The doctor's attention was now attracted
to a couch at the darkened extremity of the
room. Three nurses were standing round
a rapidly-sinking patient. His eyes,
gradually filming, were vacant from
unconsciousness, while the fingers were
nervously twitching at the coverlet. One lady
had placed her arm beneath the head,
raising it slightly to assist the labouring
of the lungs, and occasionally moistening
the forehead and lips, while another bent
over him and murmured in his ears those
consolations which help to soften the terrors
of death, and every now and then bewailing
to her companions that the fixed stare and
rigid countenance gave no signs of
consciousness.

"How terrible is this!" I heard her say.
"Cannot anything be done for this poor
fellow, doctor?"

The surgeon shook his head, and then
with sympathy, strengthened by hopelessness,
she sank on her knees, and we left
her praying by the dying man's side.

Among these forty patients might be
found all manner of wounds incident to
a battle-field. Almost every part of the
human frame had in some way or other
been maimed. There were shell wounds
that had carried away a portion of the
chest; legs and arms had been torn off by
round and grape-shot, while the smaller
but insidious bullet had found its target
anywhere from head to foot. There were
men raging with delirium; some babbling
of their homes in the far South; others,
still fancying themselves on the lately-
fought fields, shouted battle cries until
exhaustion silenced them, or the dose of
morphia lulled them to quiet. A few who
had passed the crisis and were slowly
recovering, had been rejoiced by fresh
bouquets of flowers presented to them by
kindly women. And so it was in many
other of these converted stores—a
beggarly array of empty shelves, and where
in peaceful times the laden counters once
stood, lay the writhing, suffering victims
of remorseless war.

Later in the day, we walked along
Franklin-street, the West-end promenade
of Richmond, and I was much impressed
by the fact that more than one-half of the
ladies I met were clothed in mourning of
so deep a crape, that it betokened the loss
of a near relation. I could not refuse my
sympathy as these sombre women glided
past me, silent and preoccupied, some with
their faces veiled, concealing from the
inquisitive the traces of their bitter sorrow,
and others with their pale features,
rendered even more pallid by the black dress,
chastened and softened by resignation to
their bereavement.

We were slowly passing on, when my
companion called my attention to an elderly
lady attired in the deepest mourning, and
walking between two young officers, who
wore bands of crape round their left arms.

"That lady," said my friend, "was one
of the most wealthy women in Richmond
before this war broke out, but owing to
the havoc committed on her land, and other
misfortunes, her circumstances are sadly
reduced. But above all other losses, she
has now to mourn that of her eldest son,
as good and brave a fellow as ever breathed.
He got his death wound at one of the recent
battles fought round the city, and the
two remaining to her may, sooner or later,
follow in the track of the one who has
gone."

Before we had progressed much further,
my companion touched my arm as we
passed a beautiful girl, whose garments
were of the same sombre hue, and whose
golden hair and clear complexion denoted
her Saxon descent.

"That young lady," he remarked, "was
engaged to be married two months since,
and it is said the wedding trousseau was
prepared; but her lover was killed at the
battle of Seven Pines, and there she is, a
widow before a wife."

A short walk brought us to the cemetery,
which, with the respect Americans always
show to their dead, was laid out in the very
perfection of landscape gardening. This
tenderness of memory for the departed,
which inspires the living with the desire
to consecrate to those beyond this world
the most beautiful of its nooks and corners,
has been most fully and poetically realised
in the burial-ground of Richmond. Its
margin is bathed by the James River, with
its cascades for ever murmuring their
mournful music—a monotonous lullaby to
those who will never wake on this earth;
its cypress walks, its overspreading avenues,
the crystal brooks that rustle softly through
the miniature valleys, make it a perfect
paradise of death, an Eden resting-place
for those who sleep their last sleep.

And on this summer's evening we were
not the only visitors who visited the silent
graves. We were idle strangers sauntering
in the golden hues of the setting sun, but
there were others whose daily pilgrimage it
was to visit the narrow homes of those who,
but a few short weeks since, went forth to