend school in
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his native city; so when he reached his boyhood, he went to Washington, where he submitted his mind to six months' friction, under adverse circumstances, and became a scholar. His mother meanwhile contracted with her owner for her freedom for a stipulated sum. After paying a portion of that from her small savings during several years of hard labor as a slave, she bethought herself of taking advantage of that clause in the Constitution or something else which provides that any slave remaining in the District of Columbia for a year, without returning to Old Virginia, becomes thereby free. Accordingly she established herself in Washington, and by a judicious system of scouting, and the advice and assistance of skilful friends, she managed to elude the affectionate searches of her owner through the specified year, and became at last owner of herself without ever paying the remainder of the debt. Such is the unsettled state of the country at present, and the unreconstructed condition of the negro, that it is to be feared she never will pay it.
Jack next apprenticed himself to a barber, with whom he remained until twenty-one. After the
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war broke out, he took the stump in meetings of the blacks for recruiting soldiers for the Union army. He did this with the expectation and the promise of a Lieutenancy; but after the troops were raised, the commanding officers of the regiment discovered that he was a descendant of Canaan, and he was denied his office. During the war his influence, his conversation, and his conduct were for the Union.
All this while his deaf and dumb sister was the property of a lawyer in a Virginia village, who retired with his family to Richmond when our army took possession of the village and the lines of the Rebels were contracted. With the return of peace this man returned to his country home. From that place Jack first heard of his sister, although he had vainly tried to learn her whereabouts in Richmond. He was told that she was inhumanly treated by her owner, and he immediately obtained a written permission from the proper officer of the Freedman's Bureau that his sister should accompany him, if she chose, to Washington, and an order from that officer to the commandant of the post at the village, for the ne-
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cessary military assistance if obstacles were interposed; the next morning after he received his information, he went to find her. When she saw him, such was her joy that she fell fainting into his arms.
Her former owner refused to allow her to return with him. The commandant of the post gave him a sergeant and six men to bring her before him, and allow the claimant to show cause why she should not accompany her brother to Washington. The case was heard in the town hall, and Jack conducted it himself.
The owner admitted that the effect of the Emancipation Proclamation was the destruction of his ownership, but claimed a contract with her for a year's service, which had just begun.
Jack questioned the jurisdiction of the commandant to hear and determine the question of contract, calling the attention of the officer to the fact that the order upon him from his superior was to remove obstacles to the visit to Washington of his, Jack's, sister, if she chose to go; that the question of contract, so far as that tribunal was concerned, was not at issue.
The owner then argued that the girl was born
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in his family, and ought to be strongly attached to it; that his children had grown up with her and were attached to her; that she had been kindly cared for, and ought not to think of leaving them for Washington; that Jack was young and could not support her.
Jack replied, that it was not a question of whether he could support her or not, or how she ought to feel, but only how she did feel, what she did want to do. Did she want to go to Washington? If she did, obstacles were to be removed.
The owner pleaded that Washington was a bad place, that the girl while in his family had always preserved her character unsullied.
Jack was indignant, and retorted that his sister was as safe with him, her kindred, as with others, and that it was strange if the daughter of his mother could not keep herself unspotted; that the simple inquiry should be whether she wanted to go to Washington or not; that it was a question to be submitted to her, as she alone could decide it. He proposed that she should be placed by herself, apart from the crowd which filled the room, that her claimant might
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address his deaf and dumb alphabet to her as long as he chose, and he would abide the result.
The Court believed this was right, and ordered the trial. The claimant twisted his fingers in all ways conceivable for half an hour. Jack twisted his half a minute, and she rushed across the room and clung about his neck. The case was concluded, the audience applauded. To the best of my knowledge and belief, there was some crying in the room. At any rate the Court issued the order, and the claimant retired a sadder and a wiser man.
Jack and his sister came in triumph to Washington, and the night of their coming was emphasized with thanksgiving and praise by the household and its neighbors.
