“Because, sir, I have been paroled, and if my word is not sufficient, neither would my oath be.”

Another low whistle; then, “That's true, madam; but there is where I have the advantage of you Christians. I can swear to any thing—it makes no difference—ha! ha! ha! Who paroled you?”

“General Butler.”

He looked up as if astonished.

“Are you loyal, madam?”

“Perfectly,” I answered, returning the steady look, at which he had recourse to the stick again, and remained silent.

“Well, sir,”said I, at last, “what are you going to do?”

He did not answer for several minutes, and then said, slowly and hesitatingly, as if speaking more to himself than to me:

“If I was only sure of your loyalty, you see;” then stopped, and, looking up from the stick, asked abruptly:

“What is your name?”

I HAD a cold, bleak ride to Baltimore, and although it was the express train, yet it seemed to me to move slowly, such was my impatience. On our way we passed the car containing the remains of President Lincoln, bound for Baltimore. When I reached the city, I found every place closed, and flags and crape in any quantity fluttering in the breeze. My fear was that there would be no conveyance at the depot, but I was mistaken, for notwithstanding the manifest grief, I found that business was still attended to. I jumped into the first carriage I saw, and told the man to drive quickly to No. 33—Street, my heart beating rapidly, the meanwhile, every time I thought of the probable fate of the unfortunate photographs, for I had no more fancy for a Massachusetts Penitentiary than had my friend.

I reached my boarding-house in safety, and the first thing I did, was to open my album, where, to my great relief, I saw the pictures of both Harry and Will., in undisturbed serenity, gazing at me with open-eyed wonder, as I tore them ruthlessly from their fastenings, and striking a match consigned them to the flames. I drew a long breath as I saw them gradually turn to ashes. And now I made ready to send the dispatch, but on arriving at the office to my great discomfort found it closed. Of course there was but one thing to do—wait—but that, under the circumstances, was very difficult.

The next day I was more successful, and congratulated myself on executing the business so satisfactorily. But, alas! “the best laid plans,” etc. I discovered afterwards that the telegram never reached its destination. Whether it was owing to our being overheard by the watchful detectives, or whether Nelson's mind misgave him, I am not able to say.

I had been at home a week or ten days without hearing from my friends, or having anything occur to alarm me. The whole country was in an intense state of excitement, hunting Booth and his accomplices. Nothing was thought or talked of, but the one great event. It was at this juncture that I determined to pay a second visit to Washington, and endeavor to effect the release of my friends. Had I really understood the true state of affairs, I would have known how futile all efforts at that time would have been. My gentlemen friends did their utmost to dissuade me; but having no very high opinion of masculine moral courage, I determined to take the matter in my own hands and go. I had noticed on my previous visit to Washington, and ever since my return, I had been followed in my walks by persons whom I supposed to be detectives. Conscious of my own rectitude, the matter gave me little or no concern, except the feeling of annoyance at being watched.

On my arrival at Washington, I found the excitement, if anything, intensified—soldiers on guard in every direction—news boys shouting “Extras”—men loafing at corners, talking in loud tones, and gesticulating violently—and parties of boys and half-grown men, parading the streets, crying, “death to murderers and traitors,” “vengeance,” etc., etc. I made my way as fast as I could to my friend the lawyer, and told him my plan, which was, to see the Secretary of War and lay the matter of my friends' arrest before him, and ask their release. I told him I had proof of their innocence, and it was those proofs I wished to have examined. My friend endeavored to dissuade me, assuring me that no one was safe, that he had heard the best Union men in New York say, that nothing would induce them to go to Washington during the excitement. I replied that it might be unsafe for gentlemen, but surely no woman ran any risk; at any rate there were none who seemed willing to help my friends now, and I was determined to do all I could.

I next proceeded to the Carrol Prison and inquired, as before, for Mr. H., but learned to my vexation that he was absent. I then asked to see Nelson, and on his making his appearance said, “Can you not allow me to see Mrs. Windsor?”

“No,” he answered gruffly.

“When will Mr. H. return?”

“Can't say; may-be to-night; may-be not for a week.”

Here was a damper; but I said,

“Will you take my basket and empty it? it is for Mrs. Windsor, you know.”

He picked up the basket and took it with him, returning in a few moments.

“To whom must I go to get a pass?” said I.

“Judge Advocate, War Department.”

THAT decided me, and I followed the messenger.

“Well,” said the Judge Advocate on seeing me, “I was afraid you thought I had forgotten you, and that you had gone away.”

“Oh, no,” I replied; “but knowing how many others were before me, I was taking a little walk while I awaited your leisure.”

He opened a drawer and took out a bundle of papers, and looking carefully over them, drew out what appeared to be a letter.

“Sit down, will you.” I did so, he wheeling his arm-chair around, so as to be facing me.

“I have inquired concerning your relations at the Old Capitol, and find that they are charged with grave offences—very grave offences”—said he, trying to look severe.

“Indeed,” said I; “you astonish me.”

“Yes. Is this your handwriting?” showing me the outside of a letter directed to “Miles R. Windsor,” and watching me the while.

I took it in my hand, and replied,

“No, sir, it is not.”

“It is post-marked Baltimore, you see.”

“So I see, sir; but that is no sign I wrote it.”

“I think you said your name was Anne, did you not?”

“No, sir, I never told you what it was, as you did not ask me; but I tell you now—it is Maria—Maria Miller.”

“You live at No. 40, --Street, Baltimore, I think you said?”

“No, sir, I did not say it; for I do not live there.”

“Did you ever live in that street?”

“Two years ago I did.”

THE detective went before and I followed. The room we entered was large, divided midway by a railing, three feet high, with a gate in the centre. He opened the gate, and pointed to a dilapidated sofa, on which I took my seat. He went to the farther end of the room and whispered something to an officer who was writing. The communication seemed to have a marked effect, for he immediately laid down his pen, frowned, leaned forward with elbows on his desk, supporting his chin, and treated me to the most prolonged stare it was ever my fate to endure. On finishing his scrutiny, he motioned to a man near him, and opening a table-drawer handed him a package, containing, as I afterwards saw, about one hundred photographs. This man deliberately took his seat, and proceeded leisurely to compare my physiognomy with these pictures. I felt no uneasiness at this, for never having had sufficient moral courage to see myself “as others see me,” I had hitherto steadfastly refused to comply with the wishes of partial friends, in having my photograph taken.

About forty pairs of eyes were now fixed upon me, for the room was filled with men. I drew my thick veil down, and taking a paper from my pocket, pretended to read until that ordeal was over. (I discovered afterwards that the paper was upside down.)

At length it was over, and the man who brought me there was about leaving, when I asked, “Are you returning to the Judge Advocate's office?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Will you take him a message for me?”

IN a short time the door was opened, and Nelson appeared, with two men carrying an iron bedstead similar to the one already in the room, which they placed opposite. After a while, the straw bed and pillow were brought in; but imagine my feelings when I saw great splotches of blood on the mattress, and also on one end of the pillow!

