Year: 1866

y


The following beautiful and touching
extract is from a letter of "A Woman
in W Washingt to the New York indie
pendent:


Il saw piles of knapsacks and haver-
sacks the other evening at the cottage
on Fourth street; knapsacks and hayer-
sacks left behind for safe-keeping by the


boys who went to the front and never
came back. The eloquence of these


worm eaten and mouldy bags can not be
written. Here WAS the piece of stony
bread uneaten, the little paper of coffee,


the smoked tin cup in which it had boil
ed so often over the hasty fire on the eve
of battle. There was the letter, sealed,
directed and never sent, for the soldier


could not get always even a stamp. Here
| was the letter half written, commencing
Dear wife : how 1 want to see you"
Dear Mother my time is almost out. >


The rusty pen, just as it was laid down
in the half filled sheet by the gallant
and loving hand which hoped so soon to
finish it. Here we're scraps of patriotic


poetry, and inspiring lyrics. carefully
copied on sheets of paper tinted with red


white and blue. Here were photographs
of favorite generals, and photographs
of the dear ones at home. Here were
letters full of heart breaking love and
sobbing loyalty to duty, and holy faith
and cheer, written at home: and here
was the Testament given him by the wo-
man he loved best, s0iled and worn. For
the American soldier, if he rarely read
it, still he would carry his Testament as
a dear talisman to save him from harm.
Here were those mementoes of brave,
living, loving life gone out. They never
came back! The mourners at home do
not all know where they fell, or whether
they were buried. To one unfamiliar
with the soldiers life these relicts might
all suffering, all heroism. I look on
them and again seem to see the long lines
of marching men filing past, dust COW
cred and warm, on their way to battle. /
see the roads of Virginia simmering in
white heat, lined with exhausted men,
lying down to sleep and to die, after the
last defeat, hear the cry Of the wounded
the moan of the dying; see the half fill
ed grave, the unburied dead. All the
awful reality of war comes back. So
too, do knightly days and dauntless men.
Peace walks amid the May-tim flowers,
and already our soldiers seem almost
forgotten Days of war and deeds of
valor seem like dreams gone by. We
have few flowers for the graves of our
heroes, but we have crowns and hOnors
for the heads Of traitors. Was it for
this that YOU never came unknown and
forgotten soldier? Jefferson Davis is in
poor health, and his rest is disturbed at
night by the sound of the sentiners feet
outside his door, though mating has
been laid down to deaden the noise
thus says an official report to the Presi-
dent 1t is hard, may be, that so fine a
gentleman should not be sable to sleep
but two hours at a time," because of the
tread of Union soldiers feet but If it
were possible that his Inconvenience
could remind him of Andersonville, Of
Libby and of Castle Thunder, the vigils
might be salutsryto his soul. Let US not
forget AndersonviIle, nor Libby, nor
Castle Thunder, nor Belle Isle! Let
banishment at least be meted to this man
who tortured and slaughtered our broth
ers If we let him go free because he
is gentleman-a Southern gentleman,
forsooth-then we murdered Wirz, who
only obeyed his master when he starved
our soiuiefs.gtE i's aohagaB U ii aoH