From Washington to Gettysburg, the little village that sprang suddenly out of obscurity into the forefront of renown. The brilliant sunshine that has attended us everywhere does not fail us here, and the village lies in such unbroken quiet as beseems a true Dutch borough. How utterly incredible that the storm of war should
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have roared through this placid valley! How utterly incongruous the boom of cannon and the rattle of musketry with the gentle sounds of fillage industry and burgher thrift! Yet hither the war came, surged up to this peaceful inland town, lifted it from all its commonplace surroundings, and gave it forevermore one of the great historic names. Here rebellion reached high-water mark, and receded into its bottomless pit. But the refluent wave left wreck and refuse which have not yet passed away. The country roads in all directions are strewed with canteens, haversacks, cartridge-boxes, torn shoes, fragments of clothing. The hills are sown with bullets, which every rain reveals. A day or two before our visit, a little girl brought to one of the shops six pounds of bullets, which she had picked up on a hillside after a heavy rain. There are a few houses whose walls, doors, and shutters are well riddled with bullets, but such signs of conflict are far more rare than one would suppose possible after a three days' fight. But Gettysburg was not the object of the struggle, and, securely nestled between her hills, with fiv miles of battle radiating from her, the bullets
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whizzed and whistled over her head, and left her for the most part unharmed. It is significant of the difference between North and South, that, while the latter lies desolate as the war left it, this little neighborhood has speedily recovered from its wounds. Fences are rebuilt, fields cultivated, and plenty smiles where so lately war ravaged. The slope of Seminary Ridge is green and pleasant, as if foot of Rebel had never come over it. But down this road they came, having passed around the town to enter it from the north, while our army held the southern approaches. On this road they show the stone cottage which General Lee occupied for his head-quarters. Not far away General Longstreet, I think, established himself, and the terrified women remained in their house during the whole of the first day's fight. At night they begged for an ambulance to take them back into the country beyond the line of battle. The General assured them that his army had advanced so far that they were already out of the line of battle, and there was no need of their leaving home.
"But if you should retreat, General?"
"Ah! Madam, we don't intend to retreat!"
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Here is the cupola of some public building, from which General Lee vainly tried to overlook the whole field of what was to be his defeat. The hills beyond the town were higher than any eminence he could command, and those hills, in spite of his brave and desperate charges, remained in the possession of the Union army. Slowly we drive along the public roads, across fields, into lanes, quiet by-ways that seem made for the tinkling of cow-bells and the bleating of lambs, and that must have been surprised at strange, heavy gun-carriages jolting along their ruts. We follow the course of the advancing Rebels as they press back our troops through the village. Some of our treasured legends meet rough usage at the village hands. John Burns, the veteran hero, turns into a grouty old man, who went out with his gun more to spite his wife than to save his country,--and "Sweet Jenny Wade" is a rank Secessionist, who got no more than her deserts. I only tell such tales as were told to me, vouching for nothing. Not far away is the big rock where General Meade established his head-quarters when driven from the cottage by the roadside. Culp's
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Hill we climb on our own feet, and wander among the trees, behind the rough, rambling breastwork of stones and poles. The grove on the hillside is torn by shot and shell beyond even Nature's recuperative power, and it stands stiff and stark,--a dead grove,--a leafless, phantom wood,--strange, sad monument of the terrible conflict. Beyond is Little Round Top, rough and straggling, and heaped with rocks, in whose crevices may lie for years, for aught we know, the bones of those who fell fighting in the good cause,--for the rocks hold their secret well. From its summit we look down into the valley where the slaughter was so great that they call it still the Valley of Death. Here we have another illustration of the disadvantage under which the enemy labored, in never being able to command a view of his whole battle-field. Supposing the woods below to extend nearly to the foot of the hill, he ordered an advance. But between woods and hill is this valley, treacherous with meadow-land, and traversed by a little brook, which still further impeded the progress of his troops. On this low land the exposed soldiers were but a mark
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for our fire, and the slaughter was fearful. Most interesting of all is Cemetery Hill, so fortunately possessed by our men, so impetuously sought by the foe. Yet marks of the conflict are surprisingly few. A torn paling here and there is seen, but only a single stone in the grave-yard is broken, and that is one erected in memory of a soldier killed at Fair Oaks. The National Cemetery is joined to the village burying-ground, and here the States far and near have gathered their dead, and laid them to rest on the field of their fame. There is another memory here, scarcely less saced than theirs,--the memory of the beloved President, the nation's last and costliest sacrifice. Here, where the struggle culminated, where the victory was won, though all unknown to victor and vanquished, here the President proclaimed its righteous object,--"That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth."
The little country inn is something delightful in these days of big hotels. The landlord is a
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pleasant-faced, quiet, benevolent old gentleman, who wins your confidence at once. The landlady is active, but not bustling, easy, shrewd, and self-possessed. They have reason to remember the invasion of Pennsylvania, for their own house was one of the first invaded. "They rushed in," she says, "asking, 'Where is Mr. Smith?'"
"'What do you want of Mr. Smith?' says I.
"'We want to take him to Richmond with us.'
"'Indeed,' says I, 'it 's after this I 'm thinking Mr. Smith will go to Richmond with a dirty, greasy Rebel! I 'd think it a disgrace!'"
"How did they look?" we ask.
"O, the dirtiest, filthiest, raggedest set you ever saw in your life."
"How did they know anything about Mr. Smith?"
"Some of the citizens, Copperheads, told them. He was a Union man, and known."
"Was he in the house when they were here?"
"Yes, he was stowed away safe enough. But they kept coming. They said they had been told General Meade had his head-quarters here. 'No,' says I, 'he 's got no head-quarters here.