“I can never sleep on that,” I mentally ejaculated, and turning my head toward the yard, I saw two men beating and shaking a faded brown blanket, from which arose clouds of dust. In a short time Nelson appeared again, with a pair of coarse unbleached cotton sheets, and the identical blanket I had seen shaken. The sheets were new, that was a comfort.

“MARY,” said I, “this is a horrid room, and how we are to live in it, I cannot tell.”

“The other rooms are much nicer than this, but we are in close confinement.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she replied; “but you see how we are guarded, a soldier before our door, and one walking in front of our window.”

“Is it not so up-stairs?” I asked.

“No, the prisoners are allowed to walk all about, and even to exercise in the yard.”

“How do you know so much?” I asked.

“Why, I've been here before.”

“Indeed!” I said, but asked no more questions, thinking she might not like to answer. In the course of the morning Nelson came in, and I mustered courage to ask,

“Why am I kept in close confinement?”

“Who, you? Why, you are to be hung.”

“Ah, indeed! Well, I should not be surprised, for they have as much right to hang me as to place me here.”

He made no answer, but, going out, slammed the door and locked it, of course.

I began to feel the effects of my sitting up all night, and found I would be obliged to lie down, notwithstanding what I had seen. With Mary's assistance I turned the bedding over, and after a careful search, lay down. I soon went to sleep, and did not awaken until nearly three, when the servants were bringing in dinner. This was soup day, and that article of diet was served in the same mugs I had seen before, they doing double duty. We had some kind of meat—I could not tell what—and four parboiled potatoes, two for each of us. We declined the dinner, as we had the other meals, falling back on our supply of cakes.

“Mary,” said I, “let us see if we cannot fasten our door on the inside; then we will not be afraid to sleep at night.”

We both went to it, but were disappointed in finding every fastening gone; even the knob had been taken off, leaving a hole the size of a silver dollar (if any recollect that coin). We could see how strong the lock on the other side was, by the width of the bolts. We had to content ourselves as we were, at the mercy of any who chose to enter. Mary's fear of me had by this time worn off; and seeing that, I asked about her arrest, of which she gave me the following account:

“I had just come from school, and father, not keeping house himself, wished to place me in some nice quiet family. A friend recommended Mrs. Surratt; he accordingly sent me there. It was at night that we were all arrested, taken to the Provost Marshal's office, and kept there until nearly morning. But I suppose you saw all about that part in the papers.”

“Yes,” I answered; “but were you not terribly frightened?”

“Yes, indeed we were. Anna Surratt was going to a little party, and had just begun to dress, and I was helping her, when we were sent for to come into the parlor, in which were Mrs. Surratt and several strange men, one of whom stepped up and said we were all arrested, and must go with them. Mrs. Surratt asked them to wait a few moments, and she knelt down and prayed, the men taking off their hats while she did so. She then arose, saying she was ready. They put us in an ambulance and drove to the Provost Marshal's, as you know. There, poor Anna liked to have gone wild; her mother said all she could to calm her, but she is so excitable and hysterical that no one could do anything with her. She asked the officer how he dared accuse her mother of helping Booth? Just about day, they brought us here, and put us in the rooms up-stairs. We were allowed to walk about, and were not locked in, even at night. We were there three days, at the end of which time I was released. I thought all my trouble was ended, but last Monday night I was at a Fair given for the benefit of St. ---- Church, when a man came in and asked for me; some one pointed me out at the table where I stood. He then took me aside, and told me I was wanted at the Provost Marshal's office, but only for a few moments. I sent for Father W., to whom the man told the same story; so I had to go. At the Provost Marshal's they began to ask me all sorts of questions, about things of which I had never even heard, and finding I did not answer as they wished, an officer asked me, ‘if Mrs. Surratt had not made me take an oath not to tell anything?’ Then they put me in the ambulance, and I soon found they were not taking me to the Fair. I began to suspect that they were bringing me here, so I turned to the detective and said:

“ ‘Sir, I always like to commend myself to our Lord, and, if you have no objection, will do so now.’

“ ‘I have no objection, certainly not,’ he answered.

“I knelt down in the ambulance, and making the sign of the cross, placed myself under our Lord's protection. They brought me here, and put me in this room. I was terribly frightened at being alone, and all night long I walked up and down; I would not have gone to sleep for anything in the world.”

“What prisoners were up-stairs with you?” I asked.

“Only a Mrs. Johnson, who has been here for some time, and a Mrs. Jones with a little baby, who was brought some weeks before,” she replied; and then added, “A good many have come since; I have seen three taken up this week.”

It was now afternoon, and I was still so wearied, that I lay down again. I was just about closing my eyes, when, on turning them toward the door, I saw that some one was looking in through the hole I have mentioned before. It was the soldier on guard. Whether he was ordered to have an eye on the prisoners, or not, I do not know; but if he had received any such command, I can testify to its literal fulfilment; for, until relieved from duty, there he was, watching us continually. We constantly stopped up the hole with a piece of the newspaper I had brought with me, and which was just as pertinaciously pushed out with the point of the bayonet. I am not naturally a vindictive or cruel woman, but I think, had I dared to punch the end of my parasol in that staring, fishy eye, I would have experienced the most intense satisfaction. That eye drove all sleep away; it exerted an influence the opposite of mesmeric; it was impossible to resist its fascination, for I could look at nothing else.

I arose, went to the window, and for the first time scanned the faces of those who passed and repassed. Among them I recognized an acquaintance; he gave me a peculiar look, and I smiled. Seeing I remembered him, he watched until the guard turned his back, then managing to get just in front of the window, said, “I saw your cousin, Mrs. Windsor, to-day.”

I waited until he passed again, and then asked, “Is she well?”

To this I received no answer, and the guard near the window looked in very suspiciously, but I was leaning my chin on my hand, gazing innocently at the white-washed fence. I did not attempt anything of the kind again, as I had no fancy for a Yankee bullet—the orders being to shoot any prisoner holding communication without permission. My kind friend, fearing, I suppose, some imprudence on my part, changed his walk to another portion of the yard.

And now let me speak a word in regard to prison rules. They were exceedingly strict, but no prisoner was ever told what they were; therefore one was in constant danger of breaking them through ignorance—the first intimation of his transgression being the whiz of a bullet uncomfortably near.

One afternoon I was more than usually oppressed by the foul air of our room, and turning to Mary, said,

“I am going to see how far I can lean out of the window; the wind seems to be blowing at the side, perhaps I can catch a breath of fresh air; I am almost suffocated.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake stop! you will certainly be shot; we are not allowed even to place our hands on the iron bars, for fear we might be making signs to those without.”

That put a stop on my part to further efforts for obtaining fresh air. One night I asked and received permission to extend my head beyond the window sill—the officer ordering the guard not to fire, for which I was most sincerely grateful.

