From every quarter, news reached me of the suffering of our soldiers for food.

At Andersonville, there were crowded together on a small piece of ground, enclosed by a stockade, upward of 30,000 prisoners. The space occupied by this large number was, I believe, about ten acres; in this small compass this large body of men had to live, exposed to sun, rain, and all sorts of weather. What could be expected, even with an abundance of substantial food, but disease and death to great numbers? But whose fault was this? Was it entirely chargeable to Confederate authorities? The Confederates were ever anxious to exchange prisoners of war. This, the Federals refused to do. The Confederates could not separate their prissoners, or provide a number of places so as to have fewer men crowded together. They had not the means. They had not men to spare to build prisons or stockades in which to secure their many prisoners. Nor had they sufficient force in the field to spare men from it for guard duty even if they had been provided with proper places in plenty for the safe confinement of prisoners. The Federals were well advised of the conditions. May not the suffering, disease, and death of thousands who fell victims in these miserable places be, in part, charged to the conduct of their own Government which they had served so well and in whose cause they so mournfully and pitifully fell?

When I heard of the conditions at Andersonville, my feelings were excited to the highest degree of commiseration just as much as when the sufferings of the Confederates captured in Arkansas were detailed to me by some one who had passed, still living, but shattered forever in health, through the dread ordeal

which was their lamentable lot. When I was satisfied of the inability of the Confederate Government to provide for its prisoners as humanity required, I wished them all (or at least all in such places as Andersonville) to be released and sent home on parole. My policy was for Mr. Davis to address them, setting forth the cause for which we were contending, the great principle of States Rights and Self-Government for which their ancestors had pledged life and honour in 1776; and that we viewed this war, waged against us with such fearful odds on their side, as altogether wrong, aggressive, and utterly at conflict with these great fundamental principles of American constitutional liberty; that though the fortune of battle had placed them in our hands; though their own officials refused such exchange as was usual in civilized warfare; yet, as we could not supply them with such quarters or food as humanity dictated, we, with that magnanimity which ever characterizes those who take up arms nerved with a full sense of the justice of their cause, released them on their parole of honour not to engage further in the struggle until duly exchanged. To this policy, objection was made that it was necessary to hold these prisoners as hostages for our own men in prison, who, if we dismissed them, would be killed. Confederates escaping from Camp Chase and other Northern prisons represented their treatment in these places to be as bad as any now described in exaggerated statements going the rounds about barbarities. at Andersonville, Salisbury, Belle Isle, and Libby. There were barbarities, no doubt, and atrocities on both sides horrible enough, if brought to light, to unnerve the stoutest heart and to cause the most cruel and vindictive to sigh over human depravity. War is at best a savage

business. Yea, it is worse; it transforms the noblest work of God, His image, into a devil incarnate. All the outrages on humanity, the cruelties, the vile exhibitions of the most malignant passions that have attended this late lamentable war, are not confined to our side. Even the asserted project for firing cities, poisoning reservoirs of water, and assassination,* hellish as they are, have actual, not merely asserted, counterparts in the depopulation of Atlanta,† the sacking and burning of Columbia, and the daring though unsuccessful attempt of Dahlgren on Richmond,|| in which general robbery, arson, and the assassination of Davis and his Cabinet were said to be combined objects. If the Confederates, or any of them, were demons, certainly all of the Federals were not angels.

Dinner: The first snap-beans I have seen this season; the potatoes were new; these and the beets carried my mind back home. I thought of Harry's garden and what a plentiful crop of all these things he must have had long before now. I ate sparingly, and still thinking of scenes about Liberty Hall, and of Harry, I finished with a drink from the bottle of whisky he put in my trunk just before I took my last departure from my own room in my own dearly beloved home.

*Charged against the Canadian Mission. † Hood's Advance and Retreat, 229-242. Sherman's Memoirs, II, 11-29. Southern Hist. Papers, VII, 156–57, 185–92, 249; VIII, 202-14; X, 92-3, 109-19; XII, 233. S. Carolina Women in the Confederacy, 247–54, 261–72, 288-335; Pendleton's "Stephens," 283-89. || So. Hist. Papers, III, 219-21; XIII, 516–59.

J

CHAPTER VIII

UNE 20. At every reading of Scripture I find something fitting my condition. This morning: "How long will thou forget me, O Lord? Forever? How long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?"

SCENE IN PRISONER'S ROOM, 19th OF JUNE

Prisoner intensely interested in a great battle by Cortes, as described by Prescott, with Cortes in the hottest of the fight, when the bugle-blast sounded notice that all lights must be put out. Instantly, prisoner blew out his candle, leaving himself in darkness and in perfect bewilderment as to the result of the battle. He paced his room. Over what regions of time and space did not his thoughts wander? Their flights no walls or bars or bolts could restrain! The treasured meerschaum, gift of Camille E. Girardey, of Augusta, lay upon the table. He picks it up, fills it with some of the weed he brought from home; holds the small end of the poker in the fire until it becomes red, then applies it to the weed. This expedient after the candle is out is usual; he can not resort to match or paper without violating orders, and what might be the consequences of such indiscretion, even in the small matter of lighting a pipe, he does not know. He feels himself subject to rules neither definite nor prescribed. He paces on, indulging his roaming thoughts. On, time also moves. He goes to the

wall where hangs his watch; the crystal being broken, he can not wear it in his fob; takes it down, and by the glare from the full grate of anthracite coal all aglow, he sees with the aid of his glasses that an hour has rolled around since he dropped his book and put out his candle. Still not wearied, he lays his meerschaum on the table, and resumes his walk.

He goes to one of his windows facing southeast and looks out upon the heavens. The sky is clear, the stars shine brightly. Prisoner gazes upon them as upon old acquaintances; theirs are the only familiar faces, save the sun's and moon's, that he has seen for many days. His heart is somewhat comforted as he watches the heavenly hosts move on in their far-off nightly courses, just as when he watched them from his own front porch at home. Home, and that porch with its two settees! a thousand thoughts and images of the past rush upon him. There, so many pleasant starlit summer nights have been spent. The refreshing, cooling southern winds seldom failed there. There, the silvery sheen of moonlight on the grass was chequered with the deep shade of cedar, oak, hickory, and other trees. In his mind, as he stood by his prison window, not only images of inanimate things arose, but the wellknown forms of persons beloved and dear; among these Linton's.

All around was still; nothing to be seen without save dark outlines of the granite wall; above, the bright luminaries twinkling and sparkling in the high, bending arch of the heavens. Nothing was to be heard save the heavy tread of the guard in his solitary beat on the stone pavement. Prisoner turned and resumed his rounds; on, on, he walks while his thoughts still roam