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He has no time to stay long anywhere. He is just up to taking care of you.' O, I was just as saucy all day, but I was mute enough at night. They were in and out all night. I had my window open, and I heard one of the officers say, 'Boys, go into that front door and take all you can find.' I went down stairs with a candle in a hurry. They had come into the cellar door, and the room was full of them, and the passage-way.
"'What do you want, gentlemen?' says I.
"'We want to go over the house, to see if there is any Union soldiers secreted here.'
"'No,' says I, 'there 's no Union soldiers in the house, and you can't go over it.'
"'We 'll go up stairs and take a look,' says one of them.
"'No, you can't go up stairs,' says I, 'for I won't let you!'
"Then I heard one of them behind say, 'Boys, let 's go, and leave the lady be.'
"'Yes,' says I, 'that 's just what I want you to do.'
"They hesitated, and I says to the one that spoke, 'Come, you go on, and the rest will
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follow.' So they just paddled down the cellar stairs again, and I after them with the candle. They never spoke a saucy word to me,--not one, the whole time. They would do anything for a woman. If Mr. Smith had been here we should have fared hard. Only there was one of them who was drunk. He turned round as he was going out and shook his finger under my nose. He was so near he almost touched it. 'Did n't we whip you well to'day?' says he.
"'I don't know,' says I, 'we have n't heard from our men. Perhaps they will tell a different story.'
"'O,' says he, 'we whipped you well, and we 'll whip you worse to-morrow, and Saturday 'll be the worst Fourth of July you ever spent in your life!' But he was drunk.
"Later in the night another regiment came in. They went into the cellar to find the liquor. I told them the liquor was all gone, and I was glad of it. They thought they would just take a look. 'Take as many looks as you like,' says I, 'you 'll find no liquor.' They found all the fish, and carried that out and ate it. They destroyed pretty much everything there
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was in the basement. That was all the mischief they did. I told them, says I, 'You 've been tormenting me ever since you 've been in town. Now don't stay round all night. Leave the house quiet, so I can get a little rest.'"
"Did they plunder the village much?"
"Yes, they took clothes, furniture, glass, furs, parasols, everything they could lay their hands on. There was no reason in them. Things they did n't want and could n't do anything with. It was the comicalest sight. I saw a man going along that hot day with a great fur tippet round his neck. They 'd wear the things and carry them till they were tired, and then just throw them away. Nice China dishes, and all sorts of things, you could find out in the fields, and under the walls, where they ahd dropped them."
"Was there any actual fighting near you?"
"O yes! 't was terrible. The cannon kept roaring all day long, and day after day. O, it was so delightful to wake up Saturday and not hear it,--and minute after minute it did not begin. It was just like one peal of heavy thunder all day. There was nine dead bodies right out here on our sidewalk. They could not do any-
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thing with them. They just picked them up out of the street and laid them on the sidewalk, and there they had to stay till the battle was over, and our people carried them away. And such warm weather. O, it was dreadful! And they died in such full health. There were eight thousand killed those three days, and not one buried till the fighting was over. And it takes some time then to bury eight thousand men. As much as three miles out, it was horrible. There was one gentleman away from home at the time. His farm was within the line of battle. He could n't get back for ten days after the battle, and then he could n't step foot on his farm only one little corner of it. The dead were buried in his garden and anywhere. A good many people went into their cellars to get away from the shells. There was one family just baking,--they had got their bread into the oven, and they hated to leave it; but the soldiers told them to go down cellar and they would see to the bread. So when the bread was done they had it down there, and the soldiers would rush down and get a piece of bread and butter, and rush back again."
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"How did you first hear that the Rebels were defeated?"
"It was in the night. I heard this noise, and I put my head out of the window, and there was the street just full of men. The officers were riding up and down, but there was n't a word said, only tramp, tramp, tramp, all the time. I waked up Mr. Smith, and says I, 'Behold, for the men,' and as soon as he saw it, he said, to be sure, it was a retreat. We could n't hardly believe it. They were so sure. One of the houses where the family had stayed in the midst of the battle, the General came in and got ready to leave. 'Good by, ladies,' says he, 'you 're what we call plucky.'"
"You must have had a good deal of work on your hands after the battle."
"O yes! there was everything to be done, but there was everybody to do it. Everything was done for the wounded that could be done. Doctors and nurses came in from all parts of the country. The Rebels were taken care of just as well as our men. They told about the Gettysburg people not doing anything, but it is not true. They did all they could do."
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From Gettysburg the distances begin to shorten, the houses cluster into villages, the villages crystallize into cities, and we are back once more in New England,--rock-bound, frost-bound New England, home of the East Wind, of small-fisted farmers, and strong-minded women, and the Mutual Admiration Society, and the countless brood of heterodoxies in religion and politics, but--New England!
About the sheep-money, do you care to know? In truth I had little to count in solid coin, for all my wool-gathering; but I brought home a Golden Fleece.
And yet, O Reader, gentle but just, if you should whisper that there is great cry and little wool,--alas! I cannot gainsay you.
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