Saturday night we supped on the cakes again, and there were only enough left for a very scanty breakfast: still we hoped that more might be sent to us. After supper was brought in, I noticed that one of the women seemed disposed to linger, which she did, on some pretence, until the other left the room; then turning to me she said in a low tone,

“So, miss, I've found you out now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, thinking I might be suspected of some Guy Fawkes plot. “I never saw you before,” I added, looking her full in the face.

“Never mind that, miss, I've found you out, and I am to have an eye on you.”

“Very well,” I replied, and turned my back, on which she knocked at the door, and the guard allowed her to pass. After evening inspection, I proceeded to retire, for I felt as if I would never be rested again, or relieved of the aches and pains consequent upon overfatigue. The nights were very cold, such as we often experience in early spring. Not being able to close the window or to have a fire, I really suffered. Fortunately, I had on winter clothing and had also brought with me my thick cloak, which in a measure answered as a substitute for the condemned blanket; but nothing could prevent my taking violent cold, which continued for some weeks, until, indeed, I had become accustomed to that manner of life. Such sleep as I obtained by snatches was not, as may be supposed, very refreshing; every morning I was awakened by the sunlight which streamed across my face.

IT was Sunday—a lovely, balmy Spring day, reminding one of the beautiful outside world, from which I was so entirely cut off. I sat on the edge of my straw bed, and listened to the sound of distant church bells, as they rung the faithful to early prayers. It was very quiet in the prison-yard, except the incessant tramp of the guard; that never stopped or wearied, day or night. I counted the chiming bells, listening as one after another caught the musical tone, and sent it on to the next. At length they died away; and now the daily round of prison-life began. Breakfast time again, and again untied the end of our shawl, containing our few remaining stale cakes, when lo and behold! we found a small hole, and our cakes nearly gone—gnawed through by mice and roaches! Mary and I just looked at each other without speaking. At length I exclaimed,

“Oh, how did it happen?”

“I will tell you,” replied Mary; “we forgot to hang the shawl up last night, but left it on the chair.”

“That is true,” said I, “for I found it on the back of the chair this morning.”

There was no help for it; so we had to go without our breakfast. I seated myself on the bed, and taking a little pocket-manual of prayers, which I had with me, endeavored to compose my thoughts sufficiently to read. It was a great effort, for now the church bells began to sound again, in a perfect chorus, tantalizing one with memories of out-door life, from which we seemed so far away. None can tell the desolate feeling which at times overwhelms those immured in close confinement. I read my little book through and through, until my eyes ached. Mary had her rosary, which seemed a consolation. Outside our room there was no recognition of the sacred day.

I had heard nothing of my friend up-stairs, and did not dare ask. Then, too, I was tormented with anxiety for those at home; I had not been able to convey to them either line or message, my paper and writing materials having been taken from the basket I brought, and never returned. Knowing how wretched my friends would be at my prolonged absence and silence for—I had expected to return to Baltimore the same day that I came over—I determined if possible to write. Calling to the guard, through the hole in the door, I said,

“Can you not tell Mr. Nelson I wish to see him?”

He made no answer, but I heard him say to a soldier in the yard, “Tell Mr. Nelson, somebody wants him in the confined prison, will you?” The man went, and I waited, one, two, three hours, and still Mr. Nelson did not come.

Now we had another source of annoyance, and that was, our meals were allowed to remain in our room all day. The food was never taken away, except to bring in another supply; consequently, our room was swarming with flies in the day, and with vermin at night; the only advantage was, that the mice and the roaches which at one time ran on our beds, now preferred the table, where there was more tempting food. Three days had elapsed without change or variety, except some new faces among the prisoners in the yard, when one day we heard something falling on the floor, and looking round saw some chocolate drops and other bits of candy, evidently thrown in by a kind-hearted prisoner. We were about to pick them up, when, looking towards the door, I saw the eye of the guard at the hole, and calling my companion's attention to it, we resumed our former positions. Shortly after we beheld the roaches, ants, etc., making way with our candy, to their evident satisfaction.

Another day the guard at our door unlocked it, and threw in “Harper's Weekly,” “New York Herald,” and a dime novel, called the “Trapper's Bride.” We never knew who sent them, but supposed some prisoner bribed the guard to throw them in to us. How eagerly they were read, and how often, even to the advertisements, it is impossible to state. They seemed a link between us and the outer world. Will I ever forget “The Trapper's Bride?” I think not, although, as I now recall it, it was merely a mass of improbable incidents told in a lingo intelligible, perhaps, to the class of persons for whom it was originally written, but beyond my comprehension, leaving my mind in bewildering doubt as to whether the bear ate “the bride,” or “the bride” ate the bear. However, it answered to while away the heavy hours, and was very welcome. “Harper's Weekly” contained the usual number of interesting stories, “to be continued,” just as one is dying to know if “the man” succeeded in making his escape, hoping it might contain hints applicable to a forlorn “Carrol prisoner.” The “New York Herald,” with pages of political quarrels, accusing “Mr. B. of plundering the treasury, and Mr. C. of buying up votes, and Mr. D. of being a turncoat, bought up by the highest bidder,” altogether showing an awfully depraved state of morals among the “Herald's” acquaintances, and which that immaculate sheet felt in duty bound to hold up for public abhorrence and detestation. Then, too, were several pages of most delicious mysterious advertisements, such as “the man in green spectacles call at No. 94;” “Susie, he is on your track;” “the body of an unknown man in gray pants and blue jacket, found floating in the dock, a letter in cipher clasped in his hand,” etc., etc. I read the notices over and over, imagining events and causes to correspond. But after a few days I wearied of this occupation, and my imprisonment pressed harder and harder upon me. I knew my friends at home would make every effort to ascertain where I was, and I was in constant dread lest another one should be brought to that terrible place.

And now we had a second midnight scare. Mary and myself had just fallen asleep, when we heard rather loud talking between the guard in front of our door and two men. The latter were saying, “Now, you let us pass, there's a good fellow.”

“In faith, no, ye's can't go in,” the guard replied.

“But we just want to call upon the ladies,” continued the men, who, we now discovered, were very much intoxicated.

“An' me to be screwed up by the thumbs tomorrow. I tell ye's agin, no.”

THAT afternoon H. came, true to promise, and unlocking the door, threw it open, and said,

“Now, madam, come with me.”

I cannot express my feelings as I saw the exit before me, although I was only going to another part of the prison. I sprang toward the door, from which the guard now stepped aside, and following H. up the narrow, dirty steps, saw at the top a crowd of strange but sympathizing faces watching my ascent, while a little behind them stood my cousin, trying to master her agitation. At the sight of her tearful face, I outstripped my guide, and the women dividing on either side, my cousin stepped forward to meet me, when we fell into each other's arms sobbing—the women around joining from sympathy, and then each came up and shook me by the hand.

