fathers, their hair falling white, and many a mother with high-bred face, sorrowing for the boys who would never come home. There in the subdued light of the sanctuary they sat, while the bells, which had clanged so joyfully at the birth of the Confederacy, reluctantly and sadly boomed their final notes, as if they already knew, what the congregation little expected, that when they should ring again on the next Sunday, at that very hour, the Confederacy would be on its death-bed, breathing its last.

Jefferson Davis, President of the ill-fated cause, above middle height, lithe, distinguished, neatly arrayed in gray, came up the centre aisle with modest, dignified quietude of manner, entered his pew on the right and bowed his head in prayer. His spare austere face showed the effect of four years of care, as well it might, for who ever faced a longer and fiercer tempest? but he carried with him to St. Paul's, as everywhere, his habitual atmosphere of invincible courage and the never-failing bloom of urbanity.

From my point of view, and in this I may be very wrong, yet, notwithstanding all that may be said of his limitations, when I consider the bleak, inherent, and heart-breaking difficulties of his position, and how he met them, holding his turbulent forces intact and aggressive to the very end, far and away he soars above every public character, civil or military, of the Confederacy. Let this be as it may, the

organ droned the last of the usual colorless Venite, and the service began.

Along the sunshiny side of the empty streets, here and there, convalescents from the hospitals sauntered, pale, some armless, and some on crutches. On its staff above the roof of the near-by capitol, the flag of the Confederacy drooped in the mild sunshine the stars of its blue saltier shining from its folds above steeple and chimney and over the springtime gladness of the fields. Out in Holywood, where Stuart lay with so many of the best and the bravest, and where Mr. Davis's dust is now resting, the robins, sparrows, catbirds, redbirds, turtle-doves and mocking-birds were building their nests among the evergreens and native trees.

At the foot of the knolls of Holywood, the stately James flowed murmuring by, on by the shores of Belle Isle and the baleful walls of Libby Prison, from whose grated windows looked hollow-eyed, half-starved Northern prisoners of war, who, as they heard the bells of Richmond ringing, no doubt recalled the bells of home and longed for release and peace.

It was Communion Sunday, and the sacred elements covered with a white cloth were on the table. Doctor Charles Minnegerode, the rector of St. Paul's, a diminutive, fervid, transplanted German, was delivering his usual tense, extempore address, when the sexton, a portly aging man, with ruffles at his

wrists and bosom, and polished brass buttons on a faded suit of blue, advanced up the aisle with soft but stately tread, and after touching the President on the shoulder with solemnity and his one-day-inthe-week lofty importance, handed him a message. Mr. Davis threw his blue-gray eyes rapidly over the fatal dispatch, grasped his soft, creamy-white hat, rose, and withdrew calmly.

Hardly had he left the door before the sexton again marched up the aisle and, bending, spoke to General Joseph Anderson, who at once took his leave. Then followed two more grand entries - · and I think the Confederacy, though wan her cheek, smiled faintly; for like everything born in America, she must have had a sense of humor. Heaven be blessed for the gift, and I hope they buried the dignified sexton in his ruffled shirt and suit of blue with brass buttons in due pomp; peace to his clay wherever it lies -. At his fourth presageful march up the aisle, again with a message to a prominent official, anxiety seized the congregation, and like alarmed birds they rose at once and left the church; and not until the bewildered people cleared the door and mingled with the throng that had already gathered in the modest vestibule and on the pavement, was the purport of the message to Mr. Davis revealed. There in consternation they saw government employees of a department that occupied an opposite building frantically carrying bundles of public documents out

into the middle of the street and setting them on fire. Then the appalling significance of it all broke on them, and they melted away to their homes in dread and anguish. The smoke of the burning records soon became the breath of panic, and by the time twilight came on, the city was in tragic confusion.

When I was in Richmond at the unveiling of Mr. Davis's monument, a few years ago, I went into the historic church and sat awhile. The sun was bright in the cloudless sky, the roses were fresh in the gardens, for it was June, and sweet was the silence in St. Paul's; and, thank God, sweet was the peace of the land! As I sat there in the stillness, the solemn past, as on a great and deeply shadowed river's breast, went drifting by, and it seemed to me a striking circumstance that the news of the breaking of Lee's lines, foreshadowing as it did the immediate collapse of the Confederacy, should reach its devout President in a church on a Sunday, and, remarkably enough, at the Communion service. Who knows whether, since the earnest prayers of so many had to be unanswered, it was not ordained in compensation, that the sacred place and the sacred hour should lend their serene and holy associations to this memory?

II

THE lines which Lee's army had held throughout the winter began on the north of Richmond, well out from its suburbs, and after circling them about to the east and south, led to Chaffin's Bluff on the James, some six or seven miles below the city. There they crossed to Drury's Bluff, uniting with a line of great strength that started on the bank of Swift Creek nearly opposite Petersburg, securing the railroad between it and Richmond, and barring all exit to our forces in the angle between the rivers. It was known as the Bermuda Hundred line. Those of Petersburg, the main or outer lines, began on the right bank of the Appomattox, ran eastward a mile or less on the crest of a ravine, then bore away southwestward to Hatcher's Run, and after crossing it turned westward till they came to what is known as the Claiborne Road, which they followed northward to the Run again. There they ended, seven or eight miles southwest of Petersburg, and at least thirty odd miles from where they started west of the Brooke Pike north of Richmond.

From Chaffin's Bluff, on the left bank of the James, back to Richmond, they were several deep, and con