opening before them. They had been scorned and oppressed. Now they had their own destiny, in some sense that of the country, in their hands. If they were meek and patient under injuries, they would overcome the malice of their enemies. Some were clamoring against them as unworthy of freedom. If they were temperate, industrious, and honest, they would silence such accusers. The preacher knew of instances in which colored men and women had, by their courage and generosity, won the esteem and gratitude of a multitude of officers and soldiers of our army. He illustrated the remark by an example.

After one of the battles of this war (said he) in northeastern Virginia, many wounded Union and Confederate soldiers were brought into the town of Winchester, and placed in the churches, school-rooms, and court-house, side by side.

The ladies of that place brought into the hospitals many things to nourish and tempt the languid appetite of the sufferers, but they gave everything to the Confederate soldiers; our men they passed by as unworthy of sympathy or notice. One day, a lady who had been a constant visitor, brought in a supply of fragrant tea. She went from one. couch to another of her friends, but had no eye or heart of pity for others. One of our wounded men, who was very ill, thought that a cup of this tea might help him. He begged me to ask the lady for a taste of it. I went to her, and in a manner that I thought not offensive told her the soldier's request.

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"No," said she, and her face flushed with anger; "not a drop of it; this tea is all for our suffering martyrs."

"Madam," I said, "I looked for no other answer. I beg pardon for having seemed to suppose for a moment that I should receive a different one."

My anger was aroused, I confess. At that moment, an

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aged colored woman approached the surgeon and myself. She was lame, and could hardly walk under the weight of two large baskets which she bore on her arms, while a black boy followed her, carrying another basket.

Having come up to us, she set down her burden and said,

"Master, I am a slave; my husband is a slave, and my children are slaves. Will you accept these things from a poor slave woman for the wounded men here? I do not want money. No, master, I could never look you in the face, if I took your money."

She then opened one of the baskets, and took up a roll of stockings, and said,

"Master, months ago, I knew this war was coming; and when all were asleep in my cabin, I knit these that some poor sufferer might be warmed, and will you allow a poor slave to give them to these men ?"

Then taking up some papers of tea she said, "This tea I earned by my own work. I would not drink it myself, for I knew the day was not far off when some weak and fainting men would need it more than I do. Will you permit me to give it to you? And here," said she, lifting up some cans of fruit," are the peaches, pears, and plums of my own garden; I saved them all for you. I could not eat them when my heart told me that suffering and dying soldiers would need them. Will you permit me, kind master, to give them to you for the poor men lying here? And so other things she had brought — linen napkins, handkerchiefs, lint- she held up, and said,

"Master, I have not stolen them. My own hands have earned them over the wash-tub and by house-cleaning. Permit me to give them to you. I wished to do something for those who are far from home, among strangers and suffering want."

As she talked, she grew more and more earnest. Tears rolled over her face, and fell on her hands as she lifted to me the treasures of her basket. I can never forget the earnestness and humility of her manner, as she said, again and again, "Permit me, master, permit me."

“Oh, yes, Aunty," I said; "we will not only receive them, but pay you for all you have brought."

"Oh, master," said she, "be not so unkind as to offer me money. I want the pleasure of giving these little things. Oh, I am sorry I have so little! If I had a thousand times as much, and better things, too, I should give them all."

Our sick and wounded men looked with wonder and admiration on the woman, and soon a hundred of them cried out, "Aunty, God bless you! You are the only white woman we have seen in Winchester."

Now (continued the chaplain), do you think those soldiers ever forgot that woman, and thought her skin was darker than that of their sisters and mother. Will they not ever remember her as a noble, true friend in need? And will not every one of them be kinder to every daughter of Africa who comes in his way, because one of them pitied and helped him when he was a stranger and half dead. I do not know what became of that generous woman. She may be still a slave; but certain I am that in long years to come, when the soldiers of the army meet in peaceful homes, we will talk of her, and ask God to bless her.

Go and do as she did. Be gentle; do good unto all men, even your enemies. Be not vain and proud, spending all you make in dress and pleasure; but deny yourselves to do good, and soon those who despise you will become your friends.

As the chaplain was relating these facts, he saw in the

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congregation a woman whose face glowed and was wet with tears. And when he had ended the service, this person came up and said to him, "Master, I am the woman you spoke of this morning. I bless the good Lord I am free, and my husband and two children are all free and here in Washington, and we are now happier than ever in our lives."1

As they heard this, many gathered around her, to thank her again for her charity to the wounded soldiers. And the chaplain rejoiced to meet in freedom one who had shown herself to be so generous a woman and so true a Christian.

XIX. PRINCIPLE STRONGER THAN NATURE.

In one of the earlier stages of the war, a young officer fell in battle, as he was bravely leading on his troops against the insurgents. His body was brought home for burial. The venerable mother who was nearly, if not quite, four-score years old, stood gazing calmly on the remains of her son, who should have been her own stay and staff in the decline of life.

At last a movement was made by a friend to cover the face, and hide it from human sight forever. The noble woman put him gently aside, and, carefully performing the act herself, said, "My son, I have laid you to rest many a time before. Now I do it for the last time, and with the flag of your country."

1 In the dialogue of the narrative we have, of course, the sense of the speakers, not the exact words. As to the facts of the narrative, the Rev. Dr. Marks, of Washington, reports them on the strength of his own personal knowledge.

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XX. SIGHTS AFTER BATTLE.

On the twenty-seventh of the last month1 a battle was fought beyond the Rapidan, which resulted in a victory for the national arms, but with a heavy loss on both sides. A letter, written at Alexandria, Virginia, December sixth,2 describes some of the after-scenes of the conflict, which it is painful to read, and must have been still more painful to witness.

A week elapsed after the fight, and trains of cars, laden with the wounded and dying, began to make their appearance at Alexandria, from the "front."

The work of amputation, dressing of wounds, and preparations for removal, commenced on the spot the next morning after the battle. It was some distance to the nearest railroad, and the wounded, maimed, in some cases dying men, were put into ambulances, and sent-forward to that point. The roads were so wretched that five or six miles a day was all the progress that could be made. It must be left to the imagination to conceive what they suffered under such circumstances, during so many wearisome days and nights.

On reaching Alexandria (says the eye-witness), every thing was done for their relief that could be done by the ministrations and sympathy of man. Agents of the Sanitary Commission, in anticipation of their arrival, met them at the station with hot coffee, and with suitable food. Several delegates of the Christian Commission, who were providentially there, lent their aid in transferring the suffering men to the several hospitals in that city. Between thirty and forty freight cars were filled with those living

1 November, 1862.

2 In the Boston Recorder, December 18, 1863.