I entered my cousin's room, which was a small one over the passage. As a great favor, Mr. Windsor was allowed to remain with his wife. I found they were permitted many privileges, such as having clothes sent in from outside, and baskets of all kinds of provisions, as well as china, glass, etc.; in fact they were keeping house on a small scale, independent of prison fare; all of which was allowed through the efforts of a friend who had the necessary influence. Mr. Windsor had the daily papers sent to him, also. The room fronted the Capitol grounds—how beautiful and refreshing was the sight of green trees and grass to my aching eyes! I felt as if I should never tire looking at them. Time passed rapidly, as my friends and myself talked over our different experiences. While with them, the servant woman who had given me such a fright before, came in and said,

ANOTHER Sunday, and H. was still absent. But I determined to try my persuasive powers on Nelson, and sending for him, asked,

“Can I not go up-stairs to my cousin's room?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did Mr. H. leave any orders about it?” said I.

“Yes, he said you were to go up every day, if you wanted to.”

“And you never told me all this time!” I exclaimed.

“How long can I stay?” I asked.

“All day, until evening inspection.”

ONE morning, while in my cousin's room, the guard came up and said, “Mr. Windsor, you are wanted by Colonel -----.”

He immediately rose, and taking leave of us followed the guard. It frequently happened that those summoned by the Board never returned—whether they were released or conveyed to another prison, was left to conjecture. One always therefore prepared for the worst, took leave of friends, and carried with him such necessary articles as he could. Mrs. Windsor was weeping bitterly at the departure of her husband, when a lady entered the room. She was apparently about forty years of age, a tall commanding figure, rather stout, with brown hair, blue eyes, thin nose, and small, well-shaped mouth, denoting great firmness. This lady was Mrs. Surratt.

She took her seat beside my weeping cousin, put her arm around her and drew her head on her shoulder; then she talked to her in the most consoling manner, and though my cousin had never seen her before the imprisonment, she was as tender and kind as if she had been an old friend. There was a calm, quiet dignity about the woman, which impressed me before I even knew who she was. She mingled very little with the other prisoners, unless they were sick or sorrowful; then, I may truly say, she was an angel of mercy. After that day I saw her often; she would come in and read the daily papers.

On one occasion, I remember, one of the papers contained an outrageous account of herself and household, aspersing both her character and reputation. We endeavored to withhold the paper from her, but she insisted on reading it. I watched her closely while doing so, and for an instant a flush of womanly indignation overspread her pale countenance at the insult. After she had read it all, she laid down the paper, and, clasping her hands, raised her eyes to Heaven and said, “I suppose I shall have to bear it.”

That was the only time I ever knew her to make any allusion to her sufferings. I did not see her smile the whole time we were together. She rather avoided conversation, and never uttered one word of reproach or virulence against those by whose authority she was imprisoned. She always retained her self-possession, and was never in the least degree thrown off her guard. H. frequently spent hours talking with her, endeavoring—as we were told—to entrap her into some incautious expression, which would enable him to discover where her son, John Surratt, was concealed. But in this—smart detective as he was—she foiled him. If she knew, she locked the knowledge in her own heart so closely, that even he—that “prince of detectives,” as he called himself,—was unable to wrest it from her. Sometimes H. would say to her, after he had been absent looking for Surratt, “Well, madam, we have at last captured your son, and a hard time we had finding him; how did you ever hit on so snug a hiding-place.” But she was too wary to be misled by such a statement, and H. failed to obtain the twenty-five thousand dollars, generously offered by the Government for Surratt's apprehension.

I cannot omit relating one incident in connection with Mrs. Surratt. One day, a woman, apparently a prisoner, was brought in. She circulated freely among the inmates, and was very talkative, generally selecting the assassination as her subject. She was also very confidential, and would relate marvellous conversations which she had with H. and other officials, under the seal of secrecy. After awhile the woman was taken very sick, and kind Mrs. Surratt, as usual, took charge of her, and ministered to her necessities. The woman recovered, and one day, in a moment of impulse, when her heart was filled with gratitude, she threw herself on her knees before Mrs. Surratt and said, “Oh, Mrs. Surratt, when they offered me the twenty-five hundred dollars, to find out, I did not know what to do. I was penniless, and—”

“Never mind now,” said Mrs. Surratt, interrupting and raising her from her knees, “we will talk of something else.”

The woman made no further allusion to the matter, and shortly after left the prison.

Let me now return to Mr. Windsor. He had been summoned to appear before the Board, and on entering the room was questioned closely by Colonel ---- as regarded his occupation, associates, amusements, etc., but it was all to no purpose. The answers to the interrogations were given boldly and unhesitatingly, there being nothing which Mr. Windsor was either ashamed or afraid to acknowledge.

From the multiplicity of questions, and the ingenuity evinced in cross-examinations by the officers of Military Justice, it must have been a sore trial to them, if, after exhausting every means to entrap the unwary, their efforts were to prove unsuccessful. But guilty or innocent, it was no light matter to be summoned before a body of men whose interest it was to convict, not to acquit. When one remembered the large rewards offered by Government to all who furnished evidence prejudicial to the prisoner, it was not surprising that witnesses were readily found to testify to anything, however improbable. Therefore it was, that a summons before the Board was regarded as a farewell to either liberty or life.

As the footsteps of the officer and guard would draw near, I have seen the pallor of death creeping on cheek and lip, all fearing that the next sound they would hear would be their names called, to appear before that terrible tribunal, and then, as the footsteps would recede, and we felt that for a few hours longer we were safe, a fervent “thank God,” would burst from each one of us, as the fearful anticipations for that day would be ended.

The idea of obtaining justice in the course of military trial, was something beyond the anticipations of the most sanguine. It required but slight insight into the manner of conducting these “so called” examinations and trials, to convince even the most prejudiced that the conviction of each one who had the misfortune to fall into the clutches of this stupendous power, was the object to be attained. Had the examinations been fair and impartial, the innocent would not have shrunk from investigation, feeling assured that the more rigid the examination the better for him. It was the effort made to induce the prisoner not only to implicate himself, but others, even strangers whose names were then heard for the first time. It was things such as these that made one tremble before that Board. Every sigh of emotion was noticed, recorded officially, and used against the prisoner. Alas for the Bureau of Military Justice!

AMONG the prisoners up-stairs was a Mrs. Johnson, before alluded to. She was a tall woman, with light hair and eyes, who said and did pretty much what she pleased. She was very witty, and quick at repartee. Nothing seemed to damp her spirits, and to fear she was a stranger. She had been in prison a long time, eighteen months in all, having been first arrested for carrying dispatches for the Confederate Government to persons in Canada. After a year's imprisonment, she was released, on condition that she would not cross the Potomac again, to which she readily assented. But, alas! the spirit of adventure was not subdued, and at the end of six months, relinquishing her position as nurse in a Confederate hospital, she wended her way back to Washington. It seems H. had been in Richmond the winter she was there, and she had been very kind to him. He then told her if she should ever be in need and he could help her, to call upon him, and he would do so. She went to Washington, and knowing that H. would certainly discover she was there, she determined to put a bold face on the matter, and go directly to his house, and ask for him. He happened to be at home, and she was ushered in. H. was so much surprised, that he raised his hands and exclaimed,

“Mrs. Johnson! what on earth brought you here?”

