know what is meant by "intercession with groanings which cannot be uttered." There is a lad of nineteen who stands up and says "I promised the Lord that if ever I got out of prison I would stand up for Him the very first chance; and now I want to serve Him, and I ask your prayers." There is another who can only hang his head and weep, and stand up also when the invitation is given. Just behind him a manlylooking fellow gets up and says "Ain't there some more here who promised God if He would get them out that they would be Christians?—Now, soldiers, don't be afraid of men. We weren't afraid of men in Salisbury. We can't put down God with a lie, no how. Just speak out and don't be ashamed of Christ. He was not afraid to be ridiculed. He was put to the most ridiculous kind of usage and death for us. up for Him." Thus the meeting goes on. Now, stand Mr. Chas. Harris,' a Delegate at Camp Parole in April, 1865, recalls a few interesting incidents of the meetings and hospital work: How a Sailor Came to Christ. An Irish soldier, who had been formerly in the navy, was led to Christ at our meetings. He was a tall, noble-looking man; and his change seemed to be thorough and deep. He thought a great deal of a certain corner of the chapel in which he had been wont to sit about the time when the Saviour was seeking him. He used to speak of it as his "sweet little corner," and was under the impression that the Spirit was somehow there especially present. When any one from that quarter rose to ask for the prayers of those present, the Irishman's heart used to go out towards them with special sympathy and a strong faith in their salvation. When we asked him how he came to think of coming to Christ after so many years of careless trifling, he said— "The Lord got His grapnel-irons a hold of me; He pulled on the starboard side, and then He pulled on the larboard side, till I could not hold out any longer, and so I surrendered the ship." 1 City Missionary of Peoria, Ill. Poor fellows! trials had been. God only knows how utterly disheartening their One of the soldiers in the hospital asked the nurse to bear a message for him,—the tragedy and hopelessness of which are beyond all conception : "I am Dead." "Ask the Christian Commission man to write a letter to my sister, and to tell her that I am dead and to come for my body." So much has been written upon the subject, and so few villages throughout the North lack stories—always told with horror and tears-of their own unreturning men who had been carried away into the hopeless country, that we have not thought it necessary to enter into the harrowing details of imprisonment miseries. With Rev. Mr. Clark's account of the arrival at Annapolis of 2739 paroled men, on March 9th, 1865, we shall close this chapter: It has always been my custom to meet the transports at the wharf and to render, especially to the sick and disabled, all the assistance in my power. Stimulants-cherry cordial and brandy-given under the inspection and with the approval of the Surgeons, were most valuable in reviving the men, and in prolonging or saving life. How the Prisoners came into Annapolis. The scene on one of the boats was beyond description. After the comparatively well men had passed to the wharf, I went below to the lower deck, where seventy-five poor fellows lay in that dark, close part of the vessel, unable to help themselves; filthy, ragged, infested with vermin. These sufferers were without shirts, many of them barefoot, and some absolutely naked; others with their fleshless limbs exposed, and themselves too feeble to gather what shreds and rags there were about them. One man was helped along towards the hatchway, a naked skeleton, with only a blanket thrown over his shoulders. Another lay utterly nude, and so demented as not to notice his exposure. I covered him with a bit of matting that lay near, and gave him some cordial. Another lay stark and dead, on his right side, in the same position of contortion and agony in which he had died. By the dim light of a lantern, I went to every man and offered him a cordial; many were too weak to drink, save with the greatest difficulty. Two dead bodies lay on deck, covered with coarse bagging. I lifted the cover to look at the face of one; it was a countenance of complete emaciation and agony. A thoughtless prisoner looking on, said with a laugh "Give him a drink." One man on a stretcher, on the way up to the hospital seemed very weak and faint. The bearers paused, and I lifted up his head to give him the cup with cordial. His thin, trembling hand carried it to his lips, then holding it out from him, he said— "Here's bad luck to the Confederacy. May I never fall into their hands again." Deliverance. There was something in the words and action which thrilled the bystanders. A man tottered down the plank from the transport, pale and haggard, but with a smile upon his face. As he neared the wharf, he raised his fragment of a hat, swung it in the air and tried to cheer, but his voice was too weak to make a sound. All took the will for the deed, and the nurses conducted him to the hospital. Too Weak to Cheer. Another prisoner told me of his feelings when he came into our lines to embark: “I thought I should shout lustily, but when the moment came I was speechless; my emotions were unutterable. I felt only as if I would like to go down and kiss the Speechless. deck of the transport, over which floated the dear old stripes and stars." CHAPTER XVI. THE WESTERN ARMIES. FROM THE FALL OF ATLANTA TO THE CLOSE OF COMMISSION WORK; WITH SOME NOTICES OF HOSPITAL AND OTHER WORK BEFORE ATLANTA FELL. June 1864-September 1865. THE great hospitals in the rear were soon overflowing with patients from the front, both sick and wounded. In June, Mr. A. E. Chamberlain writes from Cincinnati: A friend telegraphed me from Northern Michigan to go and see his son, Willian Van Tine, a soldier in Marine Hospital. I did so, and afterwards continued to attend him in his sickness. He had been married only a few months before coming into the army, and now, the Surgeon told me, he must die. He was very cheerful about it, and continued "I Have Gone Home." so during all his sufferings. When very near his end, I received a despatch from his father, saying that he would be at the hospital next morning. Van Tine looked up at me when I told him, with a pleasant smile on his face: "That will be good, but he won't find me here. I shall be gone before that." The soldier's words were evidently true; I asked him for a last message for his father. He was silent for a moment, the smile still clinging about his lips and eyes, and then said "Tell him I have gone home." "Have you any message for your wife?" "Tell her I have gone home." "Is there nothing more you want to say, William,—no other message I can bear for you?" "No; that is enough. They will all understand it, I have gone home." Could we have sung a hymn by that couch, what one would have been more appropriate than Dr. Bonar's ?— "Beyond the parting and the meeting, I shall be soon; Beyond the farewell and the greeting, I shall be soon. Love, Rest and Home! Sweet Home! Lord, tarry not, but come." Within half an hour he was resting at home. Mrs. E. I. Ford, the wife of Post-Surgeon Ford, of Nashville, a constant friend of the Christian Commission, relates an experience, in July, of work in the wards of a new hospital opened at Nashville for the men from the front: The Patience Most of the boys, even those whose limbs had been amputated, were doing well, when hot weather brought that scourge of the wounded, gangrene, which in spite of every precaution attacked very many of the patients. With most of them it was arrested; but such was the constant alternation and suspense that they needed more than usual sympathy, and nourishment better than common. The Commission Delegates were always gladly welcomed. of Hope. Soldiers do not intrude their sorrows upon others; only when you stoop down to them, and ask them of the homes they have left and the toils they have encountered, and not always then, may you catch a glimpse of the sacrifices they make for their country. A boy of eighteen, of athletic frame and cheerful countenance, had suffered amputation of a right arm, and was doing well when he was attacked by the gangrene. From this time he was an object of my special interest and attention. Many a little luxury was procured, but soon they were seen to be of no avail. The disease, once arrested, reap |