“Well, Mr. H.,” she answered, “I was very much in want of clothes; I could get none in Richmond, and, as you told me if I needed help to apply to you, I have come to ask you to lend me twenty-five dollars.”

“Why, Mrs. Johnson,” replied H., “were you not released on the express condition that you would never return?”

“Yes; but you see I was compelled to,” she replied.

“Well, madam,” said H., handing her the twenty- five dollars, “my advice to you is to leave this city as soon as possible.”

“That I intend to do,” she answered; “but which route had I better take—that through lower Maryland, or the one by the chain bridge?”

“The one by the chain bridge,” said H.

“Now, you see,” said Mrs. Johnson in telling us, “I knew H. well enough to be sure that be would have his detectives on the look-out if I went the route he designated; so to avoid them I determined to take the other. I did so, and fell into the trap laid for me; for as H. has since told me, he felt sure I would not go by the chain bridge because he advised it, therefore he was ready for me on the other road.”

“Have you been here ever since?” I asked.

AND now was brought in a lady, rather fancifully, but fashionably, attired, with a profusion of plumes in her bonnet. Her manner was that of a tragedy queen, to which she was probably entitled, as she was Madame S., a French actress. She had been associated with Booth on the stage, consequently was supposed by the astute authorities to be an accessory, if not a participant, in the President's assassination—the poor creature insisting all the time that it was a “meestake.” The trouble was, what to do with her, or where to put her, as the prison was full. She was taken first to one room, then to another, she positively asserting at each, that she “would not go in there,” and that “her husband was one Federal officer, and he would have her release.” The matter was at last decided by accommodating her in one of the office rooms, which was vacated for that purpose. In a few days she was “release”—the only fortunate one; and with envious eyes, we watched her retreating form, as she walked calmly and collectedly out of the prison and down the street; as if she had only been acting a part in a drama on the stage, instead of a tragedy in real life.

Very few were released from prison in those sad days, and if any were so happy, their places were almost immediately supplied by others. One would suppose that persons associated as the prisoners were, in a common fate, would be on the best of terms; but such was not the case. Frequently there would be quarrels in which each party would accuse the other of being a “Federal spy”—the greatest insult which could be offered. The differences were always healed after a while, and the opponents on as amicable a footing as if nothing of the kind had occurred. Mrs. Johnson and a Miss Lewis averaged about three friendly days in the week; the remainder they were not speaking to each other.

Miss Lewis had been imprisoned for not draping her mother's house in mourning, on the death of President Lincoln. She said she had not the material for doing so, on which the authorities kindly furnished it at Government expense, and were so obliging as to hang it for her. No sooner had they left the premises, than the black hangings disappeared. Three times were they replaced, and three times did they disappear. Miss Lewis not giving satisfactory reasons, and it being a calm day, it was impossible to attribute this disregard of a nation's grief to a freak of the wind. There was but one solution of the mystery, and that was, that Miss Lewis, in the absence of officials, had removed the obnoxious black. Such was in reality the case, consequently that estimable lady was transferred from her mother's domicil to that of benignant Government.

THERE were two other characters among the prisoners who deserve notice. One of them, a tearful, complaining woman, had at one time been an acquaintance of Booth. This fact rendering her an object of suspicion, she was incarcerated in the Old Capitol until her complicity with the assassination could be ascertained. She was always grieving, poor soul, about her ducks and her chickens. Every few moments she would exclaim, “My ducks and my chickens! jes' hatched out, and who will 'tend to 'em now?”

The other character was a Mrs. James, who had formerly been the cook of some gentleman in Washington, in which capacity she had made and saved money, investing it in a market garden, which she cultivated with her son's help until he joined the Confederate army.

She said she was arrested for being a dimocrat, but the accusation against her was, that on hearing the news of the President's death she was seen to smile, and not only that, but went home and made a flag out of her son's Confederate gray coat, and hung it out of the window. She says she smiled because “eggs had riz,” and she had some for sale; and as to the flag, she was only airing her son's clothes. Be that as it may, she found herself safely ensconced in the Old Capitol. Her son was at one time stationed at Manassas, and she said, “Honey, many's the time I've taken letters from Washington to the camp.”

“But,” I said, “how did you manage it? were you never detected?”

“Never,” she answered, “but came mighty near it once.”

“How was that?”

“I used to make b'lieve, you see, honey, that I was a market-woman, and always carried a lunch-basket on my arm. Well, I had to pass through the picket guard, and one of 'em stopped me and said,

“ ‘I really do believe that's a secesh;’ on hearing which I made out I was mighty mad, and sot my arms a-kimbo, and looking him full in the face, said: ‘Man, does I look like a secesh woman?’ and then I handed him my lunch basket, and he took some and let me pass; and honey, if you b'lieve me, my stockings was so full of letters I could hardly walk.”

Mrs. James's peculiar detestation was the tearful woman. One morning she was weeping, as usual, over her ducks and chickens, when Mrs. James could stand it no longer, but turning suddenly upon her, said: “D--- your ducks and your chickens, I'm sick and tired of hearing 'bout 'em.“

Mr. Windsor, who had been in the habit of exercising with the other prisoners in the yard, on coming in one day was ordered to appear before Colonel ----, who said:

“Mr. Windsor, I understand you have been heard to use most disrespectful language in reference to President Lincoln.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Mr. Windsor.

“But I tell you, you did, sir; the man who heard you repeated it to me.”

“Where is the man?” said Mr. Windsor.

“That is of no consequence,” replied Colonel -----; “but I tell you what, sir, I have a great mind to place you in solitary confinement on bread and water, and if I hear any more complaints about you, I will. In the mean time, I order you to speak to no one while exercising. Now, sir, you can go.”

Mr. Windsor was only too glad to be forbidden intercourse with the men in the yard; for it was well known that there were several spies among them—who they were, it was impossible to determine, as all appeared to be prisoners.

An incident occurred which frightened us very much. One afternoon, just before dark, Mrs. Johnson entered my cousin's room and exclaimed, “A mob is coming down to attack the prison.” Imagine our feelings! There we were, a party of defenceless women, guarded by a company of ignorant Dutch soldiers, many of whom could not understand English and who, for aught we knew, were in league with the excited rabble now threatening the prison. We waited in breathless suspense for more than an hour, straining both eyes and ears to catch the first sight or sound of the assailants. Happily for us, the danger had been averted; for, except the extra precaution taken by the authorities, we knew nothing more of the threatened riot. It seems the idea abroad was, that the accomplices of Booth had been captured, and were confined in the Old Capitol. Whether this was true or not, I could not ascertain; certain it was, that several prisoners were brought in at night, but a mystery always appeared to hang over them. The populace of Washington were in a very excited state, and it was in order to obtain possession of these persons that they threatened to attack the prison.

ANOTHER gloomy Sunday evening. Night was closing around the Old Capitol prison, and we, the inmates, were collected together, talking, as usual, when we heard the order given to “double the guard.” Expecting another mob, we waited in silence and dread; but nothing of the kind occurred; only an open carriage, in which were two officers, drove up and stopped at the prison door.

The officers entered the building, and as all continued quiet, we were soon talking again—our fears forgotten. Half an hour had probably passed, when Nelson appeared with a soldier and said,

SATURDAY night, H. informed Mrs. Johnson that there would be preaching in the yard the following morning; which notice was of course duly conveyed to the other inmates. It was not often that the prison was thus honored, and the advent of a “contract preacher” created quite an excitement. Let me say a few words in explanation of the above title. It seems that “preaching gentlemen” were commissioned by the War Department, to enlighten the heathen darkness of the disloyal, and were handsomely paid for doing so. One can well understand, therefore, that it was quite an easy method of earning an honest penny. The prisoners being aware of the above circumstance, often had misgivings as to whether the preachers had “Rev.” prefixed to their names; consequently those sent by the War Department had obtained the sobriquet of “contract preachers.” These men, whether clergymen or not, too often took advantage of the opportunity, either to deliver a political address or to speak against all that Southerners held most dear. Influence for good was lost in consequence, and the prisoners often turned away disgusted, who would have listened attentively had the discourse been indeed Christian, as it should have been.

Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful; the men were collected in the yard and the women at the windows overlooking all, where they could both see and hear. At twelve, H. appeared, conducting the preacher. He was short and stout, with a large white neckcloth, which seemed inclined to choke him—suggesting at once to the beholder, that it was an article of dress not often worn by this gentleman, but adopted for the occasion. His hair was parted with scrupulous exactness, and fell rather long on the shoulders; it was of that nondescript color—a cross between molasses candy and mud. His eyes were large and glassy, the color not distinguishable at the window, but often turned up so as to exhibit the whites to an alarming degree. His mouth and nose were large, his face smoothly shaven, and his hands were fat and ungainly-looking; occasionally he would wipe both face and hands on a yellow silk handkerchief.

A chair and table had been arranged for him in the yard, but being a short man, he preferred the top of the wood-pile, which was a few feet higher, and up which he climbed with surprising agility, considering he was supposed to be unused to such feats. On the table below him, he had placed quite a large package, containing, as we afterwards saw, tracts and hymns for distribution. I shall omit the prayer with which he began the service, only noticing that it savored strongly of fanaticism, and was not “devoutly listened to,” as the newspapers in describing such scenes generally state. Then a hymn was sung, to the tune of “Old Hundred,” the preacher reading two lines at a time. Several of the prisoners had fine voices, and sung well. That being ended, the “Rev.” gentleman now prepared himself for the sermon, by passing the yellow handkerchief several times across his face. Then clearing his throat, in a nasal twang he began the following, which is as near the original as I can remember:

“My friends, I am permitted by a kind and indulgent Government to address you this morning. I need hardly say that I gladly avail myself of the golden opportunity, hoping that a word of mine may find a lodgement in the breast of some poor fellow-sinner, and bring forth abundant fruit. At this time of a nation's grief, surely there is no subject more appropriate than that which the occasion suggests, namely, reflections on the life of our illustrious and martyred President.” At this juncture he had recourse to his handkerchief, and Mrs. Johnson, taking out hers, wiped her eyes as if in great distress, though the expression of her countenance denoted anything but grief. “I may be excused, therefore,” he continued, “for not taking a text, and preaching a regular discourse; but I wish for a few moments to call your attention to the parallel which exists between our illustrious departed and Moses, the chosen leader of the children of Israel. You have all, doubtless, my friends, read in the Bible the history of the Israelites; therefore I will give but a few of the leading points, leaving you to fill up the picture at your leisure. Moses was the child of parents in nothing remarkable, as far as we know; and in this Abraham Lincoln resembled him, he too being the son of respectable but plain people. Moses was adopted by the daughter of the King of Egypt, and raised to a great station. Our Abraham was also adopted by the people of this enlightened country, and elevated to a high dignity. Now you remember, the Israelites— Moses' brethren—were also in bondage to this very king of Egypt, although at that time the yoke of slavery was comparatively light. But on the death of Pharaoh, another king arose who ground the Israelites to the earth. Moses seeing this, was continually meditating and forming plans for their relief and rescue; in short, he thought of nothing else day or night. At length the time arrived, my brethren, and Moses, the chosen leader, although at first rejected by the Israelites, as Abraham Lincoln was by the rebellious Southern people, yet in the end, succeeded in carrying them through the wilderness to the fair land of Canaan. Now, my friends, the points to which I wish to call your especial attention are the following: In the southern part of this great country of ours, were millions of men, women, and children—in fact, a nation—groaning under a worse servitude than that which afflicted the children of Israel. This slavery, tolerable as it might have been at first, increased in severity as time rolled on, and other masters took the place of those who had passed away. Abraham Lincoln, viewing these things in his far off northern home, aspired to lead this enslaved nation to freedom and greatness. One had already attempted the task, and fallen a victim to Southern intolerance. I allude to the martyr, ‘John Brown.’”

At this mention, Mrs. Johnson sobbed violently at the window.

“John Brown endeavored to ameliorate the slaves' condition, and failed; but not so, my brethren, Abraham Lincoln; he saw, indeed, that there was but one way to accomplish the holy purpose, and that was by overthrowing the slave oligarchy. And did he hesitate, because in so doing a great, powerful, and proud people would be humiliated to the dust? Indeed, no. Did Moses hesitate to inflict punishment on the hardened Egyptians when they refused to hearken unto him? I trow not, my brethren. As the Israelites marched from the land of Egypt, laden with the spoils of their masters, so did the African race emerge from the darkness and degradation of Southern slavery. But Moses, my brethren, was not permitted to enter the land of Canaan, toward which he was leading the chosen people; he did but view it from afar. So with Abraham Lincoln; he also beheld but the glimmering glory of the promised land. Moses, we are told, died the ordinary death of mortals; but Abraham Lincoln, alas! fell by an assassin's hand.”

Here he wiped his face with the yellow handkerchief, and Mrs. Johnson was apparently almost overcome with grief.

“And let us ask, whose was the arm raised to strike down the glorious patriot and statesman? We answer, the arm and hand of a Southerner dealt the murderous blow. And lo! the nation, but a short time since so jubilant, is plunged into depths of woe. A family also is rendered fatherless! a wife, a widow! I would now, in conclusion, say to every Southern man and woman” [looking up at the windows] “before me, that on the head of each, mark me, each one of you, rests the blood of the martyr Abraham. Your very presence in this prison proclaims your guilt. Wherefore are you here? Because you have aided and abetted the rebellion, and every rebel, therefore, of either sex, is a murderer. I call upon you all, therefore, to repent; yea, in sackcloth and ashes; then, only, may you hope to meet him, the good and great man, who has gone to his just reward. Let us pray.”

Then followed a prayer for the hardened rebels, during which, most of those obdurate sinners walked off. After the prayer, he said,

“I have a little piece of poetry, a favorite hymn, which I desire to have sung. Any one wishing to retain the poetry, can do so. All those who can join in the singing, will please come forward and receive a copy of the verses. I have selected this piece as being most suited to the occasion, and expressing, in beautiful simplicity, the mourning at the White House, symbolic of a nation's grief. We will sing it to the tune of ‘Old Antwerp,’—familiar, I suppose, to most of you.”

Many of the men now approached the table, and received a copy of the verses, some being also sent to the prisoners at the windows. Contrary to the preacher's expectation, “Old Antwerp” did not appear to be a familiar tune, but that did not prevent the prisoners from singing, which they did with zest, dwelling particularly long on the last word of each verse. The music, if not soul inspiring, was at least noisy, and in this bore a striking resemblance to the fashionable style of the present day. Mrs. Johnson attempted to sing, but the touching lines affected her too much. After vainly attempting the first verse, she desisted, sobbing violently whenever the refrain, “Poor little Tad,” was sung. I give the words of the selected piece :

THE singing concluded the services, and the preacher, having distributed his bundle of tracts, was about to depart, when H. arose and said,

“My friends, before the reverend preacher leaves us, I wish to add a few words, supplementary to his well-timed remarks. In drawing the parallel between Moses and the illustrious Abraham Lincoln, he failed to notice some points, one of which was, that Moses refused to be called the son of Pharaoh's daughter. Also, that Moses proved to the Israelites by many miracles, that he was sent to lead them, therefore there could be no mistake in the matter. With regard to ‘John Brown,’ if I am not very much mistaken, the Governor of Pennsylvania offered his services to assist in capturing and hanging that man of ‘blessed memory.’ ”

At this point the prisoners clapped their hands, and cried, “Good! Go on!” H. resumed:

“The Israelites, the reverend preacher told us, left Egypt laden with spoils, and in this, the parallel is perfect, as a visit to the North will convince any one. The Israelites entered their land, but the Africans know theirs only as the promised,—and that it is likely to be, for some time to come, in spite of citizenship, etc.; for you cannot make a people a great nation unless they are fit for it. Now, my friends, let me say, in conclusion, I hope you all will repent, as directed by the reverend preacher; to assist which repentance, I advise you to read attentively the tracts he has so kindly given, especially this one,” (taking it from the table,) “entitled, ‘Korah, Dathan, and Abiram; or, The Sin of Rebellion;’ this little book is illustrated throughout with large Roman capitals, thereby testifying to the magnitude of the sin set forth. Here is another tract also, ‘The true story of James Conner, the repentant Rebel;’ and for those of a poetical turn, here is a nice little book, ‘Union Songster.’ The taste of each has been regarded in the selection; and, sir,” turning to the preacher, “allow me to thank you in the name of these poor misguided prisoners, for your appropriate discourse, and I doubt not, sir, but that tomorrow I shall have as much as I can attend to, administering the oath of allegiance to these poor sinners.”

H. had finished, and was about to conduct the preacher out, when one of the guards stopped up and said,

“Mr. H., Mrs. Johnson says, can she come down and speak to the preacher?”

“Certainly,” said H.

In a few moments, Mrs. Johnson appeared, handkerchief to her eyes, and approaching the preacher, said in a tremulous voice,

“Mr. Preacher, allow me to take your hand,”—he held it out—“and thank you for your sermon. Sir, before your visit here this morning, I was a most incorrigible rebel, as Mr. H. can testify.” H. nodded and said “That's so.” “But while listening to your discourse, my hardness of heart disappeared by degrees, and when you called us murderers, oh!”—raising the handkerchief to her eyes—“I could with difficulty control myself; and then, too, those beautiful touching little verses went to my very heart; and my intention is to have them framed, and hung in my room where I can always behold them. Mr. Preacher, I am now a loyal woman, and how thankful am I, that I have been so long confined in this gloomy prison, since it has been the means of my hearing your sermon, by which my eyes have been opened, and I now see how great and heinous my offence has been. And now, Mr. H.,” turning to him, “I desire you to administer to me the oath of allegiance.”

“That I cannot do to-day, Mrs. Johnson,” replied H., “you know it is Sunday, and therefore unlawful.”

ONE morning Mrs. Johnson entered my cousin's room, and asked her if she had a spare chair which she could lend her. My cousin had but one article of the kind, and that she required. I, seeing there was some mischief intended, said:

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I am trying to effect the escape of Mr. -----,” naming a young Confederate who visited her.

“Oh,” said I, “please do not attempt it; you will certainly be discovered, and severely punished.”

“Indeed, not I,” she answered; “this is what I intend to do. I have ascertained that the attic room in H.'s house, adjoining the one in this, is unoccupied, and my plan is to break a hole through the lath and plaster partition, so that Mr. ----- can creep through into H.'s house. After he is there, he can either get on the roof and attempt to escape by the lightning-rod, or else he can go out through the front door, which I deem the better plan. I shall make the hole while H. is absent, so there will be less chance of failure. See here,” said she, diving into her pocket, “I already have the hammer.”

“How did you obtain it?” I asked.

“Oh, I told old Nelson that I wanted to nail down a loose plank in my floor, and he brought me this.”

“What are you going to do with a chair?”

“I cannot reach the exact place where I wish to hammer, so I will have to put a chair on a table. I have taken the table up, but was afraid the chair might be missed.”

“Now,” said I, “if you will take my advice, you will not attempt it; you will certainly be discovered, and both yourself and the young man made to suffer.”

“There is no one sharp enough to suspect anything but H., and he is away,” she answered.

“But likely to return,” said I, “at any moment.”

“Will you keep watch, while I go up and hammer?” she asked.

“No, I cannot do that, but should I happen to hear any one coming, I will call you.”

“That is all I ask,” she returned, and wended her way up the steps, into the room overhead, where in a few moments we heard her hammering, and the plaster falling on the floor with a dull sound. She had not been at work more than twenty minutes, when I heard H.'s voice in the passage below; fortunately she heard it also, and immediately descended the stairs, hammer in hand. She entered her room, took up her sewing, and worked most vigorously. H. went the rounds as usual, but on coming to Mrs. Johnson's room he took his seat, and entered into conversation. Presently his eye lighted on the hammer.

“How came this here?” asked he, stooping to pick it up.

“I sent for it to nail a loose plank,” replied Mrs. Johnson.

H. made no answer, but examined the hammer attentively, and finding a little piece of plastering sticking on the end, he just looked at Mrs. Johnson, as if to say, “I've found you out,” and put the hammer into his coat pocket. He then arose and peered about her room, but seeing nothing suspicious there, he ascended to the story above, and there did see. He brought down the table and chair, and returning to Mrs. Johnson's room, stood before her for a moment in silence; then exclaimed,

“Well, you are the d---l.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” she replied, by no means disconcerted, and continuing her sewing, which she had not relinquished.

AND now the female prisoners, on taking the oath of allegiance, were allowed to depart, with the exception of Mrs. Johnson, my cousins, and myself. Mary L. and Anna Surratt were also detained as witnesses on the trial, for which great preparations were being made. Mary, since Mrs. Surratt's removal, was allowed to remain up-stairs with Anna. when the trial began, those two also were released. Mrs. Johnson had been retained longer than the others, in consequence of objecting to take the oath of allegiance, she crying and declaring it was impossible for her to swear allegiance to the Federal Government. But the time had come when it was either the oath or imprisonment for life, and she wisely decided in favor of the former.

As H. appeared with the Bible, all her aversion to the act returned in full vigor. An Irishman, an old soldier, was standing beside H. when he was talking to Mrs. Johnson about the oath. The soldier's countenance expressed great pity, and at length he stepped up to Mrs. Johnson, and laying his hand on her shoulder, said:

“Now, honey, I know it goes hard wid ye's; but it will soon be over, so dry your eyes and take it, there's a good soul, like a darlint.”

Of course the matter ended by Mrs. Johnson's becoming a loyal citizen, but not like a “darlint.”

As showing how strict was the espionage exercised, I will mention an incident that occurred. A Southern gentleman, a friend of Mr. Windsor's, but who was a stranger in Washington, asked, on his release, permission of H. to obtain from Mr. Windsor a letter of introduction to a gentleman in Washington. H. readily granted the favor, and Mr. Windsor wrote the desired letter and gave it to his friend. One of the servants was passing the door at the time and saw the whole affair. Some time after, Mrs. Windsor incurred the woman's displeasure, and in her anger she said: “You think I did not see Mr. Windsor give that letter, but I did, and told all about it to Mr. H., and I have told many things besides, for I have watched you all the time you have been here.”

These servants were constantly passing and repassing on some pretext, and I doubt not that every occurrence was duly reported to the authorities, and in that manner H. discovered many little plans just in time to thwart them.

I had been feeling dull and badly for several days, and had fever at night, which gradually wore off toward morning, leaving me weak and languid. Nelson I suppose must have noticed at morning inspection how sick I was, for I remember he looked at me more earnestly than usual. I went to my cousin's room, but the exertion of ascending the steep steps fatigued me so much that I had to lie on her bed. She saw directly that I was sick, and Mrs. Johnson made me a nice cup of tea, after drinking which I felt better. By night, my fever had increased so much that my cousin was afraid for me to return to my room, as I was now delirious. H. was away, but she sent for Nelson, and after informing him of my condition, asked if Mr. Windsor might be removed to an adjoining room and I allowed to remain with her for the night. Seeing that I was really ill, he consented. Mrs. Johnson brought down some blankets from the Quartermaster's store, and with them they endeavored to close the space intended for a window. It was impossible to exclude all the air, and my bed being just beneath, I had the wind and rain on me all night, which brought on a cold so violent that I could not speak.

The next day, sick as I was, I had to sit in Mrs. Johnson's room while the one we occupied was being whitewashed, and then I returned to it; the walls were of course wet. My cousin had a fire made in the little stove, but the room was not dry even at night, and a pouring rain added much to our discomfort.

I have very little recollection of the remainder of the day, as I was delirious. After several days had elapsed, H. came to the door and said,

“Now, miss, if you can manage to get up and come with me, you will be released.”

Remembering poor Mrs. Surratt, I answered,

“Oh, no, indeed I cannot go with you, Mr. H.; indeed I cannot.”

“But I tell you I am going to take you to your friends; they are at the door now in a carriage.”

“I will not go anywhere in a carriage—I'm afraid.”

“You are not afraid of me?”

“Yes, I am; you are a detective, and I am afraid of every one of them.”

My cousin whispered, “For Heaven's sake, don't seem to mistrust the man.”

I was now alone, and with a sigh of relief, seated myself on the door-steps—too wearied even to pull the bell-handle. I suppose I remained there fifteen minutes at least, my head supported on my hand, gazing in a listless way at the throng continually passing. After I had thus rested, I ascended the steps, rung the door-bell, and entered the house. My friends were delighted to see me, but very much shocked at my appearance, for the imprisonment had told heavily upon me, and I looked more like a phantom than my former self.

I did not complain of feeling badly, for fear my friends would prevent my returning to Baltimore, which I had determined to do, if possible, that afternoon. I rested for an hour, and then taking the street-cars, went to the depot. Here, as usual, was great commotion, which sadly confused my aching head. I gave my pocket-book to a man I had never seen before, and asked him to purchase me a ticket for Baltimore. Fortunately the stranger happened to be honest, for he not only bought the ticket, but returned the correct change, as I discovered some time afterwards. I was now possessed of but one idea, which was, to reach home. I took my place in the cars utterly exhausted, and in a short time arrived in Baltimore.

I can neither explain nor describe the feeling that overcame me, as I stood in the dusk of evening, after weary weeks of imprisonment, on the threshold of home. I had no power for some time to open the door. Voices in the vestibule at length aroused me, and in a few moments I was seated in the midst of family and friends, relating my experience.

The day following I was ill, and continued so for several weeks. The physicians attributed my sickness entirely to the imprisonment I had undergone, and its consequent privations. I was suffering from a low remittent, well known in the Old Capitol as the “prison fever,” and which generally terminated in typhoid, but in my case was fortunately checked before assuming that form, leaving me as feeble as a child.

My cousins were the last remaining prisoners in the Old Capitol. For a few weeks the range of buildings used as a prison was open for exhibition, at the moderate charge of twenty-five cents entrance fee. Whether this was authorized by Government, as a means of increasing the internal revenue, I have never had it in my power to ascertain.

The buildings were besieged daily by crowds, struggling and jostling each other, in their mad efforts to obtain a view of the rooms where so many pined, suffered, and not a few died—some a violent death, others a gradual, but not less certain one, from the effects of imprisonment. This exhibition of the prison is at last over, and the buildings have passed into other hands, to be used for other purposes.

There is to me such a fascination about the place, that I am irresistibly attracted thither, each time I visit Washington; but it is hard to believe the past a reality, as I gaze on the changed picture. The windows are no longer casementless and barred with iron; glass sparkles in the bright sunlight, and where hung old faded brown blankets, in a vain endeavor to exclude the penetrating cold and rain, I now behold gay and warm curtains. No soldiers guard the entrance, but all are free to leave or stay, as they may be disposed. The whitewashed fence is gone, and its place supplied by a handsome iron enclosure, through which one can see the green trees, and the fields beyond. All about the establishment is neat, bright, and cheerful, and the Old Capitol Prison has forever passed away.

No—I retract—not passed away! It lives in history to disgrace a nation, boasting of its civilization and enlightenment. It lives in household memories, whose home circle it has broken forever. It lives in the daily consciousness of individuals whose shattered health witnesses against it.

No: the Old Capitol is not a myth, but a reality, and will be for generations. The tinkling of that bell which consigned so many victims, not only to prison, but to death, still vibrates in the ears of survivors, recalling the “Bastiles” of the North American States, which rivalled in cruelty and injustice those of any other nation.

It cannot be that the American people will forever tolerate tyranny and oppression; but the nation, casting aside the trammels of party politics, will yet arise in its might, and stand before the world the champion of right